He hears again that same music. Always on that old vinyl record. Always on that old phonograph that doesn't work too well, that runs forward or stays behind, making the ears and the heart and time itself march to the pace of the machine…The window goes on opening and closing itself with the wind, coloring the symphonie with the waves' rumour…Still, he observes the slow and eternal walk of the geckos on the ceiling. Two steps, and then still again…Those lizards, helpless in between these mighty forces, but always moving forward. Always going somewhere, with stubbornness, hanging to the ceiling or to the walls or to the rocks where the waves crush…..What is the human scale?.....Please, God, help me. Please. Help me…