Storm and stress as night turns to water, sky to floor, an intestinal tangle of corridors and navigation by touch, coughing figures in the dim periphery, and you with your face to the fickle and everywhere wind, while you whisper let this be over soon, let me rest, which could be also translated as come find me or I don’t know how to say this, but hold me, I want to be human, unalone, earthed, in other words, if this cannot end, let it be the kind of disaster in which we become, all of us here, awake and homely.