The Maker

Little by little, the beautiful universe left him behind: a stubborn mist blurred the outline of his hand, the night was emptied of stars, and the ground grew uneven beneath his feet. Everything receded and ran together. When he realized he was going blind, he cried out; Stoic modesty had yet to be invented, and Hector could flee unperturbed. Never again will I see the sky full of mythological horror (he sensed), nor this face that the years will go on changing. Days and nights flew past the despair he experienced in his flesh, until one morning he woke up and looked at the indistinct objects around him (without surprise, now) and felt inexplicably —like someone recognizing a piece of music or voice— that it was over, that he had faced it all with apprehension but also with high spirits, hope, and curiosity. It was then that he dug deep into his memory, which struck him as bottomless, and managed to snatch from the whirlpool the lost recollection that shone like a coin bathed by rain— perhaps because he had never looked at it, except possibly in a dream.