In the middle of the night, during a storm, a ship crashed against the rocks, ultimately sinking just off the coast. By morning, the storm had subsided, leaving the mast of the shipwreck clearly visible in the rays of the rising sun.

Water had not flooded all compartments. There was a fly, which had flown in earlier, dozing on the wall in one of them.

The darkness was gradually dissipating. The dawn was somewhat weird: it was greenish, dull, and cold. But such subtleties were unknown to the fly. The insect rubbed its feet together, pulled away from the wall and flew into the light, only to have its flight interrupted by an invisible barrier. Heeding its instinct, the fly started to methodically beat its head against the obstacle. This action did not prevent the fly from looking at a large, awkward creature on the other side of the barrier. The creature possessed slow-moving, disproportionately small ‘wings’. The fly had no idea how something like that could fly. It was simply impossible.

The fish was watching the fly rushing forward. It was wondering how something could move so briskly. Moreover, its instinct told the fish that the fly was a tasty morsel, but its torn lip recalled memories of a sharp hook once hidden under a similar fly and the unbearable pain that came with it. Its instinct, however, was stronger than any memory. That’s why the fish surged towards the fly in an attempt to eat it. But the barrier put a stop to the attempt no sooner than it had begun.

He had no instincts or memories. Even on this sunken ship, the round sturdy window continued to fulfill its singular purpose of separating two worlds, one dry and one wet, to protect the inhabitants from encountering death in a strange environment. It allowed the Water and the Air only to look suspiciously at one another from time to time.

Each was convinced of the unsuitability of life in the other’s world and, of course, of their own perfection.