A lump of earth from the small pounded grains can form a connected gum to put together a reading of the compartmentalized pieces under the ground, showing through mirrored in shells, representing the millions of pebbles dragged about in the currents of years ingrained in the memory of the space, to the deep embrace of a burning ocean in the incandescent primordial universe, to the humid surface of the freshwater mud, and how many of its shards became nothing, went up in steam and vanished in indivisible craters, rifts, sharp profiles of dry rocks, hidden ores, indescribable minerals, abyssal crusts, objects that crumbled, that are counted by themselves on the footsteps of humankind, the fragments, the traces, the possibility of sensations of belongings at the grasp of imagination, bringing back the slightest observation of the clay texture, starched, in constant and free mutation, rudimentary, mimetic authenticity of the sphere, be it holding its ground, unbeaten, or unspoken and hidden in the details. The careless simplicity is reflected on the wonder of human interaction with the particles of chance, a consciousness seizing the knowledge of the essential elements to become compact in itself, the oneness of permanence, alchemical immanence of clay, raw material of all the dutiful times of art, in its identity, fingerprinted on the planet contained in the floating parts, carried back and forth by the wholeness of the infinite worlds of our inner collectivity, rediscovered in Stories of earth, by Isabelle Catucci.