On this Tuesday, there is no difference at all, was the phrase that he continuously murmured. The first murmur was completed before he exited his pension near the corner of Culpina and the Avenida Eva Perón. His murmur was not particular to Tuesdays, nor its consequences, nor the ethereal fog that he found upon leaving Esdras back at home. A typical murmur spell. During the spells, trains pass him and undergrounds reach their destinations. He sweats out the last inklings of any substance in his body while a fog lifts and settles again. Billboards blur and restaurants empty and lights dim. At the end, everyone goes home to inner lairs of thoughts and mundane noise. In rambunctious unison his murmurs, these events, and his thoughts (which are not legible nor writable) struggle for life like the dying light bulb flickering its last beam of light to proclaim existence. His head fills with noise and static. The static and noise drone in unanimity and cage his murmurs of; there is no difference at all.