The supporting structures have cracked and splintered, the skin is shredded and torn, leaving only the ruins of an extinct medieval animal. Its call, long unheard in the world, echoes in forgetfulness. There remained in this silent world a great and pernicious formula, dangerous, forlorn.
The streets of the city teemed with police looking for crime. To keep the formula from repeating itself, two of the urban policemen bent and snatched it from the bush on which it had been growing, poised on the verge of differentiation, its unknowns about to take on values of grotesque proportion. As the few open spaces remaining in the city began closing in on themselves, the policemen released their grip. The formula, exhausted, fell to the sky, where it exploded into a million points and vectors of unspeakable abstraction.
To this day the celebration continues in minute and meaningless rites unnoticed but by those assigned to perform them.