The sting in the fibers of the nerves when it is four o'clock in the morning, the contraction of matter after the daily fatigue causes strange noises within the silence that screams. Even though you know it is the wind. Even though you know you will sleep and will not hear the creaking at the window.

To talk about the sound that comes alive, that threatens you from everywhere, that you do not know. To talk about everything that you do not know. About everything that frightens you. About everything that stretches your senses until they break. To rediscover your senses within poetry. Buried and forgotten, to uncover them again and express them, since you have no other way.