My memory is inorganic. It is a synthetic mosaic built out of wild impulses, delusions, fetishistic fragments from the environment I stepped inside in the past. I fetishize objects in my mind in order to survive or hide myself between layers of cloth gathered from the field. Not being familiar to opression is a difficult task to achieve in order to find the road that leads to truth. Because everything sublimates just like snowflakes, just like foam.