I currently identify with this Canticle: "Come over here," some with sweet eyes tell me, and they extend their arms to me, sure that it would be good for me to hear them when they say "Come here!" I look at them with exhausted eyes (there are, in my eyes, ironies and fatigue) and I cross my arms and I never go there ... My glory is this: Create dehumanity! Do not accompany anyone. -I live with the same indifference with which I tore my mother's belly....