We let things go and then we let ourselves go.
We kept on circling in orbit, one round the other, with nothing to aim for. We found ourselves upside down, distant and alone, an inch from the ground, with our centre too high and with less and less weight. Everything we are is at play. The vortex of zero annulled any certainty and demolished our structures as a hurricane destroys houses, and it left us like this, uprooted and exposed, strangers to ourselves and the world we inhabit. Now we keep on trying, in search of a reference point that probably does not even exist, and we are not allowed to stop. But actually roots themselves are not still, never fixed: they dig, unearth, emerge, plunge down again, overwhelm. They search with no regret. And the tree itself, that believes it grows straight towards the sky, has its real life underground in a crazy weft of directions. There is its destiny and it is probably in this movement that the essence of every being becomes real. At the zero point, where everything is ephemeral and evanescent, real life, which is shapeless, takes place.