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canvas by Cézanne between 1859-60 in which he shows his admiration for literature, working close to the romantic style.

missing 15 minutes to 3 o'clock in the morning. I putting on trial before a mission impossible. " The objective of this mission is that for the 3 am this writing is finished. The absurdity is that I have to get up at 9 am this same day 27 July.
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I'm listening to national radio, just my ears are picking up a sound wave that reaches my recipients and classical music. Composed of notes delicately placed a after another, sinking in the middle of a pentagram , amid silence, altered such as flats or sharps. In every moment my eyes are closed insconcientemente , victims suffered sleep. Leaving the dark prodomine in my view ... I do not give up and keep writing .... In the background I hear this beautiful masterpiece that inspires me, it relaxes me. But it is a double-edged sword: it makes me give up the dream baster. I have 10 minutes to finish my story, or whatever you call it. I am aware that I write what I think and read what I write.

Often one wants to get rid of everything, and fly. The optimal time is sleep. What transports us to another dimension where little or no sense. Where the fantastic is usual, and the real is wrong. We dream of nice things, true, yet sad and utopian. In dreams we find our ancestors, our people closer, people are just products of our fantasies at night, people who only know each other dream. Rarely do dreams come true ...

Dreaming is not bad, but it is not advisable to live in the dream. There are nights that I am in bed ready to close my eyes, but for reasons X, my head starts to fly. Think and think at least want this to happen. Le don orders to my brain to stop thinking, to leave me alone, to stop working, and let me rest in peace, wanting to have a blank mind, or rather black.

I do not see the light, I do not want to hear more noises, I sleep. I wake, I want to live a new day, seeing that is what I expected ....

Good night!


Mission: Accomplished.
Completed at 2:57 AM.

----------

Jorge Luis Borges: The dream


if sleep was (as they say) a
truce , a pure stand of mind,
why, if you awaken suddenly,
feel you have won a fortune?

Why is it so sad up early? The time
robs us of an inconceivable gift,
so intimate that only translatable
into a stupor that waking dora

of dreams, which may well be reflections truncated
the treasures of the shadow,
a timeless world that is not named

and deforms the day in their mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in the dark
dream, on the other side of the wall?



---------- Fernando Pessoa: Every day I wake up with joy and sorrow now

Daily Now I wake up with joy and sorrow.
At other times I woke up without any sense:
wake.

I have joy and grief I dream lose
and because in reality I can be where that
dream.

I do not know what I do with my feelings.
I do not know what I should be with me alone.
I want her to say something to wake me again.