…so many people jump, always… A curtain, the falling of a black tide, slowly frees pages of a diary, the voice of past events, history of stories, scars. Pieces of wreckage, in the meantime, emerge from the tide, shreds of other accounts, individual and collective memories, of a place. Everywhere, the bridge. Nothing else, no one else, on the other side of the bridge. An obsession, a cadence of geometric perfection, silent relentless impassibility. Pyramid – monument to memory that hints at the suffocating disquiet of someone absent: abstract, in-expressive drawing – of an absence… Who is missing? Who has made the jump? …for someone, in the meantime, has passed away, a name has been lost, a face scratched out by pure geometries. And while recollections fade in the mausoleum – the memories of a place, in the place of Memory – ghosts arise… Who? Who has made the jump? …because something, in the meantime, has dismissed its own creator, the man disappeared from his world, the origin, was swallowed up: and while a place of memory sinks into the oblivion of the Place of origin – tracing of a sorrow that leaves no traces – in the meantime an echo persists, among the ribs of concrete, a breath perseveres, in the steel frame. In the hollow spaces, between the pages, gasps, cries, tears, anguish.