In the living room, the potted plants stand before the wooden walls. Beyond this scene vines swing across the paths, forming networks and corridors. In the middle of this swinging garden, a great solid space, like a forest, carrying on forever, perpetually moving, invisible but deadly, boundless in secret but univocal in its demands, perpetual warping and colonizing the place, always by its very silence. If you are patient enough and quiet enough, you may subject yourself to the solitary walk of a thought and feel free, in the mysteriousness of the night, to recognize yourself in it only when you have made yourself clear.