Good evening. I would like you to share your opinion on this prologue
I have reached the end of the road. I say this with the tone of one who has experienced all endings and found them to be the same: the same dust, the same silence, and the same illusion that something has truly concluded.
The truth is simpler and harsher: Endings do not work. They always break down, forcing you to start over again.
In the coming days, we will leave. Not because departure is a solution, but because staying has become a bad habit.
We will travel across all parts of the Earth—the flat, the round, the broken, or the one that changes shape according to mood. Call it what you will; names do not change the distance, nor do they lessen the fatigue.
We will arrive at places not designed for humans, places that fell off maps because they spoke the truth once too often.
We will curse the devils along the way, not out of faith, but out of curiosity... We want to know why they seem more comfortable than we are.
We will pass by the old man who inhabits the train tunnels. His face is as wrinkled as an ancient map of mistakes, and his eyes know the times of arrival and the times of disappointment with frightening precision.
We will greet him. He may reply, or he may simply look at us the way Time looks at those who repeat the same mistake with confidence.
And at the station, we will say hello to the flower seller, who will throw curses at us instead of flowers—fresh, morning curses, truer than any welcome.
