Jahve's consciousness dissipated, from the immensity of the human mind to the diffuseness of an infinite space, to a small bubble where the most intimate part of his personality remained. That bubble, that haven, was not the island in the other world. There was no one, only him; sometimes a memory took shape, but each time it was less clear and less frequent.
However, in the inner silence of his little, dwindling paradise, one day the sea became rough. The until now calm waters that bathed the golden sands of the beach began to get choppy; it was a storm, although there was not a single cloud in the sky, only an everlasting sun.
Jahvé looked at the sea, wondering what he had changed. He was intelligent enough to know that that remnant of his memory that was becoming less clear, less vivid, less tangible, and smaller only meant that his definitive death was approaching.
