The archipelago of insomnia

We start with a house, with the feeling of a force in exercise, a power that comes from a long time ago, when that house was the same but it was an estate, a latifundium, when nothing was missing - the family, the maids in the kitchen, the overseer, the fields, the village in the background, and the grandfather's voice commanding the world. Now there are photographs in Alentejo instead of people, and there are objects, aware that they too will end up with no one, there are memories of those who sleep, or have died, dead people who don't know if life was life, there are the siblings, one is autistic, and the image of the mother is very clear, always with her back to him (did I ever see her not with her back to me?). At that time, they no longer knew what the wind smelled like, just as they don't know where Maria Adelaide went, also dead, did she go to Lisbon? The estate was taken from the autistic man, and the disease (whose?) is a white archipelago in other people's x-rays, a normal, innocent archipelago. They are all dead or they are all dreaming and they exchanged dreams, as if we could exchange dreams. Anyway, we know that soon it will be morning - but what was said is still heard inside: (- You don't need to marry me, young man, your father never married me). And so we know that it will never be morning.