Tropfsteinhoelen encased by plastic. He wasn't accompanied. Deepening into the walks, he saw the light. A hummingbird has drunk out of the fountain and didn't has noticed him. Then a hit. Behold himself morphed and discovered a treasure. A dance of the family. Rounded by invisible, prospering creatures which happiness is reasoned in its existence. A dance of the lights of life, a movement that could describe the death or the destruction of life? Mind conversation. Reflection of light. An organic congestion. It continues when it began to rain. The umbrella had three holes. Is this the lose of gods love? A dream enclosing the thoughts and carries the spirit back to the shore. Previous rinsed away by rain. Shell purgation. Wild-wandering, lost-searching, desperate-winding, consumptive-troubling itself. It is hard. Nothing is for free. But only who isn't searching would protect himself of the mistake. The description of a flower leads to a wrong result. That is the last conclusion of sophistication. The shore is afar, washing at the basin. The self is surreal transformed to you. Suppressed by thoughts of the own being. Bound to the location of the here and now. Found the destination. Room Nr.1

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