This is how the requiem loves its harlequin

This is how the requiem loves its Harlequin: bitter truth, stinging in a tongue accustomed to sweets, the fire of a candle lit in the midst of a coal-dark night, fragments from porcelain chains that have collapsed at his feet. The time of illusions is over, the Magician came after Death, replacing the Fool... Harlequin grins, throwing up his hand to the sky. His dance is the agony of a dying man, the last convulsions of a fading body.