On that night when Exarcheia was burning, with faces drawn from Flemish paintings, with few lights in a soft yellowish color, with cat-like eyes that could see in the dark, with the desire and passion for revolution in our blood, in our soul, in our mind and in our hands, our shadows moved around the barricades and roadblocks we had set up during the day, pushing away the organized ones who came to destroy them.... And every night the square burned with drunkenness, wild conversations, incoherence, love, voices, arguments, the rolling garbage bins going downhill, empty bottles smashing against the walls of the sleeping apartment buildings, the hundreds that would gather and make threatening circles like sharks around the square, provocatively staring at them and us, a game of thieves and policemen.

It was spring and the words started to appear on the walls of the square and the surrounding streets. Loneliness and tears blended in the frenzy and in the unfulfilled dream... And they made unique plans, dreams filled with color, and all those who walked here became scented ghosts and a warm language was born, with a directness that contained the breath of the other. And so the great womb that gathered them all was created. The trap, the illusion, the dream, the square, the myth. And we met. And we loved. And we became something very beautiful, powerful, indescribably wise, ecstatic, magnificent, shameless, passionate, and we drove others crazy.