A simple exercise: fill a notebook with words, in half an hour, developing a simple story. Something like a girl who is in the forest and her attention is caught by the fleeting passage of a rabbit. But that is already written. I put the timer on and start writing. I don't know what I'm writing about, something about standing at a ceremony or something. The idea is not clear. A fly lands on the notebook, right on the line where it was about to start writing. I shake my hand to scare her but the fly is still there. What could be worse? Time is ticking and there are only two pages written. Before we started it seemed like something simple. I think that God created flies to annoy men in their work. I shake the notebook and the fly detaches itself from the sheet and rests on my head. I try to ignore it and keep writing. But I no longer know what he was saying, why he had imagined that white ritual. The word is useless, it surrenders before being erected, it fears its own form: a child who, upon discovering that he is going to grow up and will be a man, begins to run around the block (I say apple in cadastral terms) waiting with that. not to become a man. Everything I want to write has already been written for a long time, a whole stick. But it is not written as I want to write it, what comes to me from this story is like the shadow of the original story, and what I replace are the crumbs of what I want to tell. And those crumbs are not even enough to fill a notebook. The fly moves inside my ear, it doesn't let me concentrate. I hit my ear with my palm, and it hurts. Everything is in vain, the sketched story is a story even if it is not finished: the clay giant is giant from the sketch, even before reality. Whoever sees the sketch and sees the finished work recognizes the correspondences. Is there an achievement for the detail? Greed for results. Round and round just to count in different ways the form of expectation of a state of the soul. Nothing more useless twists, words piled up on words to say nothing: screaming and screaming louder and louder for the simple effect of canceling the message of what was shouted; exaggerating the manners to make it his joke. I look at the timer and there is less than half the time and more than half the notebook to fill. You should stop writing about the albino ceremony and the broken radio and start writing about the fly that blocks the words in your notebook. He should put a fly in that train station, he should fill the station with flies, the people standing waiting would begin to move, to agitate, a kind of wild dance would begin between everyone to get the flies off. And the roaring radio would stop listening, now the entire station would be filled with that buzz. Pazuzu! Pazuzu! They would scream before throwing themselves to the ground and it would no longer be the train station but a desert and they would cover themselves with sand to scare away the insects. Just when he hugs me again the idea goes off the timer. I turn it off and sigh, defeated. The fly lands on my nose. I think the message is there, somewhere, hidden in the notebook that cannot be filled.