Laura hardly devotes a moment to admire the gleam of light drawn by the water over the edge which covers her feets. Later, with an unfocused glance, a doddle of doubts spins in her head.

She walks carefully towards inside; the water is shaking. She doubts, she immerses. A blue unknown mass inundates her contact lenses. She advances in a liquid blue cosmo . . . Behind her, “un caminito de estrellas multicolor” . . . Laura hums.

She breathes. It's dry. There's no more water, but vertical woods; she feels scared, she feels curious, very curious.

She crosses a magnolian catwalk that floats above an abstract valley. There's a mirror, there're flowers, there's pollen; she sneezes.

She wanders. In the back, a cloud tries to unbalance the landscape. The colours of the soil are discomposed. Laura is angry. Indignant. Her shoes are stained with colours. She can't think of anything else.

She moves away some orange sheets and a light turquoise skirt. She discovers a white extension with white scratches. It's a deep and dense landscape . . . She can nearly fondle it with her fingertips.

She's tired. She sits down. She contemplates the fog. She remembers Sideral, the sound of Sideral and an electric grey horizontal cloud shivers ans spills over a poppy that's not a poppy.

Translated by Cecilie Baekgaard Tvervaag from the original version of Tlaloc Alda, written in Barcelona in June 2006 for Spaces-containers