___ My last thought that’s still floating through the air goes to my new katana, that’s taking its long warrior’s rest in the baggage hold. They will – at last – be three, the start of an actual collection, on my bedroom wall.
___ Sometimes, in the dazzling summer afternoons, I listen to some shakuhachi airs and pull one of my katanas down. I leave one window wide open and put a small piece of bread on the floor, in the middle of the room. And there, I sit down, in a lotus position, three feet from the mock bait, and just wait. I wait that the ants start their procession, diligently penetrating across a corner of the windowsill.
___ I then grab my sword and closely follow each one of these miniature creatures, never taking my eyes off them. I pick them up, one by one, on the blade of my weapon, then I move towards the window and, with a blow, I send them back to where they came from.
___ For no particular reason. Just for the hell of it.
(From [Untitled], the book I’m writing)