Methodology and chance sometimes do not match. I do not want to destroy anything, but things are postponed. I feel that it is not my job - as a writer - to make things match. The world has been explained and misinterpreted over and over again. Maybe its my own world that lacks of explanation and I am doing the work of Sisyphus every time I try to put things down. From a formal point of view there is the danger to the danger of destroying semantic categories. I am struck by the appearance of topics in my head. Maybe it is a sign of lacking  emancipation: political, social, artistic and private. What is true political emancipation? What is social engagement at its purest? What is to be done in the arts? And where is the life I dreamt of as a teenager? I propose to use this chaos against the terror. The terror of our conformist society. You will have to decide what this terror means to you. I write this with the last few breaths of the dying teenager in me. I say farewell to you my old friend.