I float weightless, and my last memory dissolved without me caring, in these black waters that are neither cold nor warm. I float above myself. I ripple beneath a sun that does not burn me, and the present may blind me. The current is the guide and, for the first time, I do not mind having no choice. The inevitable that carries me draws me closer to distant points. Fragments of gray architecture expand. They shine in a white just more opaque than light, and merge into this clean island on the path to forgetting. Snow. Ice. Rest. A raw and perfect sculpture. The remains of a city that never existed where I wish to live for a hundred years. Yet as much as I approach it, I drift away without concern, watching the space between us widen, and the gray and the remnants turn into a silent promise.

To watch Ice Breath, by filmmaker Leonard Alecu, is to experience immersion in a distant sleep that could be the precursor of the last dream. Everything suggests a perfection that subverts itself into raw and pure nature. A perfection unafraid to move for fear of breaking, but moving instead by adapting to the ripple of life. These are icebergs melting on Greenland’s eastern coast, but in the isolation captured by the camera they become a surreal dance conducted by an invisible maestro. The music Became Ocean, by John Luther Adams, is the air we hear and drink, beautiful and complementary at just the right point. Ice Breath is a documentary that expands the vocabulary defining how far a documentary can go, renewing the genre.