I imagine a young man in a soccer jersey dribbling the ball across the pitch, his feet touching the ball with skill. Looking for a pass or a shot, he kicks the perfectly round ball high up in the air. As the ball floats above the heads of the players, he begins to speak.
The voice is passionate and warm, guided by the responsibility for the other, by the desire to reach those who stand beyond the boundaries of the arena and already doubt the natural order of things. Friends multiply over the years, as the perfect roundness stays suspended in the void, teasing the gaze with its enigma.
Each of his words is a question that calls for other questions. The perfect roundness belongs to the imaginary world of games, to the secret revealed in silence between the lovers, to the call from the beyond issued by the being of bad infinity. And questions open up the access to the buried desires, to the body which trembles under the burden of memory of that final question that has no answer.
Madison, July 15, 2000