Long after there had been any talk of me, I looked up into the sky, which had arranged for me a message of indifference. I hated its cool arrangement, its disregard for the crazy antics of our kind. Every second that passed by seemed to be punctuated with the sound of not-caring; the strong winds that came and left, that struck me with a cruelty, without reason or remorse. I could only walk on in the silence of the night.
The man lying on the roadside said: “No one knows who you are, and no one ever will. Memory is for the weak and the dead. Sooner or later you will learn this truth about the universe.”
The sound of the bus passing him by convinced me that he was right.