Dancing the circles. Solos out of tune. Dancing the glasses, they shout. It is a place of the humidity of the storms. One night, the place. Always the place. The same place with its objects. They call the order of the mind with their mental functions. Every day they invent us with their gestures, their crossed glances warn us about the instability of our world. They have a silent heart made up of shapes and colors. Avoiding the menacing insanity. Oh heart of the objects! Alive and vigilant day and night. They always warn if something disappears with their screeches of matter. They call to order, to ours who we are who needs it. This is one of its unknown functions.