He kept going to the river. When there, he would sit on a pier or crouch by the bank, and he would start moving into a meditation, when suddenly, in the corner of an eye, in the half of the corner that was still open, he would sense the shadow of a fish jumping out of and then back into the water. He would then open his eyes fully, and he would search the water for some time, but no other fish would appear.
Eventually, revisiting these positions and repeating these processes, never with exactly the same results, never with any conclusive event occurring, eventually, he would set aside his fear, he would let himself free, and he would wade into the river. He would walk his way further in and then relax down into the water, and then he would open his eyes to the best of his abilities, and he would see that there were simply no fish there.
His friend was telling him that maybe time was a pattern he wanted to see, that maybe this world and the dream world were really two birds playing, fleeting to and from each other, falling in love and getting injured, revisiting and repeating everything, never with exacly the same trajectory, with no conclusive meeting or separation. She was saying that none of this involved time in the sense that he was always wading in. He noticed that little, red autumn berries had appeared in the bushes. A boy ran past them in a diligent and sweet manner, and they walked past an old woman sitting cooly on a step with her small, black dog. There was a breeze in which fallen leaves were swirling and prayer flags were wavering.
He collected himself and all these mysterious beings into his imagination and placed them all down by the river, a small family celebrating an old holiday. Many from the city were there. They were looking at each other and at the water, at the surfaces and towards the depths, waiting for fish.