“I am the light wave that has no other field but the sea, I thrash about, slide, fly, laughing, giving, sleeping, but woe is me, always in me, always in me. When was that from? Had she read it as a child? Thought it? Suddenly she remembered: she had thought it just now, perhaps before placing her own arm next to Otávios, perhaps in that moment in which she had wanted to scream ... More and more everything was past ... And the past as mysterious as the future ...”