However fleeting, moments of physical love are still, for me, like those gold points on armor and those decorations on the pupils of characters in chiaroscuro paintings, that glint all the more strongly when the rest is sunk in shadow. Aside from them, and aside from my constant search, of which they are essential parts, my life is nothing more, for, look, almost ten years now, than the tram rails where I glide in the morning toward the end of Colentina, and on which I return home in the evening.
