Between the wet hills close to the edge of the world, a soft light is born subtle and without prominence behind the forest hilltops in the low Andes range. On a near field, a strange young living on a pigsty, leaks his sight between the cracks in the walls made of old pine wood that are still crying the sap from the skinless trees. He thinks of dark ideas by whom he's been seduced, and these ideas give him the peace he needs, the peace of freedom. He thinks of leaving everything. But how? There are hollow lives, others that even not being empty they come and go, some even not being of importance they don't lack of stories. But his life, was a life forbidden, to world, to the sight, to the point of even vanishing from he's own existence. Whit out any doubt it could not be called a life. Calm as the ox being wiped, always looking towards the sun.
