Where the night, without promise, revealed nothing. What, within its shadow, still remained invisible had made no commitment to the gaze which, somewhere upon those silent decks, was perhaps only just beginning to learn how much the act of seeing also depends on that which withdraws.
Far away, out of all sight, a mass of ice was slowly continuing its course, not towards the ocean liner, since it knew neither of its presence nor of its route, but according to the winds, the currents, and the temperatures that had long been bearing it along… and while the one moved forward, transforming space into time gained, the other drifted, gaining and losing nothing, so that their possible encounter did not yet exist anywhere as an event, but only in that strange region where two movements unaware of one another may already belong to the same story.
Perhaps the brain was precisely the place where such a story could begin before being understood. An almost imperceptible change in the air.
Perhaps a denser darkness… or a clearing which, if it appeared, would at first be no more than the faint beginning of a dawn.
And that faceless attention, still incapable of saying what it was waiting for, already retaining certain details with a care whose reason it did not know.
The night could go on spreading. The engines go on purring. Nothing had yet happened… and yet something had begun to become possible.
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