(…) He is there - we are speaking of the witness without choice that this man is, Filipe Rocha da Silva - there where wave upon wave of people comes crashing down in silence, a people that does not devour itself only because it hates itself too much, and that lifts to a saint or to some crude idol its small useless hands, swift in the fulfillment of the blindness of its destiny. And it spreads like a cloth, never frayed nor torn, manifold as the anguish that engendered it, opaque and exiling as anguish itself, universal and without truce. It comes by roads that cross one another, that cancel themselves out in their perpetual straying, roads from which one never makes out the meadow, the shore, the cliff, the spring. An itinerary of death that stretches on, and in it he is lost among the multitudes that travel it, an exhausting pilgrimage through the totality of all roads. And we cannot tell - for neither have those who wander or run here discovered it - whether the catastrophe lies ahead of them or whether they have already survived it, aware only of their implacable drives, moving an arm or a leg, astonished to find that they can do so freely. (…)