A science fiction novel sui generis, sharp, controlled, disturbing like the gaze of a fixed and impenetrable seagull. No one has ever told us why we were created. No one has ever given us a justification - any - for our existence. If from a stupid event, like the mistaken killing of a seagull during a hunting trip, a glimmer of awareness could arise, perhaps we could be able - like the protagonist of the novel - to find a moral justification, a purpose for this existence of ours that otherwise risks passing and exhausting itself, not without the ironic end that accompanies miserable ignorance, in a single "wing flap".
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