A little boy, rather pale and small-boned, whom you have seen a number of times before but cannot remember where, runs up to you and whispers: “They are waiting for you; you must not lose this, last, opportunity to respond!” Then he disappears. You look around, then between your legs, and then around again—to make sure nobody saw you in this embarrassing position, or conversely, to find a witness. You are suddenly completely alone. You remember that you should be in the park above the castle, but you are presently somewhere else, in another park, apparently much less frequented and without visible paths. You shrug your shoulders, puzzled, and start to leave this strange place. But no. You are unable to move. You look down. With consternation which you feel unable to express, you establish that you are gripping the soil underneath you ever more firmly. You feel your body piercing down and reaching through the damp earth. You feel a kind of pleasure in this new sensation. You look up, fighting an unexpected stiffness in your neck, and you see your hands stretched upwards, your fingers branching out toward the sunlight, wiry; you see leaves sprout out of your pores and unfold—green, luxurious, powerful. You enjoy the rigidity of your body, ever taller, streaming with juices. You are firm, you respond joyfully to the wind, you hide the birds that rest in your crown… And the little messenger reappears, paler than ever, lays down in your shade, quivering, and falls asleep. For months you will watch his little body decompose, and you will feel, at first against your will, how he is streaming through you toward your green leaves, toward the sunlight.