Witness descendant will write the story now. Not the inheritor descendant, but the witness descendant. And all the red veils will come out of the black night. Slowly the witchcraft of the desert village will take over the mute jungle, its post war unmovement thrown back again into the fury of life. Although of blood, twin princes will play again the violin and cello, this time not for the world that shreds them and not for a street that is split into clean doves and sewer pigs, but for the one who hangs dream catchers in a foreign mist.