To know nothing about the day that is to come.
To be unversed in historical facts,
but, still, to know how many Montenegrins
were killed in the Balkan Wars.
To quote a lesser-known Hispano-American writer.
To talk about impostures with the ex-criminal
and about the history of art.
To score a point at an unimportant football match
in the playground of a southern suburb.
To stay home alone
at the time of flamboyant town carnivals.
To live in the suburbs,
from there to experience the Weltschmerz.
To see the singularity of Orthodox monasteries.
To offer to others altruistically
sources of personal pathos.
To have someone beside you.
All that, as well as the quotient of other nontrivial
and trivial things, probably isn’t
sufficient for salvation.