Opening the box costs more than filling it. The geraniums grow happy, while those who love them watch over, the light delights in strolling around, while the deafness continues. What more would I like than the sound leave her, but she nests inexorably, in whoever worthily carries her. Deaf was life, even deafer death, so much within herself. This deafness is mother and suffers and grows, but does not complain. alert, she navigates, without an exact past, without a visible future. On the highest point of this pine tree, which makes triangles with the branches, she will be. This deafness will carry a tail of truths, it tears the days with plenitude and insolence, attacks the rigid beasts, naming herself mother of delicate brushstrokes, and she takes to whoever feels it, the limit of things, nude, full of wounds, wide backed, with the heart alone and this incurable deafness.