Once, there was a place in Bucharest where wretches were hanged. When boredom struck the city, the prince took a couple of villains and put them in the noose to cheer the people up. And it worked. The square would fill with people, who then left behind part of the trepidations of their blood upon the soil of death. Today, where the gallows stood, there is a crossroads where cars bump into one another. This is where I live, at the top of a concrete building overlooking the former gallows where life and death blend into each other. Out of the bitumen crust there still emerges the dusty ghosts of the hanged and sometimes one of them will climb up to my place, as relaxed and happy as a branch in the summertime.