At noon I would return to my house by the shortest route: through the park. I must point out that the morning had passed normally, no incident that we could call strange had disturbed the monotony of the work. The routine was carried out methodically. Nor was there anything out of the ordinary on the streets. I walked down the avenues as usual, and people behaved as normal. How then can one explain what is happening?

At that time there were few people in the park. Most of those who have attended in the morning retire for lunch and there are only a few children and boys left playing or sitting under the shade of the trees. The rest are passers-by, like me, who follow that path to avoid the arid streets as much as possible. That is why I was surprised to see a relatively large number of people, about five or six men, next to the statues in the centre of the park.

At first I did not notice anything unusual, only the number of people, but when I saw one of the men hitting another I looked more closely. He tried to stand up, and covered his face with one hand. He was about forty years old and overweight, perhaps that was why he had only managed to get down on his knees. The others were young. I took a few steps towards them to say something, to censure them in some way, and I stopped in horror: the whole group began to beat him with their fists and kick him. And while they were doing it, they were laughing.

I couldn't get any closer. I was drowning in fear. I walked away as best I could, taking a few steps backwards, while looking at the bloody, pleading mass the man had become.
I crossed the park as fast as I could, though avoiding running so as not to attract attention. I expected to find a policeman once I was back on the streets, but on the other side the insanity was total.

People were fleeing in all directions, some crying, others in delirium. In the middle of the street and on the sidewalks walked a group of strangers (I couldn't find another name to describe them) beating, tearing up, laughing wildly. I ran too, but on a corner I almost tripped over one of their pickets. They passed by me without looking at me, and that didn't make me feel any calmer. Some people were lying on the asphalt in grotesque postures; the danger was real.

The destruction continued all day; the dead must be dozens, and the wounded countless.

People are being taken out of their homes and beaten up; no one is defending themselves; they are just looking on in terror and shrinking like fetuses. The attackers are not many, although they seem to be a tireless troop. They continue to beat and run over people with the same enthusiasm of the first few minutes.

I have not been able to reach my house, even though I seem to enjoy an incomprehensible immunity. They ignore me; I see the hatred and disgust in their eyes when they meet me, and then they let me pass. At night, the glare of several fires lights up the clouds. From where I am, the tenth floor of an empty building, about to be demolished, I can count seven big fires. As I prepare to sleep among the useless furniture, I wonder if I won't be part of all this; if I won't be a fundamental part of it.