Dawn. I ran into Moy, who can't sleep either. The troops went to have a rest some time ago. Only the shadow of the guard on duty can be made out. Moy and I talk about the dead, our dead. I tell him that all of them were better than I am. That now Eleazar has left us, that it looked as if Eleazar was going to be saved but he suddenly died. Because here death never comes slowly, it just appears, with a bang, and you're just left, not seeing their steps and thinking that it would have been better if another had been taken and not him, the dead one. Eleazar was better than me, and Pedro, and Hugo, and Fredy, and Alvaro and all the names I keep to myself because of why bequeath deaths? Eleazar, who still wanted to stand at attention and salute militarily while in bed, and who asked for music in the morning. Moy tells me my face is wet. He makes a gesture to get the drops off me, and I say: "It's the rain." Moy lights a cigarette, I light my pipe. Above, a sky, saddened from so many stars, isn't weeping, just looking in the dark mirror of the moon.