Eventually, we will go back to the land of sleep. A car passes on the road maybe every three minutes. Small noises surround us – the insistent communication of birds, the flight of an insect, sun expanding on the roof iron.
The trees outside take half a year to make their little helicopters; the wind browns their leaves. Their roots raise the asphalt. In the hallway there is so much beautiful wood. A tap in the never-used bath drips a brown stain down the yellow enamel.
From the centre of the room comes the sound of breathing. Perhaps you have been asleep for a hundred years. Is there in fact a person under all that hair? Can the world really be filled with people building houses, patching holes, ploughing fields by hand?
The baby turns in its watery capsule. The first sound we hear is probably the workings of our mother’s intestines. Meals go around like freight trains; you keep time by them. Words have no meaning to you, but you are starting to know their sounds.