We have opened a bottle of cremant. It is in my glass, which is dewed. I want to taste it, before I set my teeth in a strawberry. While I write this, I wish it to be a berry still warm from the sun, unwashed, just picked of the plant. I am not sure if it will be exactly that kind of berry that I eat and mix with the acidity and bubbles at the back of my throat. But I will surely press my nose and forehead against the glass, even if is not a very elegant gesture. The idea is that I have to make a toast.

The advantage of having the glass stuck to your forehead is that I am only able to see everything close up, that is berries, bubbles and glass. I am also able to glean the vague contours of my little sister and my daughter through the glass wall, and their grins. They are both beautifully adrift on a background of brown and green. We are with great probability under the shade of some trees. I seem to suffer from the fear of lawns especially large ones, and would not think that an appropriate place for a toast and here by chance the sun people have relented a little.

We sit, and I raise my glass for the construct we are about to raise. I have not a very clear impression of where our words might take us, or what shapes they will make, but I want to give life to our idea, to see what will happen. Write and take pictures, and then send it all into the continuum, one-step at a time.

We greet each other.

Skaal!