I want to tell you that you have nothing from me to hear. That I can only convey the inertia of things. That language can only speak its void. Because words are empty. Because in loneliness, everything is empty.

Everything endures its emptiness, its separation from the world, its great deprivation. The unattainable of a place. This is loneliness. The bridges that lost their balance and float in a thousand pieces. Memories and traces of writing, all.

[Excerpt from the text on the back cover of the edition]