The stick in its many incarnations, from the wand to the magician’s staff, is inseparable from magic and violence, that is from power. As finely carved and regular as it may be, it always carries the effervescence, movement and being-in-waiting of the tree that it once was.

It is precisely that vitality that catches your attention in the sad monotony of fluorescent-lit hallways and makes you think that the twisted walking stick propped by a door is significant. You open the door and find yourself in yet another hallway, which you follow without knowing where it leads.

A few steps further, you find a well-lit alcove where an actress that you like is sitting, dressed in a royal gown. She smiles and talks to you in a language that you don’t understand but whose magnificent words touch you. She congratulates you telepathically for having found her, explains that she came to you under this form but that the real actress does not partake of her power. She tells you to keep on looking. Search and you will find, search and you will understand. Search and you will find HIM.

She reveals the sublime name of her art because that word will help you. Already it is slipping away. You hope that you will remember it when you wake up.