Tale

Beethoven, in all his glory, would continue playing. But now, accompanied by the severe yet liberating scientific evidence. Art and science, finally finding a point of convergence in the complex journey of human existence, where the melody of life intertwined with the rigor of truth.

His pen hovered over the blank paper, trembling slightly. The complex words, the brilliant concepts that would define his career and influence the discipline for decades, suddenly seemed empty as shells of dead insects. They were elegant traces, like Aritana's, trying to dominate a chaos that infinitely transcended them. The headdress under glass was a fossil, not of a culture, but of a fleeting moment of encounter that carried within itself the germ of destruction.

It was the third week since he had abandoned the Contemporary Art Museum project after the meeting that would seal his professional fate. "Absence of contrasts," he murmured, compulsively leafing through the annotated margins of Being and Time that he devoured during his insomnia. Each page bore feverish scribbles in his own handwriting: "Modern technology reveals beings as available stock," "Being-in-the-world is not spatial, it is spatializing," "Anxiety unveils nothingness

In 1926, the gray snow of Vienna clung to the boots of Sergei Pankejeff, now a middle-aged man marked by melancholy. He was no longer the young Russian aristocrat who had arrived at Berggasse 19, consumed by phobias and the specter of white wolves. Now, he carried the burden of being the Wolf Man, an enigma in psychoanalysis, whose analytical journey would lead him into a labyrinth of interpretations made by brilliant and distinct minds.

In the bay where time dissolved into salt and melancholy, Isadora lived in a house that defied the laws of physics and reason. Built upon the wreckage of sunken ships and anchored by chains of black iron, the floating structure swayed with the tides of memory. Its walls were a living library: pages from 1847 Webster's dictionaries, Larousse volumes worn by humidity, and Aurélio with definitions that changed according to the wind's mood.

Leo’s apartment smelled like an early hangover: spilled alcohol, sweat of anxiety disguised as fun, and the sweet vapor of dying Juuls. It was the scent of an end—of a night, of a love, of an illusion that refused to die. He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, the dead Juul weighing in his pocket like a revolver without bullets. He needed to leave. The party was a corpse still writhing to the sound of a random playlist.

The tale is thus a speculative philosophical journey, born from the collision between Talleyrand's practical maxim and radically different visions on the purpose and power of language. It is an impossible meeting in a timeless space (the "Garden of Words"), where four masters of language (or its disdain) debate its essence, revealing, through their contradictions and complementarities, the many faces—and dangers—of this unique human gift Talleyrand mastered and mistrusted so