an immgratant called joao, a portugues used to spend his time off, here in this small village next to the seine. almost abandonned, only a hostel survived. where are we exactly?
hearing chinese waves, besides dancing shadows rocking from this empirious fortress. suddenly, it seems like we are conveying in a temple turned into a ship_a ghostly stopping place fixed in a time by the frost_no more thing worthing in this shaved stretch; the reassuring presence of the captain, and each extreme detachment from everything, casting off on this ship sailing through smooth plains, the birth of another order, of a miraculous order