There Is No Language Without Deceit.

The Lives Of Individuals Of The Human Race Form A Constant Plot, In Which Every Attempt To Isolate One Piece Of Living That Has A Meaning Separate From The Rest-for Example, The Meeting Of Two People, Which Will Become Decisive For Both-must Bear In Mind That Each Of The Two Brings With Himself A Texture Of Events, Environments, Other People, And That From The Meeting, In Turn, Other Stories Will Be Derived Which Will Break Off From Their Common Story.

Traveling, You Realize That Differences Are Lost: Each City Takes To Resembling All Cities, Places Exchange Their Form, Order, Distances, A Shapeless Dust Cloud Invades The Continents.

The City, However, Does Not Tell Its Past, But Contains It Like The Lines Of A Hand, Written In The Corners Of The Streets, The Gratings Of The Windows, The Banisters Of The Steps, The Antennae Of The Lightning Rods, The Poles Of The Flags, Every Segment Marked In Turn With Scratches, Indentations, Scrolls.

The Unconscious Is The Ocean Of The Unsayable, Of What Has Been Expelled From The Land Of Language, Removed As A Result Of Ancient Prohibitions.

Whenever Humanity Seems Condemned To Heaviness, I Think I Should Fly Like Perseus Into A Different Space. I Don't Mean Escaping Into Dreams Or Into The Irrational. I Mean That I Have To Change My Approach, Look At The World From A Different Perspective, With A Different Logic And With Fresh Methods Of Cognition And Verification.