He could have been a little salamander, a little tarentola, a little gecko or a little lizard. Only he wasn’t any of those. All these little beings were lucky charms. But he knew that happiness had no meaning. So why carry it? He could not bear anything but color. And only the invisible one. Such was the little chameleon. He resembled everybody yet nobody resembled him. He was both little and old. He touched both ends of life and as such, he was doubly marginal to society. However, he had nothing to do with society. He did not love but men. He looked like a harlequin but at heart he was more of a white clown. He was undoubtedly born by chance but he was certain that he would die out of necessity. His nature was indispensable to color as a mirror was to light. He did not look, he saw. He did not contemplate, he thought. Alone, for the others, for the others, alone. He was useless to society for he was rare. He was rare for he was humane. The little chameleon did not know that this property was monstrous to society. But he knew he loved the little monsters for they were very humane. He could not know that society would not let him grow up so he settled for being old in his own way. Along with the time of wisdom, the little chameleon understood the history of the little scarab and he changed color.