Tradução de Elias Kesington para Sem caminho de volta, de Roger Freston, contista e filósofo francês, morto em 76.

"The friendship. The value. The challenge. Sometimes a part of yourself is somewhere else. Sometimes the part you've been missing all your life. Being me, being you. Not to feel a complete world, feeling it in a movement, happening yet. Not to laugh alone, island in a dried desert. There's a sense. There are some dogs to trust in. Belief. Some cards to play with, some ugly smiles that can make me cry, happy, far from the floor where I stand. I believe in it - I was told to believe in me. Should I? There was a piece of bread on the grass, two birds sharing, thousands of people refusing each other in the name of a paradise. Can it be? Being already. Please, need someone to believe. A friend. A God. A writer. A lie. Need a clue to breath slowly. We're leaving, have to learn it. We're losing what we bring with us; someone's losing me. Could we be happy? I'd rather be my only friend, if there was ever another one. I'd rather be the small body for a yellow kite. I know: there's still some hope in the Mistakeland. Bless you, bless me - for what we've done, for adventures we were too weak to face. I admit: I grew up alone, lost in me, having a clear place among too many others. Others, not me. One day, when I'm high in the highest cloud in the sky, things here, down below, will look very small - that will be when I'll regret for the holy time given to stupid agreements."