today I went into Amsterdam, guided by flyers in the merchant city, to see the openings of spaces. There were five or more openings of spaces near the canals and streets named by botanists. But I was half an hour late, and what had been held in these gazing-rooms had by then escaped. Not only was there no Oriental genius, jinn or spirituality, no phantom or demon of politics or of beauty, but also no reflection or residue of a jinn, a genius, a demon, of even belief, or the defecation of a bat who transformed back into a womyn-ist conceptual artist by day.
The people inside the rooms, the other pilgrims in the empty and purified demonarium, stood in a shock, beer accumulated and made fluid their spines,the air pressure was high,there I re-experienced a need to chew coca.
The same happened the night of the blood moon that I missed while I was asleep under the river Parana, I missed the blood moon. I had heard from an Arab poet it was Congo red, I doubt he had been to Congo, maybe what escaped from these opened inaugural spaces flew or swam in that direction.
Maybe I was lucky and arrived just after old age, disease, suffering, war and other winged gargoyles escaped in the opening of these house-sized bottles and glass-garden demonariums. But in the legend of Pandora there is still a layer of hope left in the god-jar, this was also absent from the spaces, or perhaps hope was still selling for about 2000 yen-rubels each. Hope is invisible, Hope divisible, like a cake that is invisible and not for free, it is a resource, a fuel not to be confused with faith. Faith is for free and is only necessary to believe that the invisible substance purchased exists, or once existed.