"(Spring evening. Large room of an old house. An elderly woman dressed in black speaks to a young man. The lights have not been turned on. A relentless moonlight enters from the two windows. I forgot to mention that the woman in black has published two or three interesting poetic collections of religious inspiration. So, the Woman in black speaks to the young man.)
Let me come with you. What a moon tonight! The moon is good - it won't show that my hair has turned white. The moon will make my hair golden again. You won't understand. Let me come with you.
When there is a moon, the shadows grow inside the house, invisible hands pull the curtains, a faint finger writes forgotten words in the dust of the piano - I don't want to hear them. Be quiet.
Let me come with you a little further down, to the courtyard of the brick house, to where the road turns and the cement and airy city appears, cemented with moonlight, so indifferent and immaterial, so positive like metaphysics that you can finally believe that you exist and you don't exist, that you never existed, that time and its decay never existed. Let me come with you"...