The neighbours and the hotel staff of the Wellesley noticed a strange disappearance or a rather strange kind of transmutation that took place in room no. 30 B. The man who had checked into this room had not disappeared but was found transformed into a mountain while he lay in his bathtub. A doctor nearby who specialised in the repairs of a melancholic heart came to examine this strange incident; he inferred a diagnosis that the man was drowned not by love but by the lack of it. He said that it was under the burden of the utopia that he dreamed of and longed to be in. Some people say he was accustomed to sit hour after hour in his bathtub, from the disfiguring skin diseases from which he suffered, dreaming.

He dreamt of the many perfect worlds that he could imagine, worlds of impeccable perfection, worlds instilled with perfect measures of balance, worlds where statues kissed the sky, worlds that were devoid of scabs and rashes. A clean smooth world. He constructed maps of many mysterious worlds,
these worlds like dreams where anything imaginable could be dreamed, like what once a young Venetian had said to the Emperor of the Tartars, “Where even the most unexpected dream is a rebus that conceals a desire or its reverse, a fear. Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is a secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.” Where grass fills the mouths of men who sleep in their dreams. The man vanishes.