An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.
For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood.
Those secret tastes, defeated in the past by oranges and rhubarb, broke out into an irrepressible urge when she began to weep. She went back to eating earth.
The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.