An open window, on the frame of which a notepad hangs sealed with a tape to keep the wind away. Bellow it, on the sill, sits a young woman. Trying to delete the contents of a published book, she fancies the quality of the cotton enhanced paper, that composes it.

It must be noted here, that the text itself is barely conclusive and the three dots at the end do indeed promise a continuation. Only Jirwi thinks she won’t be needing one, because her conclusions are not so spinning, but quite narrow minded in their clarity. As a result they cannot start with the creation of the universe.

As Jirwi plans to get the pages completely blank, she gathers water, rubber and pencil for the job, never once leaving her room. Although it is situated just in the corner of a larger house, no-one would not be able to tell that from the looks of this space alone. It is the wind blowing through the window, that makes it seem completely detached from civilisation.

The girl would, from time to time, look upward on the hanging notepad and as much as a tear would become visible in her eyes. But a smile of the kind of humble, private nature would soon replace the sad face. Sure, there are ways to escape all this, but now she finally stood up to close that window and let the notepad fly on its own. Up to that point, Jirwi was only waiting for some curious lad to come tear it down at night with the sophistication of a tomb raider.

The reality was that whoever passed by here had no such intentions, because there is a way of thinking in areas like those, that the next great inventor surely doesn’t lead an ordinary life. A lie, as painters and composers from two hundred years ago could be a proof of, for their works are only now beginning to get digitalised.

People get confused, at times, and believe that if you know your stuff, things just come flying your way. But the thing is, if, and because, they don’t, it is pretty hard not only to actually know if you’re good at your stuff, but if that stuff even counts as ‘doing things’.

That was, pretty much Jirwi’s problem in a nutshell. And that problem wouldn’t seem to be much sold on the idea of getting away. Because just when she thought she had a grip, she discovered for the first time that there in fact is such a thing as ‘having a solid plan’. But as soon as that happened, then suddenly no solid is solid enough for her, compared to the wast possibilities of the world.

Grabbing the book in one hand, pencil between two fingers of the other, and leaving the rest in its place, she managed to open a tiny door by, what some might call 'a pure strength of will'. When the wind wasn’t firmly pressing against them, they always stayed open just a little. (The more rational reason of getting the window opened in the first place,was to have some private time dreaming up irrational stuff as she was also already doing it). She would spend long nights before exams just staring into empty space and shaking her head at how she’s not going to make it, but the harder she shook her head near that door. Blowing winds off her mouth in frustration, the more the door moved open.

She knew that when she is past this room, she would emerge into the kitchen, where Zalvar must be eating breakfast, a small man, but a man of reason and facts, like that when she asked him for help with physics. He then announced in a resignated manner that no, he would not be employed as a professor again. There was no family relation between the two, other then that of suspicion and secrecy.

Zalar jumped up every time he sees her, like he did the first time they met. He was a white man, if only too white for his good. A man who, like a vampire, enjoyed sitting in dark places, through neither sitting, nor dark places are beneficial for a sick person’s health. That is unless one would believe his not so unsubstantiated claims of not being sick at all, but just being.

The fact of the matter is, that this youth’s issues are non-relate able to most of similarly equipped men in their twenties. He was just… in this one state from that night on, when it occurred to Jirwi that he should be freaking people out from afar, instead of trying to get close and then freaking himself when they try to join in on the fun. Zalvar spoke large chunks in a voice that seemed to be sharp and arrogant. Even larger parts were spoken a tiny accent that seemed to be a direct parody of the first one. Jirwi walked indecisively from the sink to the kitchen table, from the kitchen table to the sink with a knife, and with that knife then to the fridge and the sink. Observing her, he quickly failed to sense what may be the source of her troubles:

‘Your mother will only come tomorrow.’, he said, looking at her with his fear stricken eyes, ‘She has no love for the town left, and must go find some over the weekend.’

‘Elsewhere?’, asked Jirwi in a tone of voice that emulated screaming about something that proves your point, and then realising you’re in a room full of people who have already apologised for not believing you at first.

‘It’s interesting that you don’t need to return.’ Jirwi said this out loud, but in such an indifferent voice, that it would have made no difference if she didn’t say it at all, ‘’

‘Eh?’, he replied, confused there for a moment. She surely couldn’t mean all the books he stole about the subject of melody and harmony. He couldn’t even find texts of that nature exactly, but there should be a line or two about the matter in each of them.

The way in which this was done proved to be quite tedious on its own merits, and he did not wish it to be all for nothing. He would read one book, find all the referenced material from it (not all texts were in clear English. Many included poetic allusions. Clearly an attempt to sound either archaic, or smart, sometimies both, but never in the right order), figure out how is humanity’s ultimate struggle for control beneficial for the animal kingdoms. Only after managing to do all that, he could call it a night and finally get some sleep. (Zalar did not know this, but before Zalvar’s rather clumsy attempts no one ever bothered. Like… NEVER since the dawn of time.)

***

Jirwi’s mother may have been able to make a living in her day, but not so any more. She did not, however, think of this as a bad situation, more like a good think that she doesn’t have to work any more. Still, this didn’t mean that she gave up on any of the dreams she could still remember from her youth. Most of them, looking back, have been naive, yes, but then also, they have not been achieved yet.

Now, she could complain like a lot of old people these days do, of this and that, but then she remembered that she is only over forty years old. She had a different problem though, and that is bad reputation. And believe me, bad reputation is most often the product of one individual’s hard labour at cherishing it. But if you didn’t think about your reputation until the day you found it wasn’t so good, there is nothing to cherish.

Bosuk trusted people by a long shot. And in return, people trusted her. Only… that is one hell of a burden. Especially if they only told her things that they pretended are an absolute secret, but by the contents it was so obvious they want nothing more than to have them out in public. And if she kept quiet, as she often did, there was wrath and anger from those friends in return. To write that this upset her greatly would be an understatement.

She could have told them from the beginning that their petty gossip problems do not interest her at all. She found them to be repatative and greatly exaggerated. But she had in her too much passion, so Binsuk did not want to upset her friends by that.

In case of such an attack, she could well imagine being put down immediately for her inability to speak Chinese, or her ability to speak Japanese. (Depends on whom one asks, through a fair number of such friends can hardly pronounce English in a manner that follows the logical sentence structure, or one that is polite - these two are interchangeable).

The evening was cool, but not because there was much wind in it. In fact it was quite hot, but it was that evening when the hotness seemed to come from everything that glared, be it a noble woman just passing by, or that thief who was just about to pick a trash can. (He now wore about as much cloth now as if he were in bikini.)

It was not yet night so the streets didn’t seem dangerous, but they felt worth exploring as if they could lead somewhere beyond the horizon. One could perhaps preserve to live there tomorrow in such an adventurous spirit as just now. (Of course it would be entirely possible to go and reach what lies beyond the horizon, but one would not feel as refreshed as now. One won’t be waiting for the rain to get wet, but will be wet from running, and that is far from romantic.)

The rush on a road painted in black, yellow and white (even though, depending on the season, more like covered in mud, or snow, the ratio did not seem to be equal at all), of cars, resembled for the woman the sounds of a river’s stream.

If Bosuk wanted to really breathe, she needed to stay up to date on what it is that is chocking her first. But this problem was not really about the physical ability to inhale air (although that would be problematic for her too, if you decide, like some people for reasons not in their power to control, to call smoke ‘air’). But Bosuk had a far more peculiar view of certain concepts still from that. Like the view of being free. For her, being free meant being able to… do what every single human being on the planet could do: Get pleasure not from a particular physical activity, but from the vision of structural complexity of things that prevent physical pleasure at a given, and any number of the following moments too.

She wore that conservative sort of clothing one would normally expect from an older woman, only it was clothing that was cut awfully loose in proximity to her body. The result wast that she did not look half decent in it. Her breasts changed shape dynamically, depending on the direction that the wind blew in at any given moment. So they were once too smashed together, like a desk, and then too widely apart, like almost under the shoulders. A young soul may welcome that, but she did not even notice. The reason for that most obvious: This visual wonder may appear attractive, but it was also totally fake.

Only, if people stared at her, because she was supposed to ‘posses’ (like a commodity, instead of quality for which ‘have’ would have been more appropriate) something that she really didn’t, coming out with the truth may prove more costly then to remain a mystery. Only men would gladly believe it anyway.

Fellow women detected it as anomaly straight away and happily went into the land of conspiracy theories to discuss the issue. So, in the end that is exactly what she was for the lot of them: A totally ordinary, tired and loving female…mystery! It has all to do with the fact, as will be shown later in this novel, that women have better prepositions for being mysterious than men.

Bosuk passed a boot with wast collections of plugs: for the ears, a bath and various kinds of bottles. Not because it was a renovated salesman who stood behind the counter, but because such things were damn easy to find, tracing a gentleman’s way from the local bar. Still, she thought about how this ‘nothing’ went on to generate a profit because, even through most of the things on display were incompatible with each other, she’d have to buy at least five items, before she can walk away with any of them.

People must have thought them talismans because they were both shiny and had a slogans written on them. Slogans which would only make sense in a specific context and given to that certain someone, but Bosuk saw the can lids being handled from person to person with laughter and taps on the back, so that any ‘intimate’ meaning of those massages must have vanished long ago.

It was as if one had a secret that they tell everyone about, but in the teller’s mind it would still remain a highly confidential information, because names, dates and places have been omitted. It is like so, because people would often think that a secret love is not a secret, as everyone already understands the concept of love. In the grand scheme of things, such assumptions could even be right, but that would also make one’s intimacy of any kind oblivious to those who have their own separate ones at home. Or at work. Or in a restaurant with a chicken leg. Oh and that… is not love. Love would be to let that chicken escape alive. But then, where is the love for all those hungry people? In short, ‘true feelings’ are economically wrong in this day and age, and that makes them untrue.

***

Lerm did not like the idea of sleep much, because for him, this represented nothing else than a waste of time. Going to the cinema was more fulfilling only because he had often learned many things about life from the movies. And even through he often had no idea exactly what they were, there would be something stored in his head for future use as a result. And all the necessary information must surely sort and highlight  themselves automatically once they have been experienced. If not, it only proves that a person suffers from memory loss. Now, he did not want proof, because he didn’t want to suffer from memory loss.

He would watch time fly by him like an evil wizard. And what frustrated Larm even more was that he couldn’t loudly enough relieve himself of that idea. Shouting ‘screw you, witch’ in front of exhausted workers of which many are female, would only set fear and resentment towards him into their hearts. Which was something Larm really did not wish for, as he was already fearful and resentful enough at himself and his stupidity in the younger years.

Besides, as he got older, and was already aware of this problem, it would be kind of logical to also get wiser. He should stop making the same things that right after they are done drive him crazy. But his nature has not changed at all, so he would be happy to try something new. And if it didn’t work out perfect straight away,

Larm would cry himself out of tears somewhere in the corner. Not investing his limited time in this world, in something more meaningful and instantly successful then what trying to make this world a better place can bring is a disaster. Double so, if one then seeks to escape everything that is this ‘better’ and proclaim he is satisfied enough with the worse. If the sole master of, he can make it work good enough was the logic behind that sort of thinking.

Coming out of his small office to supervise the lines, he thought about the many steps those machines must take before the day was over. He looked at all the workers here and didn’t think about the steps in relation to them, he thought about weird things, like the movement of eyes, the flow of blood in their veins. Those were things no machine has. Hence, they must be important, and they can also be counted in cumulative quantities. Represented as the smallest factor on the manager’s list of ‘things in need of service’.

He always thought it a bad idea to get noticed first, as this always set the entire workforce in a magical state of silence. Only whispering and occasional mourning were disturbing the echo of happiness that he felt every time a newly completed microphone went out. It was unthinkable to try out every single one of them, for Larm would soon run out of things to say. It would put him in the path of danger too, as those who employed him were not in the business of singing. They did not wish to see their time and energy invest in something that may one day feed that industry.

If anyone would have ever bothered to ask Larm whether looking over a shoulder and patronising is a good method for boosting productivity, Larm, trying to appear ever so positive on the outside, would pat that guy on the back and suggest that the proper spelling of those words should be moving a shoulder and participating, and that yes, he thinks that helps. But no one ever bothered to ask, no one ever thought about getting personal with him. So was so because, as the man suspected, everyone who could thought him only capable of conforming to authority with his ‘yeses’. Even through the tone of his voice would gladly suggest whenever possible that such authority begins, as it also ends, in his head.

If he was to take his intentions onto the serious note even a second (this time-frame is used a lot, but really, its hard to obey by it, due to the short circuit a second has), Zalar wouldn’t know where to begin. So he didn’t. He wasn’t even afraid of presenting his intentions, he was just afraid of presenting them and not knowing what he is presenting. Is it a service for helpless people, or a product of his own hopelessness, that is. Should Zalar be visiting a business partner, or a psychiatrist? Can a psychiatrist be a business partner, while also mastering his profession?

Was this all to make sense, someone would surely have thought about it already and made millions, right? Oh, wait! Perhaps someone has made money, but this just isn’t a million dollar idea. That would make sense, except if it wasn’t the case that a ‘random’ bloke can sell thorn shoes for that kind of money, just because they belonged to exactly HIS sorry ass.

The problem with Larm’s actual inaction on the ground laid somewhere else. It laid with the fantasy of gaining a new home here, being able to pick bad apples and good apples and yet not changing the current structure of this workforce. But he knew that those moves would displease everyone even before they knew the result of his decision. Larm watched workers come and go as they fell sick and were replaced by those who could mask their troubles behind a bigger smile.

Only there was actually no need for it anyway, because the workers never meet their customer base to be able to demand compensation from them. This mostly because even the workers' personal stories would bore the hell out of the average citizen. For such a person it was all about work, as work was their whole life. And those who live in modern cities must work, care for family, entertain themselves, eat and sleep.

Considering all this, one, if not blind, or blinded (Which is not the same thing, even through both deprive a person of sight - this being just one of many fascinating anomalies of the English language), can easily see why it may well be that the worker would get all worked up about his customer’s complications. Although not so the other way around:

For such a customer, even if it was desired, there was simply nothing strong enough to get worked up about. Besides work, of course, and that doesn’t count, because to get people’s sympathy, one has to get personal with them. Not talk about work all the time, which keeps souls alive and that is a good thing. By that logic then, buying things is a form of charity.

What also has to be considered here, is that when any number of people is building a product, the results of their labour can only be traced collectively. They are that fabulous resulting device. The work of a secretary can be traced individually and hence is more memorable. That is because any individual worker who is supposed to build integral parts of a product can get lazy. Just moving papers around, while doing exactly that all day long is actually the prospect of a busy right-hand.

Also, working a secretary job for a busy chief executive at least keeps you in an environment of clean offices and presentation halls. But for Larm, ‘an office’, constituted a tiny corner with a lawn, but not a computer. (He had one in his pocket, not intended for work, that was used for work), next to all the sweat of lunchtime resting. A true equivalent to the modern trend of open-space, both in that it was open (to casualties on the production line right ahead) and that it was a space. (Frequently filled with so many souls at once, that that word (depending on the interpretation), either lost, or finally revealed the full potential of its meaning.