It was a tall and white door with the knob at the level of my heart. I knocked discreetly to enter in audience at the cross spider tamer. A fat and redhead man chewing his whiskers minutely. I was wet because of emotion and warm like a freshly hatched chicken. The man spoke with a shrill snigger because it is known that death is not as serious as life. You just swallow a knot in your throat from the corner of the star still left for you. As if you drink hot milk after chickenpox. Sometimes only the sun remains for you and you die in winter. Other times you shake off the stars and the moon from your hair like an autumn willow. You get so annoyed that your eyes roll in their orbits until the spiders stop jolting on your photograph upside down.

It was a perfectly ordinary day. Except for the fact that they sold more tickets at the county fair carousel. Nobody is perfect. Not even those who predict the weather.