Wherever you come you keep on
repeating in the times of defeat and
illness the poison become the cure.
Look: that man over there who jumps
through the shut window does not
give up in the same way as me and
you. Our illnesses have different
names. We have nothing in common
except failure, perhaps. While I rip
the seams, you take your knife out.
While you cut, I give my hand to the dog
to bite and my hand is not accepted. Even
snakes refuse to attack. There is no cure
in the snake for us any more but that
does not give us enough reason to kill. It is
not that we are incurable. Such is the age.