The first step is admitting you own nothing. You have borrowed a vessel of perpetual motion, transforming matter into joy. Or sorrow. You prepare a lament for every object being shrunk in volume to the point of liquefied singularity. Your soul resembles a berseked monach harpuned by the overflowing thoughts of a whole world outside his sacred temple, rediscovering GOD through a moment of NO BIG TRUTH. Every item is handelled with utmost care. Every hour of every day carefully measured, overligned, overlived, predicted, enjoyed to the highest crest of pleasures. The excitement turns you into a dormant rage of two incandescent lovers, sharing their last kiss. A particular moving object (which borrows your empirical mass) runs away over roads and tracks and clouds and temples, from the decay measured in seconds of standstill, if at all present. You left the last version of yourself at the doorstep. The footsteps on the street are an echo of your forthcoming change. Your exhaltation. How am I supposed to fight this disposition, the everpresent catarsys in each corner of the soul, as the end is postpond by the black guitar’s lament in the indigenous version of history. Sometimes things overlap without obvious reasons. Sometimes the foundations of our sorrow - buried deep into everday house hold objects, is the only threat which holds the secret to the way back. To the memories bookmarked in your going-away-ness. To the saved points in your story (to which you could return back in case of a disaster). Like a tale, in which the bad prevails, but as she lays in your arms, in a particularly ephemeral moment all that matters in the end is the desired absence of space ‘tween the most lonely abbrevations of the two of you.