Whenever I address these lines to you, another you emerge and turn all infinite. I then lose track of your image that I draw in me, and instead of enhancing the narrative, I impoverishes it, lost in the polyphony that levels all voices in one. Thus, diluted from its entirety, you become a poor summary. I can’t find you anymore in my focus, and your face gains unrecognizable features, made of imprecise evocations.

This another voice imposes itself, through some obscure association that unites you and her. Maybe, it is the same ecstasy or the guilty that it causes. A voracity without hunger that doesn’t care about flavor; it just devours life. I just know that this intrusive alien interferes in the content of the phrase, changes adjectives, and impose lonely intransitive and impersonal verbs. It reigns supreme in the text. And when the fragmentation has already contaminated the paragraphs, a third you join the initial duo, and a fourth, fifth… And that’s it: you become a legion.

So, at the phrases’ corners and alleys, even holding hands, I find and lose myself in you. But whoever the addressee may be, dear friend, if I write to you it is because the time is short. There is, therefore, urgency in these lines, although they’re not entirely yours. I don’t know for sure where the fire is. I feel it near and worry. I try to escape this dreamy field, where the plot, full of desire and fury, becomes indomitable. The happiness it offers, however, it is not enjoyable. It is only possible empty of meaning, since it encompasses everything, while it is nothing.

But is it not for Quijote to challenge the reason? Then, under the spell of epic discourse, I build the unrealistic happiness and fear only the mediocrity. For it is the latter, in a perverse dialectic, that makes the exuberance possible, while binding itself as the price to be paid. Doomed to the misfortune of insignificance, more and more I dive in the fantastic glow, sadly radiant in my alienation. And, after centuries in the forest, I develop a taste for vines and streams. I learn to navigate dangerous rivers, watching the stars, where your perfect and untouchable body lies, dear friend.

However, as the life fire devastates the invented branches, I approach myself to the end of the dream. It is the reality that calls me. Sometimes it brings the bill of so many destroyed mills: the body aches, I find that there are limits, and discover that I’ve aged. But reality is also generous to put itself, beautiful or ugly, at the range of the hand. Not knowing exactly how to breathe in this world made of so much life, I untie myself of the wonderful possibilities. And change the indefinite and multiple faces of these characters that emerge when I write to you for your real eyes, dear friend, who stare at me for the first time.