In these latitudes night falls suddenly, hard upon a fleeting dusk that lasts but an instant, then the dark. I must live only in that brief space of time, the rest of the day I don?t exist. Or rather, I am here, but it?s as if I weren?t, because I?m elsewhere, in every place on earth, on the waters, in the wind that swells the sails of ships, in the traveller's who cross the plain, in the city squares with their merchants and their voices and the anonymous flow of the crowd.

It?s difficult to say what my shadow world is made of and what it means. It?s like a dream you know you are dreaming, that?s where its truth lies: in its being real beyond the real. Its structure is that of the iris, or rather of fleeting gradations, already gone while still there, like time in our lives.

I have been granted the chance to go back over it, that time no longer mine which once was ours; it runs swiftly inside my eyes; so fast that I make out places and landscapes where we lived together, moments we shared, even our conversations of long ago, do you remember?

In the time of this infinitesimal infinite, which is the space between my now and our then....