Arriving home, exhausted and vibrant, I found that something had changed. The floors were covered in thin gray sticks. And mind me not only the floors but most surfaces. The sticks were floating. They smelled slightly moist and a few days old. Like any friend, who has been lying in their own secretions for days. Do creatures have a basic instinct to wash themselves, or are we simply too sensitive towards odors and opinions these days? I found sticks in the washing machine, in the cupboard, in between my toes, in the showerhead and in my underwear. I gathered them and organized, just as Marina has taught me to do. They were different shades of grey, at least 52. I organized them on my light blue, stolen, kitchen table. All moments that I had categorized, outside of the defined moments of my life, I was gathering and organizing sticks into perfect constellations. I built huts and caves, created waterfalls and walleys. I made lines from light to dark, from dark to light and from desire to disgust. One morning I found twelve sticks in between two wooden panels.

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There was no end to this stickiness. In the soggy bag of the vacuum cleaner, I found a million more.

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The smell got stronger. These sticks were someone. If I gathered them all they would appear, it would happen, anything would finally happen. I was so tired of waiting. The plants had started their quests towards extinction. Day after day they gave in, as I kept searching and organizing. They slowly turned from green to a darker shade of green and then went unnoticed. They suck up the moistness of the grey collage on the stolen table and couldn’t resist but to start ruminating.