A quiet wave rolls proudly over the beach. Then it is transformed, into I do not know what. Yes, it was far more beautiful just before. Now I do not know what it has become. Yes. It was obviously absorbed by the mid-sized ocean, so much I have realized. It says no sound anymore. Not even a plop. It was so beautiful. It was on its way. It reached the coast and immediately gave up. I rummage around in my imagination for what such a previous wave is a metaphor for, and the answer comes to me: either my-self or Hugo Trade-Finchly, standing there in the shallow water. A terribly arrogant intellectual. Unimagineably evil. For some reason, Trade-Finchly is having a fight with a robust. Out in the water. It happened right here when I sat writing.
(Illustration: Evgeniy Grebenchuk; Text: Morten Hjerl-Hansen)
