This is a pocket novel, the number of pages and characters similar to a protracted story, and the brevity and sloppiness of the presentation reminiscent of a free digest of memory. The plot, the characters, their thoughts and feelings that make up its contents do not pretend to be original and do not exceed the reader’s experience, and therefore can give rise to bewilderment about what the author in our enlightened times wanted to tell them. Maybe he wanted to settle scores with fate in such a belated, vengeful and helpless way for its arrogance and deceit? Or, perhaps, with late, inept efforts, he tried to straighten an old mental dislocation? Or maybe he intended to come to terms with a world to which he was unable to adapt his humanitarian hypostasis? Neither the first, nor the second, nor the third. All the author wanted was to plant in the greenhouse of his fantasy the seeds that, without a doubt, lurk in every human destiny, and, caring for them to the best of his ability and ability, watch how the ethereal, speculative tree of passions sprouts, grows stronger and blossoms. events (the same thing from which artistic pulp is sometimes extracted) in order to offer, under its modest shadow, a dish prepared from its bitter and harsh fruits. Perhaps, in an effort to make the dish appetizing, the author went too far with the spices, and therefore asks in advance dear readers to be lenient and merciful to his botanical and culinary efforts.