Flashing. First, a rustle like that of distant fronds, then a less and less shrieking hiss from the few centimeters-wide metal mouth that gradually faded to silence, though remaining wide open. A long, long curve, whose gold and steel arc had illuminated the whole city for what could have been no more than a fraction of a second. But why then had it seemed an endless corner of the eye vision of a shooting star sucked from a fifth floor window of the Hotel Miló to the few resistant couples still entwined on the benches along Murata Avenue?
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