The lights, the lights and always the screaming, the screaming. They are burning, they all are. They are drowning in the light. The fire makes sure everybody sees. A woman, her hair alight, the perfect picture of agony. Wonderful contrasts come to their right, beautiful silhouettes appear. Then he remembers. They are dying.
The flames are catching them one by one and devouring them. Some turn their hunted rabbit eyes to him. He is a statue in marble, cold marble. His Greek mask of tragedy is magnificently lit, a work of art in all its splendour.
In the present he is trembling.
”Haunted by old ghosts again, eh?”
He is not sure if he hears the words. He is not sure if it is himself making a statement, coming to a conclusion. His vision looses none of its potency. He is not sure if he is even awake. He might be dreaming. It might all have been a dream. It might never have happened. But he remembers it when he is awake. But he might be dreaming he remembers it when he is awake while he is still sleeping. He cannot turn his back on the glow. His ears are blocked by high-pitched voices.
There is another voice trying to talk to him. It might be one of the other onlookers. He cannot hear what the voice is trying to say. He cannot see the source. The thought passes him that the voice might not be part of his nightmare. But everything is these days.