He’ll continue not coinciding with that other reality, he’ll keep running at unusual speeds and climbing bodies and heads to fall into arms, driving away those swift sensations over and over again, what he’s interested in is the vertigo and dizziness, period. He who nevertheless doesn’t escape the tedious objectivity that will necessarily have to coincide, sooner or later, with all the realities, or at least the reality of the streets organized by names, the houses with numbers, all of human geography parallel to that arbitrary scale of the landscape, of his, that follows a carnivalesque disorder, and when the coincidence happens in front of a door, when death lands in his house, there won’t be anything to do: some years later, the boy sees in the toilet water a cigarette butt floating, desolate, it’s his father’s, who just died, he wonders whether or not he should flush, if he should pull out the butt, if he should keep it forever, if he should carry it like an amulet or better just to flush and forget. And let the water that day carry it down the pipes so it merges with human waste and preserves the image of the residue of his father in his memory, in the intimacy of memory like a secret or like a prediction or like a final complicity with that man he doesn’t know if he loves but who will be no more. Yes, it will be a memory, yes, it will be a secret, he won’t tell anyone, boom, the flush, after a little whirlpool, which is really a ghostly wave, silence. In death, all the realities come together. And years later, in front of the mirror in a gay club—I lined his eyes with black liner that night—he repeats his dad’s name that’s his name, and he remembers the butt and feels closer to him than ever before. He studies his eyes lined by the color, he’s taken ecstasy and inhaled two lines of coke and his beauty is reinforced and adulterated by those black lines that expand under his eyes, he remembers the cigarette scene, he remembers the fall, the green eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, he’ll tell himself, he remembers walking alone down never-ending streets in a Middle Eastern country, he remembers fearlessly catching the big wave, killing crabs in a kitchen and later crushing their little body parts to eat them—fucking hell, his hands breaking apart the crab—he remembers his grandmother licking his cheek, he remembers being in a pool swearing his love to a skinny girl, the canicular sun on his back while he tosses a hunk of meat on the grill and dances, he remembers touching a teenager’s hard cock in a public sauna and kissing the corrugated lips of another old woman and vibrating with a singular arousal, he remembers looking at his mother—the woman with the most beautiful eyes in the world— rolling around with his stepfather, he remembers the scene with disgust, even though he isn’t usually squeamish, he lingers on it, his mother’s neck with a little pearl hanging between her collarbones, he wants to shatter the fucking drop, throw a punch at his stepfather’s ugly-ass jaw, he remembers his grandfather throwing punches at a bus driver, his shame and his pride, his grandfather’s bloody knuckles, his own fist now closing, ready to throw a punch, he remembers the vision he had on his first acid trip, the face of a boy forming on the edge of this same closed fist, he remembers closing his other fist and seeing the other boy, he remembers the grief for those lost boys and that memory makes him clench his ass because he feels the need to shit.