A man whom the stream refused to hold. Hanging from a noose, veins torn open—a figure with the whiteness of snow upon his lips, born of extreme addiction—a man with his head thrust into the hearth. Yesterday, once again, I abandoned the thought of suicide. I shatter the objects of my captivity: my chair, my table, my bed. I lay waste to the battlefield that was my homeland. I fling the doors wide open, letting the wind rush in—and the cry of the world along with it. I smash the window. With bloodied hands, I tear apart the photograph of a woman—a woman I once loved. I cast my clothes into the fire. I tear open my own chest and pull out my watch—the watch that beat in time with my heart. I step out into the street, draped in a garment of blood.