a lady called one of those late night radio shows that puts us sleepless people at ease. He explained that he lived alone, that the television was on 24 hours, and that he was used to seeing it as a fireplace that was dimmed or ventilated with a remote control. He handled the intensity control of colors with such dexterity that he could cause real chromatic fires on the screen, followed by muted grays that evoke a handful of ash left at home on winter afternoons. The presenter asked if he paid any attention to the content of the programs. and he said no, he said he knew all the content. Television interested him only as a fireplace.
“By the way,” he added, “yesterday I hit him so hard with the remote that the colors came off the screen and set the room on fire. First they ignited the picture frames on the apparatus, then the colored flames splashed onto the curtains, low coffee table, and carpet. Everything was on fire, even the air was filled with flashes of red, blue, and yellow that also set my dressing gown on fire. Within seconds, everything was on fire: my hair, my legs, my hips, my breasts, my hips…
“He was going to be burned,” the announcer interrupted in a contemptuous tone.
“Not roasted,” replied the lady, “because the colors don’t burn.” I also immediately reduced the violence with the remote control and the main sources of the fire were extinguished by being reduced to invisible ashes.
– No residue? – insisted on the host of the program.
-Overseas, no, no.
-Where then?
“In my heart,” the woman replied. My heart is full of gray ashes, ashes covering it and the ashes that choke her heartbeats, slowly bury her. From this I will die from the ashes that the colored flames have left in my soul.
Saying that, he hung up and that’s it.