Our acts aren’t the result of our free willnThey are simply pretty and foolish effortsnelapsing between two moments of stasisnwith the unque and intentionnof making the waiting less tedious and painfulnnOnly a few instants are truly intensenlike the moment when you landnA blow after an asphyxiating and breathless concentrationnand the blow will allow you to free your most precious vital spacentill now oppressed corrupted and seriously endangerednby the nimblest intrudernnAware and heedless of his disengaged final conditionnwe are strangely attracted by the moments’ changesnmore or less curious, indeed, we react to climatic eventsnNo one can know, better then us, that we avoidnAbsorbing that tinkling element by being readynto protect our wretched ego with phoney and fakenportable barriers, charged with visiblenradiations only without any seeming aimnnAffective games seems to be an interesting communication matternalthough we try and retry to disown this emotional appendixnWe are enraptured and nervously tossed in anothernlogic of mind with the only goal to cloudnand to remove from us the coveted disengaged final condition