Nach einer Weile spürt er ein leichtes Zittern unter sich. Der Boden wirkt, als würde er tief durchatmen. Vor Perusino steht nun eine Gestalt ohne Krone, ohne Rüstung und ohne Donner in der Hand.
Perusino looks around. A few dark rocks jut out from the white. A strip of sea lies in the distance, looking as if someone had cut a fissure into the landscape. No village, no field, no tree that could dramatically topple over.
The yard smells of damp cardboard, cold air from the refrigeration units, and sweet fruit that could still be eaten. Large bins stand close together, and several lids are askew because they're too full.
Perusino sits on the bench, shoulders hunched, backpack between his feet. His phone is dead, not dramatically dead, but completely numb. Silence remains, and in this moment, it is not a friendly silence.
Mama Killa doesn't suddenly appear next to the rock. In fact, she isn't standing at all. She's there, like the moon is there. Visible, but not tangible. Perusino clears his throat, because this is clearly an interview, even if there's no table or chair to cooperate. The night awaits.
A bright beach stretches out before you, and the waves sound like applause that never ends. Next to Perusino stands a small, high-tech setup powered entirely by solar energy. Solar panels absorb the light, batteries display contented green bars, and the camera acts as if it's braver than the sun itself. A glance upwards, however, is enough to make it clear who's really in charge here.
Myths are explained through images. Some images suggest that light was introduced as a form of decision. Others say that the sun and moon emerged from the water so that days could be counted. All these variations share a common idea: order requires symbols.
