“But it’s not always easy, and sometimes I can’t tell whether I remember you, desire you or need you. I’m just looking for a sign, a stone-engraved print that will take me to the profile of your voice after the latent absence of your skin. And the world is still standing, and there are ants that follow their path under the sole, sunrises that do not wait to be framed in the picture, and planets that move without stopping to think about the axis of rotation. They are reversed paths to nothingness, alleys with charm, with ghosts of old bandits and French soldiers that point to dark piconeras with love poems on their rifles. And my feet seek only wood, and, oblivious to the sound of silver and the taste of its touch, they fly over ancient cathedrals and forgotten bullrings, among the bars of the old seguiriyas and saetas stolen from memory, never motionless, always at rest, tangents to the curve of your name, on the sweetest side of the mirror”.