The secret lies in the fog that falls. That moment of transition between what was and what now is. That moment we only notice at the end, once the process is complete. It is a generative, transformative moment, flawless in its beauty, and therefore unheard of, at times incomprehensible, and for the rest, disconcerting. A mourning is absorbed, a passage from the mountain to the plain while remaining at altitude, mobilizing the winds and reclaiming the edges of our garments. We are flying at mid-air and we know everything about this space, this horizon, and this body. We are all here, united in movement. A beloved mechanism, animated by a faint breath. We rise again and wait, not in order, against the current, hanging by the thread of our bodies. We come together, discovering the regular shape, in contrast to the earlier confusion. We are a prism, a parallelepiped. At the tips of our knees, we sway, describing the angle that opens space for movement, an unexpected flexion, the curvature of thought. The leg extends and then returns; in the gesture is the freedom that belongs to us, that is owed to us in this sky. Let’s take it. One more step and then I bend, return to standing, I imagine a hiss, describing it with the swing of my wrist, and then return. One, two, three. These are demonstrative, dialogical, enumerative steps. We count ourselves in strides, moving forward. And then I rise, upwards, take flight, and the foot I had previously lifted, now reconnects to this space. I return. The movement becomes mirrored, the steps cross and brush without ever blocking one another. We slide over each other with the immense lightness of muscle movement, fitting perfectly into the movements of the others. Our body lacks nothing. Sitting. We look for the point of encounter that is a dialogue, abandoning the race toward violence. We repeat it—abandon it. While we lie down, we are here, on this field that is black, that is white, that is everywhere. I count the legs, the hands, and finally the backs. I sweep the air with my palm, directing it toward us: it perpetuates you and gives birth to an unexpected sweetness. What noise comes from down there, where parrots, seagulls, and the infinite cooing of pigeons dominate in a tangle? In flight, I have come to know my body, I have admired its size and volume, I have tested its rotational forces and listened to its deepest beats. The breath of wind blows and supports me, still giving me the thrill of the wingbeats, far from the commotion, from the noisy rumblings of fractures. Here there is unity. With this unity, the future can be built. With the structure that supports us, made of wind—mystic whisperer, transcendental harlequin, invisible puppeteer who remembers the bodies, and even today brings our minds back to where our integrity lies, where we are all together, without battle, without sacrifice, to care for and delight in this sweet, citrus-flavored life, bitter at times, even harsh, inevitably and rightly salty, but as true as everything that is summed up between us, as we are bodies in flight, and to the body, we must return everything: Listening, attention, presence. To be there.