Then, when night comes, the wind will drag leaves beyond your eyes. And you will still there, quiet and isolated, still with your gesture of stone, hoping that other lives come to fill your essential emptiness ready for any event that allows you to exist. Then you become thoughtful, serious, daring, heroic, frivolous, sentimental, histrionic, evil, pathetic, tender, elusive. And every time you'll be the same, only a hunter deceived in an internal spider web, often dreaming metaphoric winds that sweep the leaves of life, while life passes by your side eroding your eyes and hands, inevitably, on your way .