paper masks from cuba, perfume via egypt, mexican tequila, chinese china and whatnot. i tell you here there is no news. you follow with the keyboard chirping a happy yellow face. finally the mix brings us to the sheets and groping we fell ourselves to silence. and moreover invite me for a cup and calmly climb away to leave me here until the next window pops open in ever since a flinging way. any news today? you'll say. in small black letters in a constant enter and return, anyhow i know, it follows technologically, a memory will eventually emerge. march seventeen two thousand & one