Samedi
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Il ouvre les yeux, dans un bois sombre et obscure dont la seule lumière est le soleil qui se couche. Il s'était endormi, ou bien avait perdu connaissance à vrai dire, il n'en sait rien. Il se lève au milieu de brindille humide, de feuille morte encore mouillé et gouttante, de cette terre boueuse. Il regarde autour de lui sans percevoir grand chose, mise à part un sentier à peine tracer. Il passe sa main sur sa chemise blanche taché et enlève une feuille morte collée sur une petite parcelle de coton blanc. Il marche pour rejoindre le sentier, il n'a aucune idée d'où il va et pourtant il est lancé. Il y va à l'aveugle, inconscient de ce qui l'attend, prêt pour aller vers l'inconnu.
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