I can breathe. That’s always good. Although the air tastes thin, and spicy, like the one from my childhood at the Atlas mountains. Also cold. Not to the poin of hurting when I inhale. I have no pain. I try to move. I’m laying on my back. No apparent problem, there I see my arms when I order my brain to extend them, my hands also respond, I think I don’t have anything broken. Above me, a ghostly view: a big yellow orb, crossed by clouds and the blue stripes of the river. I come from there. From somewhere above me. And I need to come back.