In general, fakirs, like scribes and potters, are sitting down, when he’s standing up, a fakir is just like an other man, and sitting down, he’ll be … - José Saramago

A mulher do médico vai lendo os letreiros das ruas, lembra-se de uns, de outros não, e chega um momento em que compreende que se desorientou e perdeu. Não há dúvida, está perdida. Deu uma volta, deu outra, já não reconhece nem a ruas nem os nomes delas, então, desesperada, deixou-se cair no chão sujíssimo, empapado de lama negra, e, vazia de forças, de todas as forças, desatou a chorar. Os cães rodearam-na, farejam os sacos, mas sem convicção, como se já lhes tivesse passado a hora de comer, um deles lambe-lhe a cara, talvez desde pequeno tenha sido habituado a enxugar pratos. A mulher toca-lhe na cabeça, passa-lhe a mão pelo lombo encharcado, e o resto das lágrimas chora-as abraçada a ele.

Some drivers have already got out of their cars, prepared to push the stranded vehicle to a spot where it will not hold up the traffic, they beat furiously on the closed windows, the man inside turns his head in their direction, first to one side then to the other, he is clearly shouting something, to judge by the movements of his mouth he appears to be repeating some words, no one word but three, as turns out to be the case when someone finally manages to open the door, I am blind.

So often we need a whole lifetime in order to change our life, we think a great deal, weigh things up and vacillate, then we go back to the beginning, we think and think, we displace ourselves on the tracks of time with a circular movement, like those clouds of dust, dead leaves, debris, that have no strength for anything more, better by far that we should live in a land of hurricanes.