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.

Tam-tam. And tantrum, they say they'll remove screens from schools.

A hominid takes a bone from the ground and throws it into space. A leap of 4 million years. The future is this bone made into a spaceship up there. The beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey It really happened to the Les Avellanes monastery. Today, the space-time capitombes never stop spinning. Stanley Kubrick already wants to get out of the coffin.

Once upon a time, there was a tale of matches, robberies, murders... No one escapes. Especially from any town in Aragón. But what about the culprits?