Often, the best answer is a good question: if I ask you “why us?” maybe you will want to answer “what have you done all this time?”, and you will be right, I will see things better, calm down my fatalism through a certain inculpation, through the recognition of my role in the events. Let them mark the ground, not restore it, let them leave the marks of what we did as an explanation of what we got. But even then, as I remember the madness and the cries and the impulsive irrational races, and then the silence of the water with its baptismal flow, which in an instant erased everything so that it could start again, I am again like a child that is scared of his own shadow, because in his innocence, which exonerates him, he cannot begin to understand why the horror of destruction or restoration, depending on whether it is seen from the viewpoint of men or of the other part that remains after the flood. And that’s the moment when I cast again my question, and when maybe you answer me again, and when that question-answer repeated several times makes my childlike fear become less so, because I understand better and in that understanding I find part of what I need to move on. The flood has devastated everything.