... I walk over and over again on a logging road and the traces of my feet wet or dry naturally go off without a mark whether or not I’ll get around or get involved on the perimeter with a quadrilateral which extends silent hullabaloo of traces left just before my passage .... what happened there .... I imagine using the memory of sounds that was written. These people there, took care to deliver me before my departure to this forest, perpetual unknown.
I am, I whispered, I cried, I tale, I love it ....
I now bypasses the better to inflame !