I once told you; “if you’d ever bring me flowers, please bring me dying ones, not fresh ones – fresh flowers is an illusion of something eternal that doesn’t exist, but don’t bring me dead flowers either – that’s just rude. All flowers are dying as you put them in a vase. I crave honesty. In everything.” You smiled and looked at me from your time machine and said I was slowly falling like Angel falls. I couldn’t feel it then, but yes – I am falling through a thousand wet rabbit holes, ancient wormholes, and through my own stinky, dark holes, all at the same time. You show me little pockets of air to breathe through as I’m losing my way and finding it at the same time. Fumbling with the horizon. Trembling as I am falling through the shadows. Rushing through the restlessness with my will, but in slow motion. Wondering, if the light will break every bone in my body when I’ll finally land. Your heart is waiting, I can feel it. Or perhaps it’s mine.