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The morning rises on Rue de la Pierre au Diable. The sorcerer is already awake, not because he sleeps little, but because he dreams much, and the dreams draw him from the night with the impatience of a child at the edge of a secret. <\/p>\n In the coming weeks, a young unknown visitor will knock on her door. Silent, almost invisible, he will carry on his shoulders an ancient burden \u2014 one that can be lightened only by a gentle look and well-placed words. The poet will not ask questions; he will serve tea, and words will flow by themselves, as they always do in his presence.<\/p>\n Soon, a forgotten project will resurface. A notebook, old, covered with dust, lost between the pages of an Aztec grimoire or perhaps in the folds of time<\/a>. This book contains the outline of a universal tale, a metaphysical legend that he never finished, but which the world seems to urgently need. He will go back to it, with the quiet ardor of those who know that they never write alone, but always accompanied by old voices and benevolent spirits.<\/p>\n Strange synchronicities will follow \u2014 letters found, shared dreams, songs heard in the wind. He will understand that one cycle closes and another opens. He will draw again, but this time, not to illustrate, but to reveal. His features, trembling sometimes, will be more powerful than ever.<\/p>\n Do not listen to anyone’s advice, except that of the passing wind telling you the history of the world.<\/p>
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