Words are just symptoms of ideas, side-effects of thoughts, an inept expression of images, morning after memories of dreams that you don’t want to wake up from, but out of which day light drags you, mumbling and stuttering into the real world, incapable of saying why it was so good, so attractive so... . In the end you can but give a pale sketch, a shadow of the true beauty stretched to shapeless oblivion by a setting sun, a silhouette lost to obscurity. Perhaps I gave up through frustration (or gave up being frustrated), perhaps I ran out of things to say, perhaps as age goes on everything becomes more and more mysterious, less and less definable. Perhaps it is best that I don’t really understand… .