I was weaving a tapestry containing the maze of this city and the palace, and I sent a swift-footed ragazzo to lose himself in it until he found you. I understood that the tapestry would bring me another lover. It doesn't matter, that is how it always happens: truth begins or ends by evaporating. I will await you in a circular room, constellated with birds, on the threshold of that door full of night and world, which opens onto the unalterable. Like dedicating an unfinished poem to a little girl, giving it to her to warp when suffering no longer seems a more authentic, spacious world. I will elongate the road to the unsayable. I will be the act of weaving. You, the leopard of multiple horns that has just now appeared on the green brocade and is observing it all like a herald, enigmatically.