One summer in the 1980s, a man made a revolutionary decision. He packed his things—his six children, his wife, the exhaustion, the dust, the damn heat, the fucking scaffolding he was carrying—and went on a four-day vacation close to home: to the swimming pool in his village in the miserable misery of inland Catalonia. People dismissed him as a madman. What's this guy doing? What he could do, what he had: there was no top for more. And they were happy.

Fire is a pencil that teaches geography. Thanks to the pedagogy of flames, many (not a few) Catalans have discovered that there is a region in Catalonia called La Segarra (we'll leave La Noguera for next year). This fire is a blood-colored phosphorescent that underlines the real Catalonia and the real world. Forgive me if it splashes: it's not ketchup.

Pope Pius XII looks heavenward. Alberto Martín Artajo, Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs, in the chamber. They make peace without looking into each other's eyes. As if they didn't see it. Atomic heat on August 27, 1953, at the papal residence of Castel Gandolfo. The thermometers of geopolitics and the geo-Holy Spirit explode: the Vatican and Franco's regime sign the concordat. Translation: A PVC church blesses a dictatorship of blood. The heavens open. And hell sneaks in.

He was accused of suffering from sensory hallucinations. freak out. But he brought those "signs" down from his head and to the feet of everyone. In 1914, the engineer Rafael Campalans was commissioned to lay out the "signs" of Catalonia: roads, telephones, railways, hydraulic works... He now tells us, from beyond the grave, that "sensitive eyes glimpse the signs of things, of their time." This was the total, 360-degree, holistic work of the Commonwealth, the cornerstone since 1714, of the Catalonian state and welfare state: "tomorrow." Perceiving the future and making it real. Campalans, a master healer, listened to the chucucho.