8pm. Out there. This strange state between tired and overstimulated. Heading home, hard to relate to the right playlist again: Too noisy too cheesy too complex too far from the mood of a damp foggy city slowly falling asleep in early autumn or late summer. Black river under dark bridges again, deep, wide, flowing onward. Waiting for a star to lead the way. Mechanically stumbling along old roads, meanwhile. Microscopic cosm. Embedded into a word increasingly hard to grasp.