The two men wore leather coats, which rendered their shoulders more massive than those of Prometheus. Yet neither of them had just his way of exulting. One addressed the other in an uncarrying whisper, which hampered the chances of recognising the matters. Perhaps, it is about the meeting that they conversed, set up later that night in the churchyard; but the place was, practically, non-existent. No one remembered at that moment that the adjacent buildings would most probably carry the remnants of the place forever.
This is modernity: I chance another look at the walls in the dim light. Tales for children, are they around? Just how many of us remember the sound with which the earth gave way, and mountains started moving. And large holes appeared in an unoffending paddock. All of these brought along, I thought: Really? What did they care about to bring it to the church? How dare they bring it to the music? I shuddered at the thought of the walls starting to turn. The eagle was longing for more liver. Shadows quivered, malicious, and continued to climb up to the dissected ceiling. Yet no holes emerged, and the matches were still in the girl's hands. How long it has to be before the night descends and the wind will put them all out?
Those men were no writers, nor tellers. They did not even seem amiable, good-natured. Perhaps, they were not even supposed to meet in the churchyard, among the graves no one sees anymore. I blundered through the door, and outside, where streets smelled of more familiar frenzy, of carnavals and carnivores. Someone somewhere must adapt another myth.