At first I couldn't see anything. I fumbled along the
cobblestone street. I lit a cigarette. Suddenly the moon appeared from behind a black
cloud, lighting a white wall that was crumbled in places. I stopped, blinded by such
whiteness. Wind whistled slightly. I breathed the air of the tamarinds. The night hummed,
full of leaves and insects. Crickets bivouacked in the tall grass. I raised my head: up
there the stars too had set up camp.
I thought that the universe was a vast system of signs, a conversation between giant
beings. My actions, the crickets saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and
syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was
only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken? I threw my cigarette down on
the sidewalk. Falling, it drew a shining curve, shooting out brief sparks like a tiny
comet.