Silence hurts more. Ours and that of others, the one we feel in our own flesh and the one that sneaks in. Even though some insist on hiding or denying it. They are intangible tears that oppress and suffocate. They are marks, patches, and wounds. They are realities that exist although some prefer to avoid the gaze. Turn their faces in a vain attempt to make invisible, erase or ignore what bothers us, to hang the pressing on
the wall and postpone the essential. Faced with indifference, each gesture becomes valuable and necessary, and, certainly, silence hurts more, but silence is not an option.