There is a second that exists at the end of a sleepless night, just before the cock crows, in which to each human being the possibility of finding absolute solitude with himself is offered. A sole instant, naked, real, where the doubts vomited out through the mere act of existing are allied to the un-materiality of the future, so as to, unexpectedly, awake the urgent need to provide with some type of certainty all that we feel, all that we believe in, all that which any type of answer resounds as emptiness. Especially in this second. Perhaps the most heart-ripping. Probably the most merciless. And most surely, the most sincere.