It’s been three days since anyone stopped to fill up. Fernando keeps himself busy by flicking through the magazines on display in the sales stand, which are arranged in a vertical pile, because that way they’ll resemble a scaled, filleted fish. He has a six-month-old copy of Letras Libres in his hands, “The past is what we remember of the past, and memory consists of a miscellany of fragments that, now, in the present moment, we stick together, we bundle up. Thus the past does not exist, it only exists in the present emulsification moment, a compositional process governed by its own rules, ones which also make the process part of the present. But if the past doesn’t even exist, how can the future exist? Even more dismaying. Futurology, that so-called science, also speaks of things that will never exist, because if it didn’t, it would by definition cease to call itself Futurology. We move through a Present desert delimited by these two illusions, Past and Future.” Fernando immediately takes a pen and, at the bottom of the page, writes: “Indeed, in the same way that the awful thing about 23-F was not that a moustachioed bystander rushed in and assaulted the Congress of Deputies (the idea of the call of the wild is a part of our History, we need it to keep our identity intact), the awful thing was the standard issue bullets aimed at the tilers repairing the roof that day.” He tears out the page and throws it on the pile to his right, from which he’s going to make large boluses of paper.