Sorrowfully captive in the realm of impossible oblivion, objects of solitude and silence reach him like a zephyr wind making way between the skin and vegetation of nature. Moreover, he finds them in every corner that borders the wind, in every wave of an ocean which is longingly infatuated with the moon, and in each glance of an unblemished star. He sees them, here and there, nonchalantly floating on each of the tears of dawn and in all the mystical reflections which have fed a water mirror. He bumps into them every day, every morning and every evening, within the errors of the fugacious and deceptive culpability of time.
 
He sees them, every time, in the soul that yesterday left his body.
 
Objects of silence and loneliness are looking for autumn souls, the morning pastime of breeze between the grass, those illusory instances in which there is no moon but the night still dreams about her, some scents of furtive beauty and possibly a bed sheet made with the sweet petalled body of a flower.
 
To sum up, objects of silence and loneliness seek rhythmical spells of waves on life, with the only aim of making themselves everlasting as long as they blend life in a broad haze and setting up their own souls over the narrow parquet on which the most desperate of infinities is laying.
 
Yes, his soul, that is, the soul of objects we’ve been talking about, is the soul that arises after the gentlest calcinations of a dream.
 
Many and quite...