old locks of memoirs don't leave memory. you remember everything. you hear familiar wind. you feels language this taste. still yesterday there was other day here, and voices filled a glade. or it was much earlier. but where all have left. this street has turned into a forest thicket. here under splinters of the old road grass stalks have grown, trees have covered with kroner light of half a day. Rough walls are remembered. rough walls are silent. But I touch with fingers their surface. They warm - these walls live, expecting me.