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Ironically, while walking through hell, I stumbled upon flowers—as if it were always January there, with its romerillos, or April, bursting with tender shoots. The larger and stronger the tree, the more easily the wind brought down the sprouts born from its branches; meanwhile, the smallest flowers withered while still clinging to their stems. I traveled more than 505 kilometers in search of the path Machado once evoked, yet so much walking left me exactly where I began. A tree whispered that I was moving toward the ephemeral, toward an abyss that had seduced many before me. I chose instead to turn away from that tempting void of abundance. Along the way, I encountered Death, who confided in me her irrevocable sentence upon us all. We spoke—mostly of what had already been lived and of what might still endure—and unintentionally (or perhaps deliberately), she revealed that there is no such thing as a predetermined path. The only surface upon which a path can truly be made by walking is life itself.