I am in my childhood home with F. and V. We are working on the concept for a new film. I have an idea for a script: the series is meant to unfold from episode to episode across generations. I briefly go to the bathroom. From inside, I can see the outlines outside through the tinted glass of the bathroom door. I wonder whether someone could also see inside. I think that a killer could simply shoot me through the glass. Then I ask F. and V. what they would like to drink. V. asks for a white wine spritzer. F. has fallen asleep. I walk through the house and meet P. with his friend. I greet them energetically. They are too hot and want to go out for a specific kind of coffee. I push past P., and he looks at me strangely, as if I had brushed against him with my penis while squeezing by. My table is standing in the garden. It is covered with all kinds of things, so I cannot immediately find my cup. On my computer, I see that I have not yet sent an email. I decide to go through it again later and then send it. I write to my mother that I might come home this evening. F. shows me horses galloping past behind the house. I say that when I was a child, there used to be camels here as well.