In their collapse, the words make us new circles around the doors of the hands of the passions, their agitated search to lose does not play with hands that speak in an indirect direction, but in the complicity of not sharing, unfortunate entanglement of indirections, confusion of fraternal languages. of automatic rivalry, matter occupies a necessary space uninhabited by squatter tenants. The air I breathe is only for a single lung whose agitation, like the air frog, inflates to explode on the opposite side in true exchange, the traces of which confirm the veracity. that as such we have existed