Here the roads look like a fairytale path. Small crystals, embedded between bigger, flat boulders return a blue light, a reflection from the distant street lamps. Sometimes we forget how amazing is the place we are. For example, the weeping willow to my right. How did he arrive there? How old it is really? Was it grown precisely for that point? In principle, everything here is not older than 200 years. I don’t know how old is that olive, right behind the willow.
And do they now where they are? Do they miss, in an unfathomable way, the moonlight, the real moonlight, and the sun? I don’t, despite sometimes I dream of it. I dream of being on a beach, with the sun high on the sky, round and yellow. I lay on the sand, and grab a fist of it, that I start slowly to release over my waist. The sand sticks to my sweat. I have sunglasses. Like in the old movies, of course a girl is also around. But that’s not my life. And it will never be. I squeeze the plastic of my gun, inside my pocket. Of course, it doesn’t show any effect. I’m tempted to take it, and have a look at it again. But I will not. The cameras are not visible, but they are there. Flying, or laying around. Maybe even over my willow, over there. Maybe they follow me already, so small that I can’t feel them. Alea jacta est, I say to myself.