Prologue

Nothing really changes for some time. I've been inspecting the
vegetables that are tied-to-dry to a couple of rusty nails.
Interesting. There for "some time" but seems like they'll never rot.
Like they have found a trick about aging, they are not drying as
someone expects to be. Also this someone should be me, for being the
only human who lives in this ruined house, with lots of insects as
usual. They like these flats. Apartments. My head kills me these days.
A fountain of ideas. About nothing. About anything. I won't be
surprised if i forget anything from now on. For a man that thinks this
much, forgetting some vegetable-tying memory is neither weird, nor a
loss.
On the other hand, i am aware that it is not all about my memory.