José Saramago
Foundation

(...) four minutes to midnight, oh the fickleness of men, so jealous of the little time they have to live, always complaining that lives are short, leaving only a white sound of foam in their memory, and here impatient for these minutes to pass, so great is the power of hope. Some are already screaming out of sheer nervousness, and the commotion grows when, from the riverbank, the deep voice of the anchored boats begins to be heard, the dinosaurs bellowing with that prehistoric roar that makes the stomach vibrate, mermaids letting out piercing screams like animals being slaughtered, and the horns of the nearby cars blaring madly, and the bells of the trams tinkling as much as they can, little by little, finally the minute hand covers the hour hand, it's midnight, the joy of liberation, for a brief moment time has let go of men, left them to live freely, it merely watches, ironic, benevolent, there they are, embracing each other, acquaintances and strangers, men and women kissing each other at random, those are the best kisses, the ones that have no future.