The greatest fiction is to believe that this is how things have always been, and how they will always be.

All I have to do is look back, follow the trail of the cable I have just connected to this page, to realize that what is thought to be dead is still alive. It was I who built this little road, no matter how many will travel it.

I’ve gone up a few metres, and above me, I’m beginning to see again some glimmer of the network in which I want to wander again: even a labyrinth is better than a dead-end street. And I want to discover, behind each link, what was there before. I want to know the last modification date, the weight that each page contains. But above all one question presses on me, silent and overbearing, because

I have no more doubts:    

who.

Who built all this, page after page, step after step, chasing nothingness, searching for a map of connections capable of making sense of the darkness of this damp cave.

But a memory came back to me, as if waking up from a dream, and I fix it on this crossroads, the place where I chose again.