A handy deserted island with a unique folklore, something like a soul with
windowpanes pasted by whitewash that solidifies with years. If you want you
can call by the name ‘solitude’ this pair of suits of armor dragging us
slowly but definitely into the mud without name and without a single
sparkle. (Not enough common memories, you say, as if there could have ever
been more). And all those jokes that we still have to tell in the meantime,
all those coffees that we are going to drink together …