These memories do not explain anything, do not illuminate anything, and however, return again and again when I think of my friends, as if everything that surrounded it had permeated our habits of what they felt, papers all representábamos.El tire rubbing on the waves of the desert, under blue skies and frosty winter or summer, the terrifying bombardment of the moon that made the sea in phosphorus, bright as brass bodies, transformed into electrical bubbles, or walk down to the last spit of sand slipping in the thick darkness the gardens, past the sentry almodorrado, to go where the rough seas and waves suddenly paralyzed dragged limping on the sand.
Lawrence Durrell
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