I’m going to tell you a secret: you go through clouds of ghosts every day without noticing.  Listen: books are ghosts.

 Look around you, these worn blankets, cooked by the sun and caressed by these countless hands, are faces.  They watch you, they look at you, they wait for you.  They hope that you will grab them, take them between your fingers, open them a little, pass the pages – yellowed by time – between your pretty fingers, then open them openly, carried away by your reading, as if you were making love  with them.

 Look, seize this timeless moment: these ghosts make you travel.  Time, space, they control everything.  Your dreams, your memories, your desires.  They are in you.  Deep inside of you.  Perhaps you yourself are only one ghost among others?  Dust in a big nothing.  An infinity in an even greater infinity?

…
Mr Hyde is a lost man in a lost world with lost words, trying, piece by piece, to reconstruct the puzzle of his life.