From the river of my childhood emerges an infecting cloud within which echoes of a vacillating scream made of names, squelches and mocking chants ring out. A, B. Create, destroy. The concerned have abandoned their silouettes, the matter staggers around in its own reflections, the spirit is drowned in the vomits it produces. The river of my childhood has stagnated. It smells bad. I doubt the aspect which returns me to this surface, devoured by the undergrowth, agitated by insects. I think and I donít remember, so there`s no other remedy other than to expect. Bad affair: imagining myself sick to the bone.