The sound of boots echoed in the apartment corridors; for a while the boots climbed the stairs. When they reached a door whose bottom edge was already resting on the floor, those sounds finally stopped; when he tried to open the door, the falling of the already rotten boards—an occurrence that, for a while, seemed to be demanded by the silence of that place—made him quite uneasy. When he entered, what caught his eye was, more than the collapsed walls, a guitar that now looked as if it had deteriorated. What he was looking for was different, however; in the room that once looked like a kitchen, he picked up one of the newspapers lying on the floor, then stretched out in a spot he found relatively clean. He took some tobacco from the breast pocket of his jacket, rolled it in the newspaper that had begun to rot, and lit it with a match. Then he looked at the crimson sky; black smoke covered it, and here and there yellow lights from between the dark clouds lit the place.
While looking at the sky, he unintentionally fell into thought: he remembered his childhood, the greenery, the happiness, the hope, the love; then his youth and those buildings stretching into the eternity of the sky, the highways continuing until they disappeared from sight on the horizon, the floating fortresses made of tons of steel, and the flying machines... Then what happened, why did it happen, the only thing I remember is that a long time ago, before all these wars, people built the Tower of Babel, and they embraced the decay it brought with great excitement. A tunnel underground, stretching to the center of the world...
When his cigarette was finished, he looked at the flickering yellow lights far away, he looked at the sky, and he picked up his guitar. Along with the song that he playind, the sky was illuminated by a great whiteness from the horizon. As he kept playing the guitar, he sang to the new sun that was rising above the sky. Until he turned into dust.