Every morning of that lingering summer the sky, when it woke up, was a dull green-blue, which soon changed to a blueness greyed by a silent white. In the west, however, the sky was the colour we usually ascribe to all of it.

When they feel the ground sliding beneath their feet, then how many men begin to speak the truth, to seek and find, to deny the world’s illusion! And how their illustrious names mark with capital letters – like those found on maps – the insights of sober and learned pages!

Cosmorama of things happening tomorrow that could never have ever happened! Lapis lazuli of intermittent emotions! Do you remember how many memories can spring from a false supposition, from mere imagination? And in a delirium sprinkled with certainties, the soft, brisk murmur of all the water from all parks wells up as an emotion from the depths of my self-awareness. The old benches are vacant, and all around them the paths spread their melancholy of empty streets.

Night in Heliopolis! Night in Heliopolis! Who will tell me the useless words? Who, through blood and indecision, will compensate me?