Santa Lucia came to me in a dream: the scratches on God’s records are playing in the martyr’s stereos, said Lucia and woke me with a kiss, I rose from my bed and spread my mother’s queen bee honey on toast, the doorbell rang, a girl rushed into my home, tore away the curtains and said: Look at the city and its sea of rooftops, gold is washing off the cathedral cupola! Something dreadful must have happened, get dressed and come with me! It was ice-cold in the church, a multitude of the heavenly host were flocking at the altar and in their freshly painted arms lay the fresco painter dead. He had plunged from his ceiling scaffolding. We need no more martyrs, said the girl, stepped up to the altar, and woke the painter with a kiss.