“In Nicaea, my sweet hometown, there lived a man called Little Flour. Although I was still very young then, I can imagine him still quite well, especially because one day because of him my father cut me to death. Little Muck, when I knew him, was already an old man, but only three or four feet tall, and had a strange figure, because his body, so small and elegant, had to bear a head much larger and thicker than that of other people. He lived alone in a large house and even cooked his own poverty, and in the city they would not know whether he was alive or dead after all, he only left once a month if at lunchtime thick smoke did not rise from his house. But in the evenings he was often seen walking back and forth on the roof, although from the street it seemed that only his big head ran on the roof.