And again everything seemed to be so radically against our own believes, that part of our fragile but – over the years – carefully tended mental microcosm began to crumble while thumbing through those albums full of little torn photos that – wilfully or not, who can at this point tell? – screamed at us so we, knowing of course it was wrong, after instants already started backing off – as always, you say? Well, there have been good and there have been bad ghosts coming out of the box labelled squeamishness which we always carry around in our little suitcase (labelled 'me me me me me'). And then, after a beer or two in the quiet black corners of our neighbourhood snooker club we started to calm down again. Easy come, easy go? Not really, no. But alcohol then was – and always will be – one possible cure for 'god's favourite flock of lost sheep' as we liked to call ourselves in those hazy drunken guilt free moments. Drinking the dead essence in big gulps, every mouthful filling our souls with ever and ever more peace, bringing everything back to level; in a way it felt like a 24 hour le mans version of the famous last words of Lermontov spinnig round, echoing in our half emptied skulls – well that one is my favourite so far. And after hours and hours in that dark haven we lost the feel for everything, well most of all for ourselves and our relationship and what we said was ok to do and what not and, well, almost always ended up in other dark corners fucking like animals, licking and biting and sweating and sweating and 'oh that salty odor', and 'oh god that was –again – just great but wrong, wrong, wrong!' Why hate yourself like that, why? Why for this? For this little cosy trip into a hell of chestnut and honey? Well a hell after all… Waking up in his house he brings me back to life but no way I will ever again allow him to push me so far, to push us so far. I end up sketching a mental list of possible steps that will help me to finally finally get rid of my self-destructive love for this man but after a while I realise my sketch failed miserably and all that fills my mind is that sad sad music I hear so often when I am around him, and that picture of napoleon dancing and the hope that this never ends and that next time we end up doing the same but maybe in a, well, maybe finally for once in a, yes, very simple, a nice way, like – as silly a wish as this now seems to be – like a real night out together, like our second november of love, where we follow not just our own instincts and cravings for once, and even more not the ideas other people have of us. Maybe it could be our own very private version of the 'will you play it again, please?' Sadly enough it takes only moments for these pinky-pink wishes of post- ravishment to be read – by myself – as what they are. Romantic pinky-pink wishes. And express-way back to reality. Then he begins to put on some records, reggae, roots, reggae. 'Ever since I was a youth, I have been looking for the truth' – not unlike a prayer for us – and it fills this room and it seems in this moment so far away from russia and – what can I say? – in this moment this is all we need because the darkness that is us, that we pulled inside a long time ago but that others don't seem to grasp – at least not to its full extent – it just stops. And in the end it will be her little swiss soul and all those invisible bands that tie her to this oh so tenderly neglected beauty spot on the cheek of globalised mother earth which takes her back to where the remaining few other lucky ones live their lifes trying not to pop out in people traffic, evading everything that might connect them to the rest of that golden youth that was once also theirs. Not always easy to just walk away from everything of course. It is not the 'why us?' that hurts but the conviction that sneaks in every now and then that she deserved what she got, the she, the only woman left of the half-dozen that once were sworn in – before and after her –, that she of all was destined to end up exactly where she was now. Well, after some time word of what was and even more of what might would be got round and other people started to ponder, ponder, ponder, to try to put together the puzzle, to put the finger on a big cardboard view of the world and figure out, where exactly it was and where it would be next – hell yeah, I guess it might get a bit more crowded, next year.

Well, it's November 14, list 14 – if you can call this a list.