On this dark afternoon dotted, however, by the whiteness of the hail, from this north, which had already forgotten the rain and cold by its absence during the past winter, I’ve decided to write seven lines of a story that has not been premeditated nor preconceived. A story that may not be poetic nor sinister nor obscure or maybe yes. A story that, however, beats like blood in the veins and that has a life of its own and that I don’t know where it will take us, because these things happen like concentric waves in waters or dreams. If I’m sure of something, it is that after reading it, we will never be the same again.
Read next