With your tired eyes, you were watching the movement of darkness, is it the movement of darkness, or the movement of light? Mysterious, soft, moving minutes of blackness, you differentiated in it, perhaps you were catching sight of something moving inside it, something resembling clarity, but not light, resembling light but not day, resembling day but not the sun. You tightened the cover around your body, your chest, your feet, but your head was outside the space of warmth in the infinite ocean of the unknown, life in the eyes, and the blood chambers burning in the forehead and the sea flowing under the clothes, small, gentle waves, after the earthquakes in the bones and cells had calmed down, you remembered Fatima, and you almost thought that you had known her in a land other than this one, and that the cloak that fell from her head and shoulders that day was this long night that stands between you and her, perhaps it is the night