A story from a dream: A man is walking trough a crowded city. He seems to have no destination, but from time to time he answers his cell-phone and a voice directs him to a rendezvous. For a while there is a sense of purpose in his steps, but he soon becomes distracted and again loses direction. Things keep dropping away. He stops at a café for a sandwich and a beer and after he leaves finds that he left his shoes under the table. His feet are bare, but he hardly noticed it. He goes back to look for them but doesn't find them. And so he goes on anyway only a little more uneasily. He acquires a package containing some books, holds on to it carefully, but loses that as well. He no longer has a cell-phone. There is nothing more to the story, it's as simple as that. Is it that he's dead but hasn't yet realised it, that he keeps trying to restore some kind of normality, but only ever half succeeds, or just fails completely but can't make himself accept that fact? Or is it just an abrupt summary of life, whose only truth is death? Things get more and more obvious as time goes by. His efforts are renewed, but they are never enough, they can only give back a diminished measure of what he put in. The sense of unease is numbed for a time but always returns.