I still know, you collected feathers, the feathers of birds, small and peckish ones and large ones, colored red and yellow. Once I came back, I brought you a feather from a peacock I found on a hedge by the street. You searched for a vase as if I brought you a bouquet of roses and I still know how long it took you to find the right place for this sole feather in this large vase. You put the feather into the vase in a very solemn way. What else do I still know about you? I still know, that you wore a signet ring on your little finger and you never told me, which signet was to be found or to be long forgotten. I still know how we went to the countryside for a long afternoon, we went by a carriage pulled from four, white little ponies with silver little bells in their mane. I still know about you, that you had not enough money to buy enough heating oil and we both froze, mumbling stories into each other’s ear, to pretend that we did not freeze at all. I still know that your sister wanted to become a puppet-player but I can’t remember her name. I still know about you, that the walls of your flat were of an absolute white, even the moon outside looked grey shining against your walls, your book-shelves were full of eighteenth century pornography books. Your toilet was on the balcony. Your neighbor was on the balcony too. You loved Verdi. I did not. When I left to get back home, you never called nor wrote nor answered, this I still know. You live on the Crimean peninsula, of course I still do know this. How could I forget?