poo-tee-weet

Is just a trifle. Nothing more. A closed cube with a labyrinth of small rooms that you can spy on, but not go into. There, in the corners of memory, are the imprints of what has been lost. A leftover earring, crossed out days, burned matches, a road that you can't drive anymore, records of winds that have already changed direction.

* Hommage to Kurt Vonnegut (novel "The Children's Crusade or Slaughterhouse №5")