The Gnostic Wanderer: An immeasurably tiny, unbreakable drop holds the pure you. Wrapped by layers and layers and universes of mud. Yet mud is of the same origin. See the mud as radiantly clear, see through the mud, then you will meet yourself. Just one more little surprise awaits: you won’t see you, you won’t recognise a ‘you’ as all will be you. This is the truth, this is the path.

Tonó: I know, it’s in the heart, that drop. Or below that, in a chakra. Or so I was told. But I don’t care much, for I feel the drop, it burns in me, it rages with fire and keeps me going, it makes me love you and the mad times we call life, yes, it made me smash your book against the wall when it touched truth in me with unbearable intensity, it brings me to life, it keeps me alive, it keeps me real. But I’m not sure I can bear it much longer, it’s superhuman, the tear, and I’m not. I’m burning away.

Señor Palermo: Memories… but which memories? Those of real things or those thought to be real? Did something happen if we remember it? Did something not if we don’t?

Little Goddess: I like remembering you. But true, that belonging is timeless. Life is love.