And I shoot you with a golden bullet - and the someone, the marksman, killer, me or someone else stood in the middle of a day with no ending. And then shot. And I felt as if I had been shot in the forehead. And shot from inside. I'm trying to describe something I don't know how to describe. At least not in facts. It's a really ordinary day. But since morning there has been a feeling that reality is somehow my opponent. Reality is the absence of something. Reality is someone else who has taken my face, but without the bullet–hole in the forehead. I go into the yard. I look at the clouds. They join together and separate without effort, without pain. I can go inside, take a glass and drink a glass of water, or I can pick an ant from the ground and squeeze it between my fingers. What if God hates himself. Did I already say that I'm trying to describe something I don't know how to describe, at least not in facts. The bullet–hole is like any other opening in the body, only its task is unknown, unless its task is longing, but longing for what.