It is terrible not to find where to go ...
Some of the houses are destroyed, without a bed, in the dark and thick with spider webs, stains bleeding across the walls and sorrowful ghosts, others stand false as a stage set.
From palace or haunted manor, the upholstery we see worn, forgotten. There is no beauty in that place, no mystery, and we go on our solitary way, in the garden the fountain of exhaustion drips.
There are inns now closed to us, with which we have severed all ties, when, stripped of excuse, we search, hesitant as a stranger, or like beggars, remote, unknown ...
It is terrible not knowing where to go when the day lies dead when it is sometimes drunk, or murdered.
To find that there is no path, no path, no door to knock upon, in the hollow smile of conquest, or in the meager end, the House of the Soul devoured!