Now the field is full of stones. The roads winding. And many splendid hotels. The season was drawing to a close. Surrounded by gardens and terraces. Such continuous tragedies. Paradise sloped away into the distance. In the deserted swimming pools. The deserted swimming pools. There was an island in the estuary. And the season was drowning, full of stones. The volcanoes seemed terrifying. Rising from its bright gondolas. Beyond the barrancas. And from these mountains a strange melancholy. That was what love was like. That old seaside holiday in England. All over Mexico. Between them a number of valleys. Slowly rising into the sunlight.

The road turned a little corner in the distance and vanished.