many or all of the ropes were stretched, they tightened more and more. To untie the ropes one would have to look for the ends, but the ends were all in knots and therefore it was almost impossible to untie that tangled web of ropes.
"The Magician of Naples has the feeling that Adriana is stilted in talking today."
"Yup." I said.
Perhaps I would have been less blocked if the Magus of Naples, still looking at me with eyes that seemed to me more frowned than magnetic, had not in the meantime taken both hands to hold them tightly in his. To establish basic trust, of course. Except that more than trust I felt discomfort at the contact of those unfamiliar and soggy hands. I had had enough of unsolicited hands touching me. I wondered if my friend was still in my bed. I wondered why she had suddenly gone mad. But maybe she wasn't crazy. Perhaps it had always been like this and I had never noticed it.
All in all I was aware of many things late. I wrote universally problematic poems one after the other, how to eat American peanuts, and then it took me a cannon shot to make me notice when I entered the sexual-erotic sphere. The mud of the world slips on your skin without getting dirty, Aunt Emma used to tell me. Perhaps, but in the meantime this stupidity of mine made me feel skinless, all locked up and marked by rough ropes.
"She's not yet ready to talk about her problems. She doesn't trust the Magician of Naples yet. And so?"
"Maybe ..." I said.
He decided to show me something that would convince me to trust him and made me witness a laying on of hands on a woman who had been immobilized for years. When he ordered her to get up she clung to his arm, laboriously managed to get up off the bed and, supported by the Magician, to drag herself to the window.
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