Walk where others left their steps, their silences, their desires, their illusions, their fears … In the places, in the objects the memory is inscribed. They live resignedly accumulating touch, gestures, voices, looks …
Stop at those ambiguous, indefinite moments that, like a dream or a flower, hide small and infinite folds.
Some stairs, a semi-open door, a corner, an outside from a window, that glass that offers me and closes me, those veils that hint what they hide.