The man is the monk is the master. His desires are purified. He has cast her off like an old snakeskin and is keeping that skin in a cupboard. A parchment memory with fading folds and flakes written all over it. To remember her, he reads it with his hands like a blind man reads Braille. He recognizes her, but he does not recognize the animal that the skin belonged to.
He sleeps with his paintings in rooms that he finds around the city. He does not beg for food or money. A monk gets what he deserves. People worship him, bring him goods, offer him blankets and a coat. Want to share his infinite wisdom. Like what the colours stand for and why they have to breathe it every day, the same monotonous green. And he tells them it is not monotonous, it is the eternal green. It is not an island, it is a planet drifting on a coloured sea of time. Surrounded by animals that do not share their stupid presumptions about life. He shows them how the state of being early or late is a laughing matter, for who is to say. Build your own time, paint your own hours, live the longest minute if that is your wish. Swim the waters with the seals and the fish, dance to the bird tunes, bark with the dogs if you must. Even in Ireland these things are possible. Soon he will become the Irish Guru and his paintings will become holy. Sometimes he walks with his son to show him the way of his world. And when he is gone, he sits again in time. Time was his master and forced him to spoil his divine work. Now he has spoken with Buddha and has become the master of time. He is not with his herd anymore. He has strayed into a new eternity where nothing can touch him. Feelings were never his forte, it was the thought that brought him all this, these paintings. He still hears the names. His son and his son’s mother are present when he says the names. And Antonio. Antonio is a presence that carries a promise. To pay for the goddesses that he painted. They did not believe in him, they became one huge dismissive creature surrounded by their reality. He had Maria, Laxmi, the Banshee and Fatimah. But there is no need for them now. A future. He can now build on his future forever. He feeds his body enough to become light, so light that he can feel himself floating slightly above the ground. Other bodies had dragged him down in the past. No need for those anymore.
The flesh does not partake of time. He moves his body along in the city and meets meditating monks like himself, creations of Buddha. Not that he speaks to them. Language is for the poor of mind. Everything is written and found within silence. Silence was the music she could never produce.