On an area of marshy ground, in the middle of a forest where the reign of abandon and ruin is slowly being revealed, there stands a tree that has been struck by lightning.
It is possible to recognize in this tree the silent presence of that which is expressed to us by the arms without a head of the Acéphale. We have the desire to seek out that which is expressed to encounter what men have always had the possibility of discovering, the vague presence that becomes the recognisable sign of the destiny of each of them. But this first attempted encounter on this night in the forest is, as far as we are concerned to seek to cast off the vestments that veil our own death.
Only night and silence were capable of giving a sacred character to the bond that unites us. As for the sulphur produced in the depths of the earth in which the roots of trees push downwards: volcanoes alone produce it, expressing for us the volcanic reality of the earth.