I wander if I could go past the borderlines of this horizon – the light pollution on a tight wall of skyscrapers and factory fumes, where everything rises, going vertical. Perhaps sea, strait, river, or mountain named after adjacent names of town, city, country. Everything is flat here, an endless surface of grass stitched by dirt roads, intersecting nothing but the far reaches of stars, clouds, where everything curves into a sphere. Lines invisible from our youth are now showing: an unnamed epitaph of troops of soldiers, a seismic record of a war between us, perhaps underline waiting for the weight of a signature. It happened once, or twice, or as many times as you want to slice your city into zones and frames. Even in time, I have never marked anything as mine, according to conditions that I have never understood. I know you are writing nothing quite like this, but instead collecting exact statistics, figures of how much damage it cost us to be apart. If not, I wonder.