"Give me infinity as a flower for my hands".
- Vicente Huidobro.

"It has not been proven, far from it, that the language of words is the best possible".
- Antonin Artaud.

I

A fine drizzle fell enchantingly over Parnassus, flowing diaphanous amidst the glare of the sun that stubbornly and magnificently tore the blanket of black clouds.

Faustino can't help but bring a smile to his face. A nervous smile as he put his head in the ring formed by the rope, while the soft glow of the day warmed his face, like a caress. Moved he let a tear fall.
With a burning smile he sentenced: "It is a beautiful day, perfect to die".

Faustino Fortunato felt that loneliness perfectly framed a culminating moment like that without knowing that Aurora was going up the stairs on her way to the apartment where she was hiding. At that very moment, Hortensia Kütral was organizing the preparations: torches illuminated -because there is nothing more tasteless than an initiation illuminated with electric bulbs- the bracero where the regeneration would take place, a drum that contained the voice of fifteen generations of veladoras and a copper tub filled to the brim with a liquid that swirled like a rarefied sea that gave off the aroma of myrrh.

Hortensia had prepared a safe space for her daughter, to rest after the candid horror, to rest the conscience that trembles with a constellation of fevers biting at her sanity. Hortensia, in spite of her serious expression, was excited and uneasy. She knew she must teach words that could never be spoken.

She had waited for this moment for years. All generations of the Kütral family were present in the sacred room awaiting the joining of the new veladora. All generations were present, but not as one person, not as a perfectly identified, identifiable presence, but there they were waiting for the new veladora. There they "were", silent, inconspicuous, eternally wise, sublime and impotent looking at all the past, present and future moments at the same time. Yet it is correct to say that no one else was there.

Hortensia, since the day before, prepared the ceremony in silence, solemnly and sultanically carrying the duty of the family. Every detail, according to tradition, precisely placed, in a hermetic and purified room, where only the shaman and the initiate could enter: readers of forgotten signs. Pursuers of a nakedness that moves, that burns the sight, that consumes the breath.

The hasty apotheosis would soon begin.                                                                                      
All for the chosen one to inherit the mission.
Everything could begin... If only the initiate had not escaped.

When Aurora Kütral opened the door she saw the body drop bound by the neck.  If his back had not been turned she would have seen the lively, distressed and satisfied face mutate into the expression someone makes when sneezing. But Aurora did see him jerk away, immediately breaking the ceiling beam that Faustino assumed would support his weight during the ritual.
Faustino closed his eyes, solemn, romantic and overwhelmed to fall straight to the floor. Aurora's laughter shattered the mystical veil. The boy's desperate cough for air changed to a face of confused satisfaction. Then he looked up, opening his eyes as wide as he could, looking through her. Not looking, per se, but checking if he could still see. “Did it work? Huh... Hey, what's up?”  Faustino was talking, looking at his hands.
As he turned to see who was laughing, a sudden gathering of sensations zapped through his mind, he felt naked and invaded. He was not ashamed of having failed or otherwise embarrassed. He felt she shouldn't be there seeing something as deeply private as a memory.
“I came in because it was open, I hope you don't mind”. Aurora said, as she arranged a large backpack full of clothes.
“I left the door open so you can easily come in and see what to do with this place”. 
 Aurora nodded: "Suicidal people are more considerate of others than they give us credit for”. 
The silence with its halo of complicity establishes a tiny and eternal space, like a thought, in which any word is superfluous.