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Theodora has been knowing for days that something is in the air and feels happy. She loves novelty, days are becoming boring because people don’t want to die. The novelty is that Mara decided to affirm herself definitively in an unknown state of existence, but necessary for the story to continue making sense.

―Mara analyzes, relates, and concludes, and then acts in consequence with the conclusion― says Louise to herself recently transformed without knowing it.

Mara is tremendous, she quickly finishes every fiction. She hardly ever tolerates incongruence. Which doesn’t say she would live in the reality. It says that she is not a woman that would accept any fiction. Or vulgarities. She adopts decisions many would find ludicrous, but that seem logical to her: forget about additional intelligences by means of biotechnological implants, for instance. She now has one foot in the Matter and the other foot in the Immaterial: she is obliged to lead a double life. A circumstance, however, smiles Theodora, that in no manner will affect her sense of honesty: her lack of scruples compensates largely for any sense of honesty she might have.

A double life Mara justifies as an imposition of Destiny but deliberately adopts  to fuel her hunger for power: from now on she will even have power over her superiors. Power that makes any authority coming from the human level a child’s play. The ego is powerful till a certain point: its extraordinary limitation impedes it to participate in the exceptional. The illusion of being powerful is a characteristic of the material ambit.

 Of the human condition.

Mara’s friends would never change sex for chocolate, women that laugh at the cheating capacity of men. For several days she delights herself excited with the refined irony of subjecting herself to an insignificant power compared to her own. Obey like a college-girl and stoically bear its impertinences. Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir. However, only on a superficial level. The other day, when lieutenant Factor recriminated her to be losing her temper in the issue of the John Hancock, she gladly would have pinched her buttocks and say: shut up, you, bitch from Colorado, here I command. In the final analysis it was true.

―Lieutenant Factor has a miserable butt that wouldn’t even excite men― says Mara to herself every time she looks at it as by routine.

Having pulled too many guns, Mara observes women’s butts with the same insolence as if it were a man’s.

―The Power has a life of its own and finally engulfs you: it doesn’t recognize ethics or reasons. It finishes making you one with it― says Mara.

—Power gives enormous pleasure, Mara. The most refined pleasure of all: it concentrates all the other pleasures on itself. The eroticism of the Power, as some romantics say― concludes Theodora.

Mara’s heart explodes by only thinking of it. She prolongs the sensation rolling on her bed, conscious of the impudent impact on a Theodora that observes delighted. A power Mara still perceives as abstract, but that becomes more concrete every time she stops the Time, penetrates in the etheric world, and exercises at her discretion all the power she wants.

―We are convinced that we decide everything, and we are an absolute zero in the flow of the future― says Mara to herself alien to the moment.

Seeing her inflamed by the enormity of the power, raving in front of an already yearning Theodora, many would think that Mara stops the time and penetrates in the astral world motivated by the indescribable pleasure of executing a power without restrictions. But nothing matters.

―Neither matters who decides, nor who executes. Everything seems important, but nothing is― says Theodora to herself moistened by the scene. Permeated by that ecstasy, Mara can’t help recalling it again. 

She flies towards an established future whose cause she not even knows. It has to happen because it was decided regardless of the reason why.

She flies, and she doesn’t fly alone. More than of black tulles now one should speak of tooled leathers and shiny carvings that give evidence of having won innumerous battles. Victories that remain impregnated in the sword as part of its shine. A generous cape floats on her steps under the impulse of nobody knows what sort of winds. The waving of capes softens all determination. It is the only that seems to fluctuate with certain arbitrariness in that obstinate flight towards a single purpose. Facts Mara has little to decide on: it is an event determined on beforehand where she is obliged to participate...


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