One of the symptoms of this society's gradual estrangement from its roots, perhaps realizing this, is the increasingly loud and constant narrative of a friendly nature to rely on, in the spasmodic search for a contact with our inner self that resides among the roots of a tree, branched in the bottom of a moist soil. Nature that loves us, welcomes us, pampers us but in the safety and certainty of our home walls, tightly sealed and ready for use: from the hidden lands of some country whose location we don't know on the map, straight into a loft in the center of a major metropolis, the dried and chopped roots of a miraculous plant, which we will never see, to cure our prevailing insomnia given by the city's hyperstimulation and of working, being there, appearing, never fading.
