There is nothing clearer or more defined than a desire. The framework in which we put on display something vaguely determined, that is far from us. The burning passion, the ardent desire for what does not exist. Not yet.

Paul was a loner; he ate away the pavement and the soles, running behind intense chimaeras of the mind, his precious thoughts that belonged to a teacher. This is what Paul was, before the death of his wife, and before the retirement. Now he went along the entire village, from the beginning to the end and back, millions of times every day, passing through the same faces, passing through some new ones, very rare in that village. New people that, like during an alien visit, happened by chance, and almost always, having made the wrong turn. He was inspired by what he saw around him; it represented an inconceivable treasure he used to discover slowly, and he had the privilege to taste it secretly. It was what he thought about everything, from a single drop of rain and its consistency to the design of leaves, all different and with a secret. A hieroglyph speaking secret alphabets.

He was a man of science, in some sense. He used to teach chemistry, he privately studied the forms of particles and their reaction with additives. He had, as every figure in the society has, a rule of divulgation based on subject and knowledge, that he suddenly changed. He joined the costumes of the artists, for which the matter was not a subject, but a vision. It was throughout the vision that he could talk with elements and to speak those secret alphabets.

Paul looked always the same in his trench coat and leather brown lace shoes, his hair in a perennial uprising, soldiers of his tangle thoughts. 

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