There would have been a text, glyphs, or a description carried away in a silent symphony. A burning heart, the wave, the universal matrix from which springs the salt. These ghosts, these traces, we would have all dreamed of them. What you would have liked to say, but which plunged back into the deepest synapses of your memory just before the expression. The composition constantly leaks on the weft of our references, footnotes that have been erased, and of which we can guess the curvature of the most emphatic letters. There remains the feeling born of the observation of these symbols, these universal atavisms, this tale that our prodigious ancestors would have told us. These are the whispered melodies, the endless dialogues, and the letters to a deceased friend, whom the artist transcribed on these seven pages of the great book of humanity, his morning ranges, and his contribution for May 22 to the art as a necessity.