The Gnostic Wanderer: Noise kills. In the bushes beasts lurk. The confused are exploited. The corrupt live in hell. Less is more. Leave that barge behind!

Señor Palermo: Mind is a prison, thoughts are its walls. It’s comical, though. There are no locks on the doors and yet nobody flees.

Uncle Adelbart: Everything has been said, all the wisdom we could hope for or would ever need is out there, yet here we are, sitting on this pile of treasures, building toy tanks out of dung. Attached to our delusions to cover the contradictions of our own making. But it is hard. How to make sense of the world yet not to get materialistic and possessive? How to accept that no models are universal and everything is interconnected? How to unroll a fundamental oversimplification, that the entire skyscraper of our world-view was built on? How to undo all the bias? Borders on the impossible. Yet we have no choice. Do this or die trying.

Little Goddess: Feelings are how the world talks to me, songs are how I talk to myself, love is how I talk to others.

The Gnostic Wanderer: Thoughts are weed on the soul, toxic, parasitic, burgeoning, a pest. The soul knows things and only the soul knows things. The heart sees the truth and only the heart see the truth. Humanity lost its way for too much thinking.

Tonó: It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon. And she’s right. No more words. Let’s go for a walk in the forest!