The glass of wine and that book in my hand, the one about James Joyce and how he wrote Ulysses.

The little bookshop is a place that I visualize as a float boat, an alternative to drowning in a city of floods.
All dressed in Summer red, ambivalent in each gesture, she pours the wine, again and again. I question her about the book, as we conspire to escape the stormy night. She speaks passionately of literature and fashion; with lively voices we ...are lost in the midst of our quest.

And now I request silence:
a moment to listen to the rain, to the sound of glasses and of pages turned, that grows in our capsizing heads.
We burst out laughing - breaking boundaries - in the safety of a friendly ship.