The spoon for nothingness was made on an inconsolable Salonica morning in 1936.
The silversmith Yosifidius Yo. was lying next to the swarthy body of a travelling circus artiste woman, pondering the taste of emptiness. He knew that each moment after lovemaking was a burgeoning error. He had to decide whether to rise from the bed and leave the room and the sleeping body therein after carefully smoothing the black vanity that freely cascaded down his shoulders, or else to narrow his eyelids and silently hear how the said body wakes, dons the clothes strewn around the floor and quietly closes the door so as not to impinge upon the beauty of the past night by means of a chance word, phrase, or even a look slung over the shoulder.
Whether it was better for one to let oneself be left by one’s lover or to leave one’s lover oneself was a dilemma that offended one’s intellect, reasoned Yosifidius; it was rather more curious to ponder the lands in which one would find oneself upon the cessation of love. Put simply (as it has to be for silversmiths), was the place left after love empty, or was it vacant? Or was purity nothingness? A huge, endless nothingness flying across the universe, which one traversed while humming the pirate song of potential love affairs?
History goes suddenly silent at this instant. A number of important issues remain unresolved.
Who left the room first? Did they say anything? Did the two protagonists leave for good, or did they happily revive the philosophical enquiry about nothingness between the sheets of the world’s hotel bedrooms?