Missssst. And drums in the background, waving against the horizon, colorful red drums. Nothing else. That and the trembling in the breath, the wisdom piercing the eyes that light up, that furrow spaces to just get lost. And to think that it is nothing more than air, nothing. A mirage in itself, a sketch, a sketch of earth, pulp of the air, soul of smoke, dust, nothing. A fluff stuck against the roof of the throat that causes gagging, sudden, lucid, casual gagging for which there is nothing to do. Fluff that also attacks the corner of the rogue eye and there it stays blinding and nothing, there is nothing to say, there is nothing to do. There is nothing to say now either, nothing to do either, because it is nothing more than nothing.

Although maybe something is. In the tips of the fingers the air burns and seems feeling, and his eyes do not want to see, what his throat cannot scare away with words approaches, destroys spaces and becomes PRESENT in his present. The drums that pierce the horizon accelerate their beating but nothing, that the Presence is PRESENT and cannot be denied, it cannot be said "it is nothing": it is something. It is something that was there, that he wanted to scare, that he wanted to deny, that he wanted to forget. And neither fear nor denial nor forgetfulness reached. That the Presence weighs in its present with too heavy a weight, that the Presence presses so much that there are no thoughts anymore, that there are no more regrets, that everything becomes just dark, just lost, present lost for that reason the Presence that just presses everything , that together everything together, that everything returns exactly to earth, in smoke, in dust, in shadow, in nothing.

But it is more than anything. He is more than anything. At his side is more than anything, at his side is on the ground. The drums wave on the horizon, the heart beats so loud that even the Presence can hear it. She can hear it. The hissing sibila in the ears, whispers in the faces, darkens them, envelops them in shadows, renders them at all silent. But he is more than nothing, in the hiss, in the whispering wind he is more than nothing, he is more than shadows that are lost in the jungle. But that deserves it, like the land that the Presence deserves. And it buries values ​​in the ground, messages, codes seen in the corner of the rogue eye that does not forget or lessen the retching in the throat of stuck fluff: the land deserves who works it. So finding the word is not impossible. Finding the Word yes. Before that the Presence the Word is fluff, the gaze is fluff, the rainbow in the rainbow is the message that crosses the sea and hides the horizon of beating, waving, combatant drums. Colored fighting drums, colorful rusty drums, forgotten. So finding the word is not impossible. Bring her to light, free her from the rock that sinks her into what is ours. But the Word itself is not impossible.