We
in the noise that dismantles the day's colors. Occasionally
confused by logic's reasons.
While,
I change my mind.
Numerous facts pertain to the depth of night.

She,
she
spoke words with arms of love.
But walls don't have words.
Of us they bear no trace

that... notwithstanding...
that... notwithstanding...
and so.
It was an inaccessible ascent
and I was thinking of something, that was,
that was.

A trip.
A trip to go far off;
a trip to go where I was.

Yes, the image
makes one marvel.
That is to say...
Tenaciously in idleness the shadow holds on to the light
In the magic of a conscience.

In the metro some wore shoes the color of gold,
they left marks of lines woven like artworks.

I will stop going through that street,
but let the wind hold on to the sounds of the world.

The performance consists of two stages: the first draws the figure of Dibutade, the second a piece of the story of Kafka: "The Penal Colony."
Among the various myths about the origin of painting, the version of Pliny the Elder acknowledges the inventor of painting in a woman named Dibutade, daughter of a potter in Corinth, traced the outlines on the wall of the shadow cast by her lover while he talked her.
In the "Penal Colony" a young officer, who was fascinated by the perfect functioning of an instrument constructed to impose the death penalty, he abandons the exaltation of the technique blindly murderous eventually drag into the whirlwind of the victim, after having done so exist as executioner unaware of the pain caused.
Retain the other in the track that sets the boundaries of its existence and its appearance, as in the gesture of Dibutade open the memory of the encounter or sink narcissistically deleting the presence of the Other, as in the gesture of the young officer who disrupted by 'omnipotence of the half, lost all trace of humanity in itself and you lose...