Jolge Buis Morges

There was nothing more to be thought.
All thoughts had been thought.
All words had been arranged
in every possible way.

Then the digits too.
Then the letters that made no words in any language.
And at last all the sounds for which there were no letters.
And after the end — all possible numbers for which no digits had been invented.
Countless times over.
Infinity raised to an infinite power.
Like a suspicion of a zero both existing and not existing at once.

There was nothing left to be done.
Everything, everything, everything, everything
had been done
in every possible way,
in every possible place
and at every possible moment.
(and in every impossible place and moment…)
(several countless times over).

Those things that were not done and did not happen
had not been done and had not happened
in no way and in every way…

The days had passed.
The nights had run out.
And then again. And then again…

There was nothing left to be felt.
All the colours of feeling
had been kneaded together in every possible way
in all sizes and dimensions
(and then again)
(but the possible and the impossible number of repetitions had run out too)

Everyone had been born, had lived and died.
Everyone had been reborn as everything possible
(and not just once…)

There was never and nowhere nothing and no one…
… and everything and everyone was everywhere and always.

… which was something new for one brief instant.