Life is strange. The eternal silence of spaces is nothing but an infinite rustling of invisible circles which, spinning one inside the other, leave each other, resume each other, lose each other and never find each other or intertwine forever. Life is strange. We can see a little of the beginning, not the end at all; the meaning escapes us, but all the circles make the chain and someone knows the rest.

That there are two ends to the scale is certain. Day is not night, and one is not without the other. There is joy and…