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at the end of patience, courage invaded the scene of a confession to the world, a primal cry escapes, truncating the reflection that one has of oneself in wondering what one can be at the bottom of oneself. An animal, an object, the part of an equation, or a tool, when this confession to oneself is made, and is carried out despite oneself, the control to be modeled escapes like a heterogeneity to forcing itself to be something that we are not, to mix in a space that does not correspond to us, sliding like oil, water-repellent like a water-repellent fabric, the part of the unknown that is in oneself awakens, to finally take the control of this model that we do not manage, and which we are asked to lock up. It is a cry, exalting the smoke of a brazier which burns in itself, and only finds air to feed it the apnea which is held back from an atmosphere which refuses to be breathed, too harmful, too toxic, too polluted not to really know how to benefit from it. It is the liberation of a body, to find its movement, its freedom, its lightness, from a sarcophagus that has hindered it from being rolled up around itself, not being able to assert its existence and its life. It is the first steps of a new area, that where henceforth he will listen to himself, and it begins with a cry.