Thin layer of flakes that we no longer reckon where they from, they gather and sit on the windowsills and corner of rooms, huddled white and gray. Little flakes twirling and twinning in the still afternoon light their voice too small to comprehend. Wind carries their thin voice but their tongues are mostly lost. People walking in and out the room, sudden blast of air through open window and eventual sweeping as the bewildered air crawls across the room softly as the door closes. Silence, or the fait echo of the past rules the room and they wait in there, until the house of wood they sit in fall and whither away. Soon, very soon the windows will melt down and with the blast of another wind they will fly away in the gray fog of fragments, now with more companies.
And someone comes to pick them up and put them inside the bottle. The frightened dust flakes scuttle around the cool glass bottom. With a clank they reach a wooden cupboard. They eye to the bottles standing in rows next to them. When the one puts a label on the glass bottle which letters they could read, they are bewildered.
Fragments of dead Undine who I saw at young age by a little brook of Germany; Her name was Saline.
Leaving the dust flakes to reach their own conclusions, the strange collecter left the room.
"But then, the Undine existed for sure?"
"Well, what has existed for sure?"
"I did. I was born 95, and.... Oh."
"Well?"
"No. Now this is getting DEEP again."
"You would have been delighted to meet Saline. She had some character. One time I forgot her appointment she crawled to my house one rainy day and threw in a dead frog through the window."
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