We see the ocean the day before, late afternoon.
Behind the house, we first saw it when the tide was rising.
It was almost enough to make you frightened of going to bed, afraid that it would go on rising forever, covering the beach, the roads, entering the forest, covering the trees.
It would even come up the old stone stairs and surge into our beds, carrying away our sleeping bodies and waking us up in the middle of a new world.
The landscape is green, a boat is drifting deep in the water.
There is no need to take the oars, it moves forward, accustomed to its solitude.
Above it, far away on the surface, the sun is shining.
The rays cross the currents without being diverted. They fall straight.
Sometimes we see a young girl, down where the first river flowed.
Curiously, we never feel like talking to her.
We are told that the house, finally, is no longer alone.
That a small tree has been placed in front of it.
We don’t know the rules, it’s up to us to invent other ones, a bit further on, outside.