And in the morning I drove ’till night. When actually I was only confusing these two: both mornings and nights were driving me crazy. Mornings looked troubled and I assumed it was a matter of divination which would make everything easier. But there were no auguries, no omen.
Not even flowers grew up there, along the side-walks, across oceans and beyond such doubts. Nights, on the other hand, seemed sketched by hands without skills. By hands used to build up great fires, to spread light. But there was no light either, no other but the artificial ones hanging in front of me, on the roads.
The one which discovered the flies in the darkness, exposed them and detached their wings. No divinations and no fire-makings. I wasn’t even driving. Not even day and night. Not even then or them.