It was the evening of a summer that was promising to be peaceful and lucky; the clouds grew heavier as in a book by Proust, the breeze passed through the last rays of the sun's glory. Then suddenly a mosquito stung my left tentacle. Bastard. His small whiskers curled with my salty blood, while fixing me with his two mocking eyes. I only had one eye, I had lost my four others during an initiation fight in adulthood, around my 300th birthday.