Vismar is walking on a bridge.

He has never seen such a bridge before, he vaguely senses that; he can’t see the end because the middle bulges up, or is this not the middle all? The edge? He is going upwards, the concrete doesn’t smooth itself against his feet – if this is concrete, if this is an upward slope, if this is a bridge. Everything is so weird, so strangely hazy – also that one can hear nothing, bridges arch above valleys or rivers or sea-bays, and almost always a wind blows there. But no wind is blowing here.

And yet, the bridge tenses, he feels the tenseness with his body through his legs. The bridge is not his friend – because it moves under him, or is it him moving on it, is it him moving the bridge? It seems impossible, but here and now, everything is possible, he feels it faintly, not from in himself at all. The feeling-suggestion comes out of the bridge; Vismar doesn’t understand it, so he turns around. This way he can see more, he believes. But the bridge bulges up behind him, as well, he cannot see the end. And no one is walking hereabouts, no cars are rolling, no passers-by pacing by. Vismar is alone on the bridge. Vismar is alone. Vismar.