vagrancy is not a disease, not fate, but an idea. A thought transmitted from person to person through glances and gestures. The tramp is a product of primitive philosophy. Slave of INFINITY. The curvature of roads, the edge of heaven, somewhere meeting the earth, is a sign for him, an order from above to continue moving. For Movement, according to the ancient covenant, is the meaning of life, and the Horizon is an achievable Reality. Gypsy caravans once dusted along the roads of Europe and Asia, spreading the secret teaching of wanderings, leading people tired of the bustling boredom of cities. Promises of unheard-of liberties turned into chains of customs and blood ties. The deceived renegades, who fled from new shackles, but were bewitched by wanderings, began to make a living with dreary music, viscous melodies and pictures, as strange and unnecessary as the creators themselves... Tramp, homeless, scourge... You have no envious people. Everyone despises and drives away. The very thought of being compared to you terrifies me. Fear of an unpredictable Fate forces one to fork out pitiful alms. And the formidable warning “DON’T QUIT!” itches in the brain, breaks out in a cold sweat, drives you to madness. You are truly scary. You, living in the cesspool. You are a microbe, a bacillus. But you are also great, content with petty happiness and carelessness. You, laughing in the face of Fate because she once played a cruel joke on you. Now you have no time for her. Because, day after day, on the streets and squares you perform the same comedy. Shouting hysterically: “GIVE IT TO THE POOR!” You turn beauty into vulgarity. You mock inspiration... These fairy tales are for you. And I write them because I myself am overcome with horror at the thought of being a tramp, a homeless person, a scourge of God.