It is not a question of knowledge, nor of will to truth, not even of a peculiar feeling or an affect, but rather an insensibility to one’s own form and one’s own identity, and the obduracy to learn to say “I am” in every form of life that has existed and will ever exist on this and other planets. Philosophy is the mere attempt to live under the lids of every eye that saw and will see the world, especially nonhuman. To learn what it means to be a stone or a storm, an atom or an angel, a mushroom or a chip carrier. And every time as if they were able to say: “I.” All those forms are not external to us. We are not simply human: we are, in fact, a zoo where bacteria, mushrooms, and viruses live in an instable cooperation. We are not simply human: we…