The word is born out of the silence, so the beginning of writing is to master the pause.
I write, as if stretching my limbs, numb after a long sleep.
The awakening of the word is like the action of light, which effortlessly manifests the hidden.
I write, as if climbing a steep rock wall where the foot of man has never dug in.
The land of the word is an anti-labyrinth: the paths are scattered, yet each of them leads to the goal.
I write, as if speaking a forgotten language that only the lips remember.
Controlling the world doesn’t bring the abundance that comes from a miracle.
I write, as if recalling an old melody dissolved in the bustle, remaining only as a longing for eternity.