The city is a kind of human library. An ark with stories that never end. The Visitor will distinguish fifty-two city stories: As many as the weeks of the year, as many as the cards in a deck.
The city is exile. We are exiled even in our own home's courtyard. There are times when we have no idea for which lost homeland we grieve. […] The city is its people. They make the buildings appear beautiful. They can make a square look like a girl laughing. A melting pot of people who sometimes have nothing to do with each other. And when people do not know beauty, no matter how hard they try, the city will be ugly, truly ugly.
The city is often silent like a church. And you need a conversation. You talk, talk, and it remains silent, and perhaps after years you suspect that this dense silence was all it had to tell you.
Is the city not happiness? It is enough to be able to experience it on your skin one night on the little bench in the square. You nibble on a sesame bread ring, watch people pass by, and you have a secret, handmade joy, for no reason at all.
It seems to regulate the universe with just its tiny little finger. The position of the stars, the seasons, the planets, the orbit of the moon, the tides, and within it the centuries pass like a short film. It is Eve, or a little prostitute who has tamed thousands of men in her bed. And maybe none of all these, maybe a pure girl, genetically programmed to love and be loved to tears.
