stoned the stars look at the sudden flight nocturnal autumn invited itself to the feast of the apostles we left doors open there is no real entrance nor exit everything seems to wear the apparats of a beginning and an end everything is only between both there are traces left so that we can walk in these majestic solitudes we are no longer guided by fear desire or anything rational we do not understand them more is drunkenness a relic an artifact a guide a door no side A nor side B neither a beginning nor an end these are footsteps outside there are traces.