“Life comes…” he thinks, billions of red threads dangling around his head just like memories flashing through his mind.
They make him feel dizzy, resemble what he believes in as himself being trapped in his mind, or rather wrapped up in cosy but itchy thin red wool. It reminds him of the extraordinary baby blanket he used to lie in, colourful and warm, stricken with memories of carelessness. “Start to count them! Start, now – recount”, he keeps replying to the blank white walls, his undemanding audience. Even if they could answer, he would never expect them to. He doesn’t want them to. He likes them to be silent spectators, bearing similarity to him as a youth.