I had hardly sat down, Mrs. Imagination began to explain to me that the only art that can explain everything in life is music. I agreed and nodded, as if I understood. Imagination is sometimes that witty, or it gives you answers to teaspoons or at once. It helped me a lot to make sense of something, since I was in deep depression, bound by deep chains of unfathomable pain.
Suddenly, the imagination, with his invisible finger, He pointed to some flies that had landed on our table. They were there like nothing, standing with his paws everywhere; they didn't care that those same little legs had just landed, a few moments, in dog shit. The lesson was simple: everyone despises flies, no one receives them on their arm or face without a strong desire to kill them, or at least to drive them away, and yet they are there, flying insolent everywhere, without caring that nobody wants their existence. They rub their legs in a frenzy, like excited, at the slightest hint that shit is near. The contempt of others does not restrict your will to exist; with their lively insolence they dedicate themselves to being, to be, to live.