The streets we walk along are indeed made of paper, the rubber of our heels erasing every trace of our ever having been here. Still, how wonderful to be here, awash in this cinematic soup with all its transcendent emotions and unfathomable banality. The day I lost my violin was the day I became a poet. If I were a musician like Sven, I could tell you so much more clearly exactly what I mean. Wyndham Rain