Coda: When I finished the previous small post I hadn’t in mind what happened after all these days. I was uncomfortable, I didn’t sleep in peace with my inner self as something had to be going on. Because, when we stop, we finish a movement, and a stop is a landmark, it’s a Wall that we build inadvertently. Books are walls built by writers paving our way. They register events, they talk to themselves, they attempt to write about hidden characteristics of humans or Aliens, more often they want to talk about their love, their lovers… We, humans we are made for the infinite and that’s why we feel that something is missing when we look to the horizon and see the sun set, or the curvature of our planet, or when we look at the sky and we find the celestial horizon with all “Crabs”, “Andromeda”, “Aries”… What “is” further away? That’s it? Or when we write a piece of text, like this one, with all the imperfections of an alien writer trying to speak about the unspeakable. That’s it? Or when a musician write a composition for a quartet, like Beethoven before. We may exclaim: “That’s it?” Or when we gave a disingenuous justification to leave our lover. That’s it?

Man and woman (or woman and man) are made for infinite. there is no boundaries to their beings; only the limits imposed by their beings in eternal construction…

“That’s it?”…Well, the infinite is our last stop.