Julio came to visit me this morning from Germany. He says he drove six hundred and sixty-six kilometers per day on the southern highway to get here. He also says that Paris ennobles the slow, deceitful, and noisy passage into the city, while the evening lights justify the first and the last word.

Julio is at a critical moment in his life. He knows that the end of the road is the re(volu)(ve)(la)tion in the face of the uncompromising novelties of truth, and he wants to tell me that the Beatles were to blame for the lack of struggle. Of course... they were English, and the English are very gentlemen when it comes to these things. Any polyglot knows that.

That's what Julio says. That's what he says. And I listen. I listen and translate for the rest of the world because none of the (pre)(au)sent ones know German, not even French assumed along the way, or any other language grasped while crossing southward. Because nobody crossed the South like Julio did on that highway of waiting. This grants me some literary licenses in the face of any of the three R's that end with attention. That entitles me, with the precision sight, to wait for the right moment, to let me aim and shoot right at the center (of diluted data) of the target of dispersion.