On the street at night, down the hill, tenderly dark, I found myself somewhere like nowhere. I, in the past, all kind of past, and I, in the present, soon just turning into another past, merely grow into one. Something supposed to be missing, has always been there already. My mind is a long tunnel. I, as this physical body, vanish. Memory needs me to be contained itself. Memory lives. Leaving traces. On my body. Becoming my flesh and blood.
