The pain was immense, like an army inside him filling his whole space. When its tide ebbed slightly, he became aware that he was among trees, lying on roots and pine needles. The sea was not far off. There was an iron bench, paint peeling. He very much wanted to sit on it, but at that moment this was not possible.
Later he found himself seated there, the pain having become a trusted acquaintance, and could look out from the little park to where the lights of squid boats were moving out to sea. He realised that the air was full of the scent of night-blooming flowers; moths were whirling round the streetlamps.
When he could walk, he started to move to find a house or inn: there would be a bowl of yogurt perhaps, and some warm bread. He wondered whether there would be wine here.

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