It is related that in June of 1968, on the third day of student unrest in Belgrade, a worker approached the two student guards at the gate of the Academy of Visual Arts, handed them a large bouquet of red carnations, shed a few tears, and departed in silence before the two could figure out what to do. It was late at night, when the nearby streets were free from witnesses. The worker disappeared without trace. I heard this story from many people, who all swore to its authenticity, but after the tenth and last day, after the old man’s televised speech to the effect that everyone will live happily ever after, after the silent curses that I overheard in the auditorium of the Department of Architecture, where we had assembled for the occasion, and after our mute awakening, this perhaps untrue and yet revealing story, this prophesy and this exercise in wishful thinking, itself disappeared without trace. I have not heard it since. Even now it sounds like my own invention. And I wonder why?