Aristotle´s last gift

So that very night, as I pushed north, tired but alert, I finally reached the realm where the sky stays streaked with light even in the darkest hours. The engines ran monotonously, I had regulated the radiator down to avoid drowsiness and as a result was shivering ever so slightly. It would be time soon to steer the car off the road to sleep for a while but that moment had not quite come yet. It had been a while since I had turned the radio off but the last few lines of a jazz song by Nina Simone were still trapped in the cabin like some slovenly buzzing insect that would eventually die for want of food and would reduce itself to a parchment memory of itself. I rolled done the window ever so slightly and let the Nina Simone lyrics escape through the narrow slit into the summer night. I wondered briefly wether the wind would carry it away to one of the deserted villages or if it would gently rain down on the adjacent fields. My senses were acute and alert, registering the thick and slow movements of the farm animals on the fields, stoically waiting out the night, and the depth of the glowing darkness beyond. For a moment it was easy to imagine that in that immensity nothing could be lost. Aristotle would be sitting somewhere out there in the cabin by a carefully build fire, no other light in the room, and warmth radiating beyond the cabin walls, attracting lost things. Aristotle as I knew him, not that being reduced to shadows and ash, that I had been asked to identify days earlier. They had given me the small metal box with the ring and a key I had never seen before, and that looked like made from a smithy in an old children´s book. Maybe the matching lock was long since gone. I had put the key on a woven silk cord the color of fresh blood around my neck. He had promised to bring back some trinket from his trip after all. The last gift of Aristotle.

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