On the greyest days, when nothing beyond the sea seems to be enough, we continually stop. We cannot stop disorganised thoughts, but perhaps fear, desire, doubts, and noises are coming from far away.

There are times when silence is what seems to matter most. Not because it brings any spontaneous inspiration, but because we look at what we don't understand beyond the moon and the stars.

In these brief moments, we stop and write, even if we do not find or bring anything new. Between waiting and tiredness, we calmly hold each of the most distant and messy memories. Little by little, we smile, grateful for having built a road and a path.

When we organise each of the texts, times, and years, we find small lights that are still lost, which separate each of the truths. In them we find strength and longing, a desire to continue on the road.

Between each of the lights and memories, we still find places where it is possible to love. Faraway places and so many are now lost, where we learned to know how to be.

In those days that will never return, there are hours that are impossible to count. And there are also the countless people who crossed paths along the way and who stopped, left us their story, and took a little of us.

We didn't realise the time; now everything seems distant and difficult to explain. However, a hidden world remained, a time that continually waited, asking to be written.

Without realizing it, we organized words and small stories, even the most distant and difficult ones. Each of the multiple images, which we lost along the way, now cross each other scattered and confused, walking through the moments and the immensity of longings.

We would have liked to have left everything behind, not only because we deserved it, but because we were certain that we would reread these years in peace. It was impossible, even with the strongest of wills.

Each of these small stops remained the silences and the looks. All the words that were possible to reconstruct and the stories that time allowed us to tell remained.

We apologize to the sea for what we were unable to describe, for the ingenuity of the reconstruction, the connections, the collages. We apologize, but we are grateful for the serenity of having been able to review and look again at each of the landscapes.

On a balcony where there is no room for poetry, we look at the moon, a cold light. We stayed until it was night and without being afraid to let time pass.

There was a time that flew by, until the day dawned. It flew away and became distant, where the horizon slowly fled. And there was still something that remained, from the path and from all times, that which continually smiled.

Between views and mirages, the world lurked outside. It was a very strong will, which escaped between times that are still difficult to accept.

We saw a sunset that took a long time and we let the nightfall too quickly. We had perhaps too many dreams within us, we wanted to return and remain at the same time.

We could try to guess each of these times, read words, and organize them in notebooks, but they were now too scattered. So many people, countless places, and the constant journey home. There are so many encounters, landscapes, and a desire to stop again, to calmly look for the place of poetry.

“Poetry is what happens when nothing else can," we read that day. And on the balcony, there was little light; blurred images crossed each other, and we asked for time to remain, to know how to wait patiently. We did not know what the next stop would be, but we felt each absence, the memories, and the longings.

The flights were indeed long and distant, but they finally seemed more possible, perhaps because we had grown up and written for brief moments.

The words, even so, were not enough, nor was the night, nor was the landscape. There was a stronger love, always wanting to go back and forth. There were countless happy returns and departures with blank notebooks.