An old man walks straight to a quiet lake, in a landscape of repeated patagonian beauty. He approaches wearily but accurately, as the Salisbury cathedral clock. When the man is two meters from the watery mirror, an eagle stuns three happy tourists, perhaps brazilian people. With a great difficulty, the man sets his sight into the lake and starts to hum a childhood's hymn.
-'Where are my memories? They are in here, in my hands, where oblivion lays. I can not remember more than their darkened trail which decorates this infertile land that once was strong enough to withold the roots of death and the happines flower. Abandoned from my memories, I reconcile with oblivion; now I'm closer to it, now I am oblivion.'
