The room is cold, filthy, and very small. There is dust and even dirt on the concrete floor. An electric heater stands next to the door. On the floor there is a mattress with filthy sheets, and in the other end there is a table, upon which sits a Macintosh LC. Sacks and bags are crammed under the table, and a Macintosh Plus, an Apple II, and a huge television sit on the floor beside the table. Everything in the room is covered with a good layer of dust.

This place is far up north, so it takes a long time for the sun to rise, but it is slowly getting lighter as the sun approaches horizon. I stand facing eastwards upon a high cliff overlooking a vast valley of wheat fields. Behind my back is the forest, and sounds of wind and of birds come into my ears, yet I feel no wind. Another extension of this primal forest looms in the distance, surrounding the valley.

This is more a wide open space than a path: it is a broad strip of the bare bedrock of the North, and nothing, grows on it, save some lichen. It descends from the high cliff into the forest below, towards the sea far away in the horizon. I can see almost all of the path, but before it reaches the sea it makes a turn into the forest, hiding the very end of it from my sight.

This is the sea. Stony islets and rocks of all sizes, some seaweed-grown, speckle it as far as can be seen, though in the distance they are smaller and more scattered. There is no wind, and the sea is still.

This is a merry little tea-cup, although some would consider half a liter too large a cup for tea. It is beige with tiny brown speckles, and shaped like a hen's egg without the top.

It is a tiny golden key of ancient fashion. It could be the key to a very old cupboard or chest of drawers, where ancient manuscripts of forgotten wisdom are hidden.