The Flight of the Bird

If I can't find the word, it's because I'm trying to extend another whiteness into white; I know it present, I know it in movement, I know it as the foundation of a meaning...foundation. Your hands travel the distance of many incomplete worlds. Many worlds tell us about your hands because the worlds belong to them, and because the worlds suffer from them.

There are a thousand secrets that cross all worlds. Like light, secrets are immense, they breathe in precisely contained forms, and they fly high, so high that they don't seem to be truly contained...but they are. The hands are the flight of the bird, and the voice is the form of the bird. And because in such a beautiful form, and because it is your unique secret and transversal to the foundation of each and every world, rivers will turn to you.

I give you a white word, made of immutable water that runs through the shape of any path... I give you this word because it belongs to you, wherever you are, this word is yours and will not be erased anywhere. I don't find it here in the white, but I know it is present, in movement, the foundation of a meaning...foundation.

I give you this word without a trace that forms it, because I have no way to fragment the sea. And I give you this word because I love the beauty of fountains. It breathes in an unspeakable, beautiful and unrepeatable secret. Let him breathe, and seek the bird's flight in its entirety.