Eight-thirty, evening, month of June. They were boiling in Pagrati, mourning the right to work and to love with puffs of smoke. An airy living room, but not a breath of air. An air conditioner from late antiquity stirred the smoke, resigned to any other ambition. A faucet somewhere in the background - it wasn't heard but it surely dripped. The whole of Pagrati was an exhibition of broken plumbing that month, as if the valves of the area had unanimously given up the effort. They dripped and flooded without any restraint, and it wasn't even July yet. The Athenian heatwave - the concrete steamed inside and out, but the water remained water. The basins in the Emergency Rooms overflowed onto the mosaics - no one dealt with the damage. They all said "tomorrow," "let me calm down first," some "we're leaving next month," "anyone to take care of it?". Ersi: "Only at night can you hear it, barely."

Summer; the one that passed and the one that will come. Athens; the city that narrows day by day. Five people stuck in its streets, in their memories, in what happened and what will not happen; bodies falling en masse on the asphalt and into each other. Among them, an aged turtle silently watches the endless parade of people who are already exhausted, but continue to march for the sake of others.

Or precisely for their sake.