Transcribed written text:

“The sea-glare, the curled leaf, the folded edge… Those marks on the walls of the houses show where crowds have brushed against them in the hot streets. Scenes of an abduction, of a compassion, of a languorous combat, fall aside easily to reveal other, wordless stories: the emigré’s passion; weak and strong announcements through early winter, that first, bitter season when each would speak – their insistence a strange reversal, their faces a concealed light, their witness a challenge, their rashness an ignorant Elysium. “Remote songs of their illusion,” said the man at the table with its simple food and bright checked cloth. “Mid-June,” he continued. “The days slip by. It is very hot.” His question: distillation. His answer: “Hope – a clouded sky – a twig moving on a leafless tree.” He also told of an early life, and of one earlier still; of a name at an enclosure; of two ways from the shadowed path to the hot road, with its busy traffic; of one way to the empty park, where the air is held like a suspended breath in a vacant clearing; of the lost fountain, of his falling at the entrance to a glade; of the passage of a tiny fly through a summer room…”

The text repeats three times.