A misunderstanding overwhelms, and transcends to overcome it, finally. Life is, and that's it. An endless passion goes astray. She discovered herself madly, and was constantly amazed. She looks at herself wisely, and darkens all the time. An imbalance stabilizes in its fragility, its incompleteness, the very essence of the immanence which gave birth to it. There is always more depth of field in a blank page than its mere presence in the world. But she doesn't know it yet. No one could have noticed. So what else could be done well? Talking, being silent, laughing, crying, dancing, colliding, getting drunk slowly, getting exuberant drunk ... telling the world by wondering about the being who forgets himself in order to write it, like love and die always echoing silence.