A fine fog, followed of wind squalls, makes to raise me the gullet of japona and to more sink in the head the woollen cap. In foot, in the high one of the thick wall that serves of barrier in the entrance of the port contemplates, in the blackout of the night, the dark mass of the revolts waves of the ocean, that with boom beat soon below of me. Everything in return is desert. A little beyond, the dark and disformes countenances of great anchored ships. To far, the lights of some buoys of signalling, indicating the way for the boats. Absorbed in my thoughts, it seems as if it was in another dimension of time and space, and suddenly it comes me it the souvenir the image formed for my mind, of other seas, other distant lands and a man who at night costumava to sit down in a rock bank, in the Island of the Devil. Captain Dreyfus, victim of one of the biggest errors judicial of the history of France.

In this direction, here in this place, I feel myself completely exempts, but at the same time, I ask myself if this will not be only one illusion, perhaps therefore the true freedom is interior, according to Krishnamurti. Exterior, I believe that we are all prisoners of some thing. I am still a good motionless time there, later I follow for the little illuminated streets of the old city, in direction to the center. Soon ahead, some bars still opened. Some women of the night, with the sleepy heads on the tables thinking perhaps about its sad destinations as kept out of society of the life. Some few noctvagos passer-bys pass hasty escaping of the cold, that after some days of heat comes back now with redoubled force.

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