He who forgets to hold the thread of his soul is lost and the state of everything he does is lost. Go to his house. The threads of yarn are all in his hands. You can choose from them what you want with your heart, tongue and soul. He who is a sun in the heart of the shadow, approaches and departs like a crescent, as if it were a fantasy. Traps and traps never end. Your peace. Your imagination and your war. The imagination of your pride is a fantasy and your battle. The water's silhouette pointed to the thirsty when it saw it. Wine pointed to the drunk when it saw it—Come closer man, see that the smell of every firewood is in its smoke and that the sun points to the sun and that the shadow is like a tan that brings sleep. Come closer man, see how it is in the house of the sun. The moon splits lightly like a spider’s thread. The sun of the world is strange, unlike anyone else. The sun of the soul has no touch, and your sun was carried by beetles to the top of the dune.