No one knows on what lonely October night, of weary elves that no longer occurs, lost childhood can be immolated along with memories that are being made. What a surprise to suffer once desolate, hear the anger tremble at the temples, on the chest, on the impatient thighs feel the lips come off of wonderful and careless verbs, of figures defended in the dead air, and how other, new, hardened words and already tired they conspire to avoid the only real ghost. How to find a site with the first eyes, a place to grasp the long loneliness with the first eyes, without spending the first looks, and if there are battered meanings, shell of ideals, of filthy purities,