F. melts a grain of salt between his tongue and his teeth. All the flesh is crammed into his head as the kitchen curtain swells its belly of wind. He can hear the dirt under his feet, but does not move. He is in a dark box dodging coincidences. He bends, all across the tiles, and looks into the sink searching for his reflection.

“We can only survive as matter,” reads a piece of pasta not too far from him.

Then he finally sees his face and speaks.

“For how long can you trap life inside your body?”

No answer.

“Have you ever felt chained to this planet?”

No answer and a thin cold.

Slices of heart are knifed off his chest, when he hears:

“You, undistinguishable pressure towards survival!”