Does the past . . . exist? All those feverish moths thinking only of now or at most tomorrow, three years, another bitter cup of the parvenu's green coffee another smoke waiting in fog for the poste at Versailles to be young or rich or better possess a rich, young woman or (even better?) her bank account and a box of fat Havanas. The players dance behind the curtains in the rain and remember nothing. It is only later when shadows begin to emerge from the tunnel like the third Napoleon charging to the bellows of the crowd that the past assumes the shape of its education. You slice the ball where I can't reach it, right on the line like a minuet learning to think. That's part of your `art though you are not coy about it and if you succeed running often enough tomorrow I will be soundly thrashed. Would it matter if the ball were a grenade and the garden sank? The white lines explain the difference between what is 'in' and 'out' and what is not, playing poetry with the net: Today nearly everything is outside: the little squares of Africa on the clay, the windows open like veins on the coat of your smile and your smile smiling through the open veins.