A bicycle bell rings. A bird, hearing the noise, trills and flies off from a tree branch. The branch shifts and a single leaf, withered from the upcoming winter, falls to the ground. The bicycle moves along a path cut through the trees, trampling over the leaf. The rider, hearing the call of a bird, stops to listen. Silence. The rider, hearing nothing, looks around to satisfy its curiosity.

The woods are a fiery orange sea, with streaks of dark brown trunks punctuating the amber waters. The sun is up above somewhere, not directly visible but lighting up brightly each leaf that makes up the flame. A world of orange and yellow and deep brown and nothing else.

The rider wonders where it is. It wonders if it must wonder where it is. Is it not happy to be here, in the middle of life, which stretches out endlessly in every direction, and changes sliently and glacially? Yes, for the moment. But glacial is much too slow for the rider, which can pedal at the speed of wind. And silent is much too quiet for the rider, which can react only to the stimulus of birdsong.

The rider reunites with its bicycle, and carries on moving through the abyss. Onto the next infinity.