Like an ocean's undertow, there are times when I lose the mood to write. But there's nothing sentimental to that. It's purely a selfish wanting of what is truly mine, for myself, as a sea recalls the water its waves had purged in shores. I feel an almost mechanical need to give back to myself and that's the time I find a book to read. And that's where the sentiments start-off.

This one lasted for a week and I already feel like I'm a better man, as if knowledge is the only true weapon worth sharpening. But what about wisdom? Both should be concomitant. A sword should have both sides sharpened.

In the end, all is solitary. All roads are narrow. Paralleled coldly next to each other; demarcated individually. And all the parties you go to remain superficial. Each person walks his own way; even the ones closest to you that you feel interweaved with for life. To each, his own journey. The only difference is that the roads they walk through are made closest to yours. The path next to mine is my wife's. Then there's one I don't see yet. That belongs to my son Marx. In the end, it all ends in meeting our creator and before him, you stand alone. No matter how lives tend to intertwine like weeds. And that's what frightens the unready.