The language of nothing that waits to become something, even if just for a while; the language of the significance that waits for someone to give it significance, though only in passing; the language of a space without contours, it’s prepared to accept each contour it is offered, even if only until all contours have been given. The language of space unmarked by scars of the past, but ready to accept the cut of a blade; The language of the land of continuous beginnings, of the place without name whose identity does not yet exist. (Zygmunt Bauman)