A red car sweeping across the crowd on the lower end of this island, and I watch people being hit and pushed down on the pavement, that dull, coarse concrete in January, just five meters away, and I feel the stones scratch and rip my own skin, the skin on my face and hand remembers, and my legs move, I see a woman being pushed almost under the tram as the car stops, as the car is being stopped by human bodies.



              I mean to go and help, how could I help, what is there to be done, just leave them some air, just leave them something, has something come to an end here, nothing is very diffferent, except this confusion has replaced impatience and the cold has become secondary.



              A girl starts sobbing right next to me, Can I help?, Are you OK? Half of the crowd crowding over those bodies, I think, the other half is covering face and mouth and eyes and asking Whose fault is it?, asking God for help and the police arrive, the police take up the entire street, then life suddenly goes on, or at least the tram rolls in, everyone, even the driver is staring, and the tram goes by and I am moving along with it, am I?



              A boy, about twenty, she says, his spine broken in two, and you know I told her not to step off the sidewalk, I could tell she was in a rush, she kept looking right and left. I can't imagine blood, I cannot see the lady driver turning the wheel to the left, then trembling at the sight of the scene. My mind is the frozen picture of dark overcoats swept down on the pavement, and her coat, mustard yellow, her lipstick, rust, she said she was going to be all right, she kept mumbling I was there just a moment ago, just a moment ago.