Last Year at Marienbad 4K 1961

From the green-saturated estate, from the nettles, from the turquoise park leading to the nettles and the house, so old that it seems to have been old when it was still a project, blackened as it is now, in the sultry summer, she was separated by some five minutes' walk, and from him by all twenty, because fifteen of them - the life span of three cigarettes - he waited for her, measuring every corner, greenly different, chartreuse, aquamarine, avocado, - every little mastered sound, all those trills, roulades, trills-roulades, roulades-roulades, roulades-parodies, shuffling and stomping through the alley overflowing with infernal heat, piercing it with himself, measuring it with himself, through the alley overflowing with lush green and heat, and heat that dried it to cracks, into the tedious darkness of which the sleepy ants crawled away, scrubbing themselves with the hope, understandable for the occasion, that when it suddenly became dark, he would still be here, and that it would become dark just suddenly.

She walked for five minutes to the overloaded green manor, where she had already been waiting for a full fifteen - the period of the birth of the three butts - past the young poplars that stretched out before her in a string, as if she were taking a parade from them, along the road, the two other roads led away from the park, one of them to the river, sleepily creeping away to tell some other, out-of-doors water what was new in the park.

The darkness came to the green-filled estate unnoticed by anyone, passing alternately the cruciform road attached to the park, and the richly decorated green alleys, and the paths leading to each other or leading away from each other - which depended entirely on the intentions of the pedestrians, - and the old house, drawn as it was in the heat of summer, to leave them in the same order after a while, leaving the two who came before dark in a position as unchanged as it was enchanting.

It is not so easy for sound to escape from an estate overrun with green, reveling in the riot of emerald abundance, doomed to settle on every web stretched on a leaf, on every leaf of overgrown green, unbridled, besotted, rampant green, excessive green, teeming with itself, the sound that wanders hopelessly through the alley overflowing with heat, hitting the boardwalls of the old house, hiding in them, to meet the mischievous voice of the weirdo who drew it in the heat of this summer somewhere in the very depths of oak, cedar, beech arrows.

Otherwise - be it simple - a chance passerby walking by could hear that in the turquoise-covered estate, at a moment when hands are filled with strength and spaces are malleable, at least throw an astrolabe at the heavens, the future seems not only infinite but possible, like those salty waters, and the hands of another are kin to such an extent, that it seems a wonder that they belong to someone else, without forming a whole with the one to whom they seem to belong, - imperceptibly to whom, in the meantime, darkness had descended on the estate, abolishing the greenery, smearing the sky with leukemia, banishing the light from nature.