Lights pass far below in the harbour, and the screech of trains
occasionally reaches you.
The stars seem to swell, then shrink, vanish and be reborn, drawing
evanescent figures, creating new ones moment by moment.
In the silence, the night recovers its density, its flesh.
Filled with twinkling stars, it leaves in your eyes the same play of
light that tears can bring.
In the depths of the sky comes that extreme point where everything
coincides, the secret and tender meditation which constitutes the
solitude of one's life.
There are exits: