In the tired cranial coffin, lies a graveyard of stale and blind ideas; among the tombstones of your lost moments, even the most trivial ones are celebrated with engraved stone; like bats, now indistinguishable ancient hatreds and ancient loves, flutter fast and furtive like the rustling of a witch in the dark.
The hazy disk of doubt, like a pale lunar sun, shines dimly on bleak gray brain pottery, dusty as talc, it is consecrated to uselessness thinking, to brooding with its high-proof puddles and sludge. You make superhuman efforts to move the spade of memory, looking for something that is buried there, as in the pages of an old endless digest; you do not remember exactly when and where. Intentions, you see, like thieves are hanged, they are suspended lightly but motionless from the dead branches gibbets of the pomegranate colored past, there is no breath that sways them, just sweltering heat and sweat.
It’s all unchanged, still; you will not find anything. There’s no more life in the braincase, you could even decide to expose that box in the lab, give it to the shamelessly vanity of the anatomical museum, where it will be placed near colored waxes. You can also put everything in formaldehyde, including the eyes, or have it measured by the calipers of your most trustworthy phrenologist, or thoroughly clean it and give it to the fortune teller, greedy for polished and shiny skulls and bones, to attract customers.
In your cranial coffin, though, in the more futile of the cares, there is still a fight going on –but why?- a battle where nothing moves, or will ever move, and painful and clammy as a post feast cephalalgia.