Who is walking beneath the quayside trees? Who is lost, utterly lost? On whose tomb does the grass grow? Dreams have arrived, they came up against the current, they climb the quayside wall with the aid of a ladder. People stop. People converse with them. They know many things. Only they do not know where they come from. That they do not know. It is warm on this autumn evening. They turn to the river and raise their arms. "Why do you raise your arms, and not close them round us?"

Kafka