I read words, phrases, texts of others. Of other people still alive or dead, other epochs, other moments, other ages, other places, other countries, other worlds. I read their words, their thoughts, their languages and their writings. Underline, highlight, memo, comment, drawing, recopying. Every time I open the book and then close it back, the letters lying in the pages send me elsewhere. I read the phrases. I redress the composing letters. I pronounce the nuances. I reactivate the senses. I actualize the thoughts. I recall the logics. I record the voice. I revisit the inside by the outside. I hear the world of past and of present. I listen to the silence. Thus, I trace the forgetting and I point the souvenirs. And well, I caress the memory.