He began to walk on all fours: on all fours from the bed of insomnia to the window of the gaze through which the voice entered. By the edges. It was sight. And heard. Smell. Voice. Crusaders. Hieroglyphs of the body. Beams of light Keys. Body composition. Their sounds and notes are recomposed. Like an atonal piece. The notes reappear every moment. Time is reborn. In his thin existence. Consubstantially empty. Time rises through its immateriality even in the distance to become an insensible cause.