So many dreams stand emptied before this head that, heavy and numb, is forced by some power to fall into its hands upon a table. These dreams come, some from long ago and others more recent, as a reiteration of the former — a whirling, audible, dizzying flow spreading in circles — against which the head defends itself as best it can, at times feeling itself to be merely the effigy of its own self. These dreams were written at random upon a granitic mural, according to a truthful document, undated and with its signature erased, which states that this is a hermetic text in meaning, since it resorts to signs from archaic languages believed to have existed in the Chalcolithic age, still insufficiently understood.
Little inclined to colloquy...
an itinerary forever in draft form, a pilgrim’s life with his guitar on his back, without clocks or compasses, and GPS still far away; no satellites turn in the air. It is to keep walking without destination: if we lose ourselves, we find ourselves, and whoever was ever truly found has, from that very moment, become lost.
I appear found, arranged here like a beetle that a mischievous boy placed inside a little box merely for amusement...
I am lost in this world, yet I always try to prevent further losses among those who too have become lost, in so many ways...
I fish as much as I can, yet I take nothing home that I have caught; remain entrusted unto yourselves and make your own path...
As for you, I think I have caught you — or perhaps you have caught me. You shall not go to the sea, for I do not wish you to drown while far from me...
do not withdraw yourself from my hand, lest you become lost...
