"Through all the windows I only see infinity." — Mark Z. Danielewski

German: "Must it be?"

French: "The game is set. We are fucked."

And so now, in the shadow of unspoken events, I watch Zampanò's courtyard darken.

Everything whimsical has left.

I try to study the light-going carefully. From my room. In the glass of memory. In the moonstream of my imagination. The weeds, the windows, every bench.

But the old man is not there, and the cats are all gone.

Something else has taken their place. Something I am unable to see. Waiting.

I'm afraid.

It is hungry. It is immortal.

Worse, it knows nothing of whim.