The ninth hour is the hour in which the sun possesses us and we abandon ourselves to its burning, blinding flame to think with a light so bright. At noon we come out of Plato's cave and stare into the sun: the unknown gazing into the unknown. These writings do not owe anything to the philosophical sun, the good sun of Plato that erases all differences, the good sun of enlightened reason that is oblivious to the knowledge of the madman. They are writings born beyond the sun, on the rotten side of the sun, unprotected by the shadow of logic; writings come out of darkness, of the spiritual umbra of he who stares directly at the sun. And, more specifically, writings begotten out of the spiritual nigrescence of whom writes at the ninth hour, at high noon.