Last stop before climbing up the volcano that has been sleeping since some hundreds of years. She chews, biting the dried apple, all the thoughts for which she couldn't find any time during the last five days. All the spongeness and sweetness is perfectly concerned in the tacky particles of air, mixed with the dust and the sweat of all possible souls wandering around. In a moment she
will be making a slow, constant effort of lifting all her world up to the top.

The way turns out to be much easier than it seemed to. Clouds, settled on the top of the buildings, don't let discern where the land is ending or where the sea does begin. But it is sufficient just to leave your legs lifted in the air and you'll have the whole Eden under your twenty-three-centimetres long feet.

She dreams about strange things, that she does not need in fact. From time to time the same nightmare returns, the same poor desire, that cannot or isn't willed to be renounced by anybody. That's why she's climbing higher and higher mountains, believing that the ideal, made of the luxurious self- sufficiency, will be elucidated by itself. After a few days of fluttering, panicked
heart starts to beat in a certain rythm.

It would do simply to believe oneself, and the truth would fit the life.

The glance keeps away from her for the third time.

In a moment the ears will be filled with the sand. The spirit of scraps will ascend over the matter and, eventually, will recede into the safe distance. And again, the ground will crawl under the feet, this time very low, extremely low, in the exact third bottom of suspected depth. You will tread the clouds, my dear, thinking that it might be the greater extent of reign, but it is only height, only another ten thousand of kilometers, while the foot is still only a foot and as long as you walk, you own only your twenty three centimetres on the right and on the left side.


I'm not due to anything else.

Nomad turns the head. Your eyes on the verge of exhaustion ache me, your lips, trembling for every particle of dust that has to, unfortunately has to extinct, they hurt me. I severely feel your fear when you stubbornly don't say what is endavouring your head. The pane that does not exist forbids the breaths and the liquids to penetrate, the words are barely heard, though, very close, fortunately they are not twisted by the wind. You'll never make out the reason for which one death is better than the other, never getting to know whether it is better to hurt yourself or the whole rest.
Turns the head, to let not the eyelashes scratch deeper. Nomad cannot do much more. You know that tale- this is the way one dies again. Not with a bang but a whimper.

It is worth considering that the sort of energy one spreads out of the cuticle cannot always be identified with the one she or he receives as a response. It happens that peace implicates fury. Like very fragile tissue, the words clothe a vague thought which is springing up in yet unknown direction, and what an arogance, to be so unobvious and unclear. It would be easier with a hammer. But Nobody said it was easy, sometimes the diffrent manner is impossible. In an instant the way will start to roll along the pane. The half of the country will shift under the train, and the head, still quiescent, will register every picture, reeling, frame after frame, a long motion picture about the next vanishing. And later on, about the next one, and the next one. To begin with fruits: there will be about the sadness caused by the strawberries that are ending as for that year.