This book will say everything it is destined to say. There is almost no fiction in it; everything is based on truth that pierces and glimmers between the lines. It could have broken into a heap of newspaper articles, fussy reports, and a couple of heartfelt conversations about the meaning of things that, for many of us, mean nothing—until we ourselves lift onto our shoulders that heavy, thorny cross and carry it, on our back, into a lace-like funnel of deceitful constellations suddenly opening above our heads. This book is about how our light still remains whimsical and diligently cruel. About how any person can become a direct victim of their own wandering. About how a stranger is still only a target for capricious slaps. And about how our flesh— as always—becomes the only hostage through which they try to lead us toward unfreedom, and how we quickly give in, just to get our temporariness over with faster, just to protect our bones from pouring rain.