With some authors and their characters, I have always had that fever of paradigmatic doubt, when it comes to establishing, honorably, who is who or who, for that matter, becomes the same, who is each.

This doubt assails me, especially, all that occasion in which, due to unforeseen circumstances, some detail reminds me of one and both end up appearing, like twins whose shadow is irretrievably attracted as if they were the opposite poles of a magnet, unable to stay apart.

I am still far from understanding, when it comes to Saint-Exupéry and the Little Prince, which of the two represents exactly the glorious Puer Aeterno, given that both together or separately, both had the extraordinary faculty of Flying.

Perhaps it is that, thinking of having discovered part of the rich inner world that nested in Saint-Exupéry's chest, I ended up finding my bones in the Garden of the Little Prince, where someone, possibly more fortunate than me, and like the latter, ended up finding her Flower in the most unsuspected corner of the Universe.

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