Hissing sounds of dust slipping through the air. I inhale the air of all countries of the continent. They shiver for a moment before they disappear. I run fingers over my face and hear whispers. They talk about fear. They talk about painful end. I run fingers over my face. Nothing is felt. My face is sheet of metal, cold to touch. My face is sheet of glass – sharp and on the edge of shattering. The time is a gap between floorboards. I watch it for a moment, disappearing into emptiness. I watch it flowing in the steady flow of particles. Not happy, not sad – rising and falling. I watch its importance bloat, I watch it deflate. My wolf lies outside. I can feel the heartbeat. I could answer the call, but I will not. I could walk out to see colourful buildings with gold painted on them. I could breathe the air hot and dark. I will not answer this call. Pain is a private experience, it is my secret after all.