Call Me Zebra(108)

We were approaching land. The banks of Italy were brilliant ochre. I scanned the black water of the coves, the white sand, the crescent-shaped beaches. On the coast, Genoa—sooty, industrial, sinister, hemmed in by mountains—seemed perfectly lovable. Those mountains were the bones of the sea, the fangs of the earth. I stood there staring at the land. I thought of the Matrix of Literature. I thought of all the black holes and crevices. I thought of the Pyramid of Exile. I thought of my sick hand. I thought of the mind of the universe. I heard the voices of the writers of the void speak to me in a calm susurrus. The air, I thought, remembering, is full of noises.