I'm placing my hand over the radiator and try to set up a system of heat exchange. The heat begins to faint in the room and concentrates on the tip of my fingers. I rush down the streets and gently touch people's cheek as I pass them by. It doesn't work. Instead of taking my heat away the people pass out and everybody's head is down... Soon I'm out of breath and the sun tends to loose balance, as it stumbles towards perfect zero slow-motion crystallizes everyone's final, ultimate try towards beauty. In its fading out simplicity the truth of the setting hideously melts to end up in a gauche snapshot: my brain as a photographer desperately aims at picturesque, my heart as a spectator thinks it tried too much. An unseen hand reorders all and encodes familiarity, encodes the woman's hand reaching out for her 5 year old son three feet ahead of me which carelessly looks down at the streaming river now standing still, holding its breath waiting for the impact of a falling bird that could never grace its muzzled surface. It's a shining point at the end of my arm that vibrates in the whiteout, and if someone provided it with something then there might be some chemical reaction but it just stands there in its confusing uncertainty. But wait, something...

I wake up and rush towards the radiator. An hour later my hand is still cold.