There's a tiny small plastic bag, in the deepest dark of the sea. Hooked on a Posidonia, she swims and dances, swirling like a pretty ballerina tied to a thread. She's been there since when she escaped from her cage with some other mates, one week ago. They crossed the sea, faced the waves and the storms, and some get lost in the path. She was twisting in the current when she finally managed to grab a plant, and secured herself.

Now she dances in the dark, opening her arms in the cold blue sea. Around her, hundreds of curious eyes look at her somersaults, wondering why she's there, and where she came from. So different, so out of place, so out of tune.

Between her audience, a little silverfish takes courage and swims against the current to reach her. He stays away, scared by her moves, but he looks at her and tries to understand her nature. She's so strange, with that shiny skin and that tireless dance.

How does she not get tired?

The little fish stares at her, more and more fascinated by her moves; and finally, he approaches her, swims around her, and dances in her arms. The tiny bag seems to appreciate his company, and when the little fish reaches her, she whirls around him, as if she wants to show off, as if she desires to make his acquaintance.

Hundreds of little eyes look at the scene, jealous of the little fish and his courage. But then, coming out of their rocky dens, the other fishes see many bags, pretty colored dancers just waiting for a partner. They wirl in the current, and they call them with their sparkling and flexuous bodies.

The fishes reach them, and now the silverfish and his bag are no longer alone. On the improvised dance floor, lots of step-of-two begin. The first couple shakes and twists until the bag loses her grip and they begin to dance in the current, followed by the others.

In a few moments, the little fish can no longer see his burrow, and long to suspend that fool whirlwind; but his plastic partner does not allow it, and their pas de deux is turned little by little into a danse macabre in the waves of the sea.

Squeezed in an inextricable tangle, the little fishes and the bags twist, advance and twist again, prey of the current, inseparable. The dance ceases when the current lifts them and entrusts them to the waves. At the rhythm of a polka, they are finally deposited on the rocks, under the unbearable rays of the sun.

Behind them, the profile of an alien island breaks the natural horizon, observing from afar its small and elegant dancers. The island looks proudly at them, blessing their last dance of life.

And the little silverfish and his companions breathe for the last time the salty air, and let themselves go.
Still tied, in a plastic mortal embrace.