There is a land, far away from here although it's difficult to say how far it is, for it is even more difficult to indicate where „from here” is where people love to classify everything. For example they have classified, segregated, catalogued, grouped and named precisely all rhythms, scales, sounds they play and connected them with parts of a day and seasons, so now everybody knows what can be played at noon and what can not. Every sphere of their live is arranged in that way – maybe this is the reason why an awful mess is the very first thing we can notice having arrived to this country. Of course, this can be but an appearance, a bad impression caused by a variety of different, unknown smells, shapes, colours..... Their personal lives are well arranged, too, meaning a life is composed of five stages I don't know if there are any substages or subsubstages, but they are quite probable. The first three stages seem quite obvious and can be met almost everywhere – they refer to childhood, youth and maturity. The banality of these stages is not interesting. The fourth stage is not so banal though can't be called a revolutionary one, and it is described more or less in this way: when you can see the children of your children, it means the time has come to get rid of family life, go to a forest, build a shack over there, take what the forest can offer you and devote yourself to peaceful meditation. But really fascinating is the fifth stage, the last one: and when the right moment comes, you have to quit your shelter and go, turn into a dried, wind-tossed leaf ...... Amazing! Although this is an ideal too ideal for too many, so forests in this distant country are rather full of tigers than of meditating old men. This is what I thought, when I had learnt about this land. And I thought also: it would be nice to go away and disappear. When did I think like that: before or after I read about this country? I don't know. I was feeling as if this thought, this vision, had been in my head for very long, it had been lying somewhere on a shelf, too high to reach it, all the time it had been lying there, and finally it fell down due to some shakes, quakes, blows and draughts. It's so easy to write. It's so easy to imagine. It' really easy to squander metaphors and unbridled visions. How my disappearance might look like? Where would I go? To a white desert or to a yellow one? On a white desert I would inevitable turn into an ice-cube, sooner than disappear. On a yellow desert I would die of hunger and thirst, then I would get dried like a mummy, unless something devoured me before.... Is this the disappearing I'm thinking about? And how can I reach a desert: just leave the house and go straight THERE? but this is the distance of several thousand kilometres – what will happen on the road and by the way? better not to think of it..... Each version assume I will be sufficiently fit to march vividly and bravely. And if I get a stroke before I decide to go, and I will not be able to command my legs or maybe even change into a vegetable? So I would have to go early enough. Now? Does it mean right now? Well, it seems a bit too early.... Well, but a bit later can be too late.... And another vision: a desert full of vanishing old people – everywhere I go there are crowds of disappearing old men and old women..... To disappear in the crowd of the disappearing? It doesn't look like fun....