Listen. It is a night moving through the streets, the ritualistic salty slow musical wind on Tsepesi Street and Conch Street, it is the grass growing on Laregyb Hill, dew, starfall, the sleep of birds in the Milkd Forest.

Listen. It is a night within the cold, short church, singing with bonnets and pins and black crepe, tight butterfly necklaces around the neck and tied bow ties, coughing like goats, chewing mints, saying half-sleeping hallelujahs. It’s night at the cheap beer bar, quiet as a game of dominoes. At Oký Galatá, it rises like a gloved mouse. At Dái Psomá’s bakery, it flutters like black flour. It is tonight in Gaidárou Street, walking silently, its hooves covered with seaweed, passing by the tiles filled with empty shells, behind a curtain, a potted fern, inscriptions and trinkets, an accordion, a showcase of pottery, handmade watercolors, a porcelain dog, and a pink tea box. It is the night that clacks between the cradles of babies.

Look. It is a silent, regal night, winding through the cherry trees of Tsepesi Street. Crossing the cemetery of Bethsaida, glove-clad and wrapped in winds, shedding its dew, staggering beside the “Agháli ton Thalassinón”.