Everywhere, perfect cordiality – too much sometimes, a series of smiles, bows, FUCK! CROW! Once more I feel the devastating breath go up go up, grabbing what it can within, it can the tiger! By the lake the yellow irises play swords with the hot wind, it stinks, outside and inside. You laughed at the Mute, the Mute’s return. The cast-iron bell, born in cotton, remained cotton. They asked me, “Do you have an image that weighs on you?” What to tell them? THIS? – No. I need rest