Dædalus: ...

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27.12.03

...

All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, afrighted at the sound of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. [...] it is then, if ever, man walks alone with God.

Assim esmaeceu mais um dia. As trombetas acabam de anunciar uma alba de esperança e os caminhos junto ao rio e ao jardim revestem-se de namorados que unem as mãos frias na manhã irremediavelmente perdida. Nos jornais fala-se de 20.000 mortos no Irão. Esperança? A certeza da finitude.