The tunnel that brings us to life is curvy and jagged like a mountain river. When we arrive, they protect us with blankets that are already soft. Although we do not stay covered for long, we keep seeking that warm memory for years, convinced that we can recover it through integrity, morality, or the hollow entertainment of the masses. We forget our sinuous origin, or rather we ignore it, because its free and confident trail constantly builds itself by our side. It never interferes with our freedom to pretend it does not exist, to pretend it died right when we were born. To ignore the sparkles of the trail is not the real danger, but to definitively forget the unavoidable end, the point at which sinuosity and straightness meet forever.Its trail never interferes with our freedom to pretend it does not exist, to pretend it died right when we were born.