It is an untold fable of hopes and despair; of initiation and withdrawal; of generations changing with time and of generations not changing with time. It is the fable with times unknown to some and known to some few. Stories never end. Stories never begin. They live with die and seem to die with age and memories. It is the same tale I know not when it began and I know not if it would ever come to an end. It is too big to have a beginning or an end; it only has a middle. Characters never die nor are they ever born. They are realized on different points of time; they are manifest along different points of space. They are simply realized and they are simply unrealized.
But they exist
It is an untold story splashed on the glossy transparent surface of time. It is an unheard tale about the characters peopling the middle; an unseen play about the unseen characters, having unknown events; something new, something old; something known; something unknown; something wise; something stupid.
But they exist.
Stories never go smooth and idle (if they do then they are not stories). There are streets and stairs; there are mirages and marry go rounds; there are interpretations and interpenetrations. But there is movement; there is pace; there is speed. They move and they vibrate; they rush and they turn. And they vibrate; sometimes in a transversal manner and sometimes longitudinal. But they vibrate and enthrall us. And we live in them; we inhale the fragrance and the sick air; we people the cosmos confined between the two hard ends and enjoy the confinement of the free soul; the existence of the inexistent; the fragrance of the meshed paper shaped into an organic look with pink shade.
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