The sound of an organ draws you inside. Invisible hands touch you and push you forward. Your gaze gradually takes over the night. A million prayers, a billion curses, float in the air and abate to become this red smoke. The cathedral is terribly dilapidated, the benches broken, the walls crumbled. Stands of art in lambeau, a few vermilion saints drooping in the roof. At the sanctuary, a group of monks, dressed in red, cursing and blaspheming. A magical ritual inspires an ecstatic priest in liturgical attire. He faces the altar, his arms outstretched. Does he pray? No, because he is listening to a mysterious message. Come to me, I am your destiny. It intrigues you. You go to him, and when you join him, suddenly he turns around, petrified. The priest is a woman. His face is that of the woman driving the limousine. She is half naked, her smile is lascivious, her lips are sensual, and her body is perfect. Sad, I understand. Sad, I follow you. Angel or demon, you are haunted, troubled, terrified. She makes you sign to approach, her gaze holds you. Her words touch you, her beauty feeds your dreams. Your fear takes fire and falls into ashes. You feel lightened, and better, and saved, while knowing, of course, to be always lost. You are ready to give up, ready to give up. You must touch her. But you catch nothing. She is gone. An illusion vanishes. Alone, the image remains engraved.