Two streets, three houses, one hundred and five rooms which will soon be empty, left with traces of the departed still vibrating in the air. They are left on the walls, floors and peeling slowly off the ceilings. Do they come or lead somewhere? Why do they go in circles as if in search of something?

No doors, only numbers left. It’s impossible to go into doors which aren’t there. It’s impossible to come out either. That might explain this confusing motion of traces. They are simply piling up. There are several piles already and all are numbered. I will never visit anybody anymore.

The meters are silent. They all are broken and don’t work anymore. One could guess, but no one will ever be interested, and questions will float in the air without any answers like traces without ground and direction. To everywhere. Away.

I notice I’m going in circles - like in a dream when things transform into places and places transform into things. I suddenly realize I’m walking on a lifebuoy. It’s not thrown though. It’s lost.