Some too much things in life. Too much things around the feet, legs, arms and heart. Too much things to know that don't know. Only a space where to keep a ongoing home where to rest alone or with people around - closed mouth and face. Built faces on where to keep ambivalence, polite ambivalence. Only the discrete can grow tall in this world. Building a house so late, so expensive... A home is better, a walking home much better. A lot to keep on that space though the nothingness is the real essence. Getting there on an alarming unawareness. Borders like a smudge. The names are others and today is something new that can't realise progression. Has the new progression? Course it has though the lines are thinner because of the moving. Blank page - not to write but something else.