The farthest travel that I could start, the nearest one. Looking here, looking inside what happens at home. Touching it without surprise. In the private dimension, beyond the public expression, the emotional swingings (euphoria and depression) are ordinary. Irrelevant, intimate. There is neither irony nor drama but limpid assertion. The everyday things, as always. The silence is first of all in actions, intentions and then in spaces, in still and closed objects. Thought is blocked: dreadful fixity. Waiting is hope, sweet, pleased tension. Stop and listen: Why go on speaking? Stop to listen the smallest signs, the faintest rustles, intimate looks. Come in. Listen.
