a while ago, I was thinking how it would be if I were made only of words – like this – only whispers from one mouth to another, a gentle sign, a breath between two playful gazes, an inspiration between two kisses, between two silences and, with all my feelings and search, I could find only trifles.

I told myself wait. but that was most demanding. how can I stand motionless and yet be receptive, lacking any desire, with no need of anything and yet longing? how can I be committed to a long backbreaking journey without truly knowing the way? and how can I open myself an oasis to that until the moment of the first steps of my unfamiliar thought about me?

it happened that someone had found my trace very very far away, in the bed of a star river. it was the river of whirling stories near a village at the edge of the world. I recognized it by the willow and by the sleeping forehead of the man lying idle in the shade.

and that someone asked: trace whose are you? and it answered hers, showing itself. whose hers? and seeing my trace that it was not easy to make him understand, it took him closer to where I was and both sat down at my root as in an endless birth of a miracle.