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When I was a child, my mother told me to write short sentences and make them understandable. I got good grades in my essay, but she started to feel uneasy. She had a premonition of danger, a premonition that I would go far away. She was right, she saw clearly, I had gone astray, I had betrayed, I had lost my life, I had squandered my money and hers, I was exhausted, I had fantasies. Her advice was of no use to me, we were against the current, her truth was false to me, and the north pointed to her by the compass was not the right direction for me. So I ran away, everywhere, to foreign countries, to the moon, to impossible love. In the wind, she is her, and I am me.