The world exists in an active night. It does not begin; continually, it is at work. The sky does not settle. It folds and stretches, shifting under the effect of unequal forces. Zones of pressure form and move, then come undone. The air circulates along unstable trajectories that shape space like a supple material, always changing its configuration. Clouds do not float. They gather and thicken the atmosphere. From time to time, more or less, it rains. So it is with stories that exist in an active night. They do not begin and do not become fixed. They fold and stretch under the effect of unequal forces. The person who ventures into this night by the faint light of the mind prays that it will not vanish. No one will be able to hear their calls for help. Beneath the page, the echo of the voice dies.