‘Lily,’ Gábor heard in his head. He smiled.

‘This one is somewhat lighter, though not less complicated,’ said Zanó as he caressed the bottle. Only now did Gábor understand that Zanó’s thoughts didn’t mix into the telepathic cacophony. Either Zanó kept everything to himself or he was empty inside.

The liquid was light yellow. Gábor smiled when the buzz of the separate thoughts streamed into one single voice as everyone tasted the Lily.

A man in a purple suit. Beard trimmed every morning, his gold-framed glasses hang on a chain around his neck. He stands by an oak table in a gigantic room. He takes a silver watch from his pocket and looks at the time. There are no hands on it. He drops the watch on the table.

There is an enormous, glassless window at the other end of the room. It’s pitch dark outside. The man takes off his elegant overcoat and drops it on the floor. He stretches his limbs, the cracking of his joints reverberates through his body. He starts running, eyes fixed on the open window, the air whistling in his ears. His heart races.

He throws himself out of the window. But instead of falling, his nature changes in an instant.

Liquid splashes into liquid.

All senses explode. The guidelines of human perception cease to exist. There is a brief moment of panic, of control slipping, but then there is a sense of letting go. The rules have changed. There is no body any longer. The body is in liquid form now, it is matter of a different kind.

He is a yellow liquid, splashed into pitch black. It’s a playful experience. The yellow expands and moves, shifts shape and nature, contracting solid elements within the darkness of its host. He shapes these elements, wears away at them. Time is of no importance; it doesn’t yet exist. Only movement matters.

Gábor, as he perceived the complex in the battle and whirling of liquids, understood that the yellow liquid was wind. That he himself had become wind. That moment changed his perception, and now he didn’t only see yellow against black, but wind against the world.

He captures a fistful of dust in deserts stretching to infinity, unleashes storms on empty plains. He caresses the tremendous leaves of giant trees the height of skyscrapers, still only toys for him. He tosses ocean waves to shores, where they crash into the rocks with bone-breaking force. He plays with clouds as he pleases. Sometimes he peeks into caves and sings a song among the rocks. There are no animals or human beings in this world, not yet or not anymore. One or two microbes travel with him, ones that he picked up as a favor and then threw away again somewhere, above seas or volcanoes. He ceases to be human, he is liquid and wind, for time eternal.

‘This is a very pleasant complex,’ said Mr. Kővári, ‘with a long-lasting effect.’