Producing at once some virtual guts is a challenge for oneself. Nomad comes to a standstill to look into the leviatan's throat and dive into the dephts of its tenacious saliva. He's not tired, not at all. There are thousands of kilometers left behind him and the million ahead. Or maybe he has forgotten already how a kilometer tastes. How a kilometer tastes. It's rather obvious that every stretch of road has its own image, taste and smell. It is projected on feet, confusing the epidermal ridges, cries with other whisper, but only a whisper (as what is an everydays whisper towards a cosmic yell). The road is never enough. Nomad endeavours not to stop for a longer time, anywhere. Only from time to time he would visit the leviathan, to look into its jaw. More than about its strength he is anxious to lose his sandals. Without them and without the leviathan hardly he can think about the next phase of his way. He considers putting his nut to a throat as a reflection of his weakness, yet an inevitable necessity at the same time, as it was a sort of purification, though the monster's throat is far far diffrent from the sources of Ganges. Nevertheless he practices that, with a pecular sense of duty. The last strap and I go my straight ahead.