Life – a sort of a plate of real-imaginary from which we nibble together with the birds of light and darkness, with the poor and well-to-do of the world at grains of to be once rough (like sharp stones), other times more like the pulp of pomegranates and ripe figs; stairs I have to climb in myself and climb down... to sometimes walk along the roads of infinity, other times, how many, to stop before the first step, waiting for the path home...