On the other side.
Here, in this city, a fire has been burning for three thousand years, taking in its smokes the body of the deceased.
Here, it's on the other side. Almost on the other side of life.
Stride through this maze of the alleys, get lost day by day in the depths of yourself, throw your eyes at a roaming body or an hour of the night, while thoughts wind into an inextricable maze.
Then the images become dry, almost sharp, as if we had scraped in them all that was not essential. Muffling them under a thick night, driving away the sounds, the visible degreased, boneless, to keep only the trembling glare of light on a dying mufle.
A pale glow skim past the bodies. The wet sparkle that comes out in a lost look. Touch with the eyes. Photographing one's soul.
The images made the crossing, they went to the other side.