An often invisible castle quietly vibrating opposite the Luna Park, across that oil-black water stretch.

The castle's doors are open night and day to an endless stream of travellers, refugees, sideshow runaways from the Luna Park.
Its twin towers vibrate in and out of phase and at times and from certain angles they would cancel each other out rendering it invisible. Even more rarely one would be standing across the tiny gulf and would see the castle's water reflection, but not the thing itself - a reverse Fata Morgana, a missing mirage, a negative dream.

They stay there up to three days before continuing on their ways.

At times the first day they would gather around the storyteller, the discreet charm of his voice growing a fragile architecture; then the second day they would make music from the epic story and spread it between them as a thin thin web reverting to a pre-Babylonian memory; and on the third, somebody would have made a recording of that music and would play it for everybody to dance: half orgy / half exorcism of the egos.

Other times they would start by playing a game, follow with a puppet theater and finish with a video recording of both, projected on top of each other onto the castle wall.

An often invisible castle...