The memory goes into a trance in its old humidity. It seems like three years since I was born and it seems like the first old memories, of coagulated milk, the sour smell of the first illness. Urine, poop and sour milk, already expired at the source. Veil that divides the space of the rooms. Watertight compartments of each one in the rhythm of their world that do not disappear because they are simply present. Scent marks of the territory. Every cat with his claws; pads come and go sustaining the silence of the night. His fluorescent eyes fixed in every corner of his gaze.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.