Again, Emilio’s hand reached for the pocket where he kept his cigarettes, but it stopped halfway and withdrew, as if it had forgotten what it was about to do. It wasn’t only his hands that were confused. The expression on his face was that of someone who has reached a crossroads where there are no signposts or signs written in a strange, indecipherable language. All around lies the desert, and there’s no one to tell us: ‘This is the way.’

Skylight, Jose Saramago