Walnut shell

We were epic lovers. We stand on a towering peak that no one before us has reached, neither in life nor in poetry. Our love was of nobility and greatness to the extent that we saw it as a universal law. It was an ethical system, a means that must exist for us to communicate with others, but for some reason the world has overlooked it. Whenever we lay face to face on the narrow bed, each admiring the other's eyes, and we exchanged words, we brought ourselves from absence to presence. She would hold my hands and kiss them, and for the first time in my life I was not shy of them. Our families, after we spoke in detail about them, appeared for the first time logical. We loved our families passionately, despite all the difficulties of the past. The same was true for our dearest and closest friends. We became capable of forgiving everyone for their sins. Our love had come for the sake of good in this world. Trudi and I had never listened and spoken with such care before. Our practice of love begins our conversation, and our conversation begins our practice of love. *Trudi betrayed her husband John, the gentle poet who wrote her his most beautiful poems (her shoulders are two white apples peeled), during her last months of pregnancy, even though she still lives in his house: a house that is collapsing but priceless, located in the middle of London. As for the trivial lover to madness, he is no one but John's brother himself, Claude, who devised a dangerous plan and a secret future with Trudi to seize the house, but there is a witness, a hidden witness, who has just entered her ninth month of pregnancy, and he is the one telling us what happened.*