To preserve the light. Preserve the light instead of memory, that paradise, that harm. There is a misunderstanding between both realities: they are different, unable to live together, to blend. They exist isolated, they linger but they do not communicate. Both are black mirrors. Gravitating bodies seizing life. We hang, shreds, swayed by the memory, gorged of light; we are the darkness. To preserve the light. To seize it in every image, to transform it beyond the light, to invent a prism, to guess it. A mystery for each blink. Memory going crazy when night falls and all we thought to live and all the vertigo. Light is a lie. The path we walk to it is as black as the deep sea. Light, when it pours on us, hysteric morning visibility, electric hyperrealism when the afternoon goes down. Memory, confusion. Voices roaring, algebraic heart, fantasy of having lived, of having felt, at that far time of the horizon, in that remote second, by stealth, in the forest border, on the lonely road, on the green back of the lightning bug, the weird fluorescence, the last truth, already fainting.