I have read a story about two monks. The first one was a chatty, sociable and carefree guy. His body expresses all his words could not say, and that do him a little nasty, because his body did not express only gestures but fluids and […]. The other was a shy, insecure and, I am nearly sure, coward. They were talking on the terrace of the monastery’s tower, and while Pedro, our outgoing friend, shaved his face, Juan, the shy fellow, thought about his mother. Juan was scared almost all time, but now blame was stronger than fear. So that, when he stood at the edge of the tower, leaning his hands on the parapet and gazing the beautiful skyline, his mind was in the dark, green and heavy substance which has vomited his mother a few minutes before to die.