“Tlön, Tlön, Tlön,” the old man shook his head irritably, “I am sick and tired of talking about Tlön!” Gaunt and frail, he slumped forward. “None of the amazing stories about Tlön make any sense,” he glared into the flames, “and they all run counter to one other.” As no-one around the fire said anything, or even moved a muscle, he propped himself up again. He raised his hand, his index finger pointing upwards, and he looked around several times without a word. “We grew up almost like brothers,” he finally said quietly and fell silent again, nodding to himself. No-one said a word. “But I can tell you one thing about Tlön,” he perked up a while later, as though he remembered something. Again, no-one stirred. Looking around and pointing upwards again, the old man raised his voice: “He was just like anyone else, just like anyone else around here…” One of the young men put another log in the fire, and it began crackling furiously. “But he returned a different man the first time he vanished into thin air for a few years,” whispered the old man, as though to himself. Many old people around the fire nodded in agreement. “Very different,” an old woman mumbled and sighed, “and very different again each and every time he vanished in the years to come.” “Bah,” said the old man angrily and slumped forward again. And it was clear that this was all he was willing to say that night, or perhaps any other night. “Here,” whispered one of the young men to another early in the morning, “we are wasting our time.” Their eyes fixed onto the flickering embers, they both nodded.