He was awakened by a thin thread of sunlight that filtered through a hole in the ceiling and ended amongst his black eyelashes. The first thing he saw, after covering his face with his hand, was a myriad of tiny dust particles swirling slowly in the centre of the cabin, glistening in the morning light. He brewed some tea on the stove and then, with the cup of tea in his hand, he stood in front of the only window he had. Outside the jungle was waking up, still covered in thick mist. He could see the deep recesses beneath the centennial trees gradually gaining colour, slowly shaking off the dark shadows of the night. After his breakfast, he set off for the sawmill. It was a three-hour walk along a deserted dirt road flanked on both sides by the huge trees of the virgin rain forest. The dirt road was dry because it was the dry season and it was crisscrossed by thin crack lines. Its colour was red, with an orange tinge. While he was walking on the road, he heard the cicadas singing. The jungle is almost always disturbingly silent; the one exception being the mating call of the cicadas in the summer months.