Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

“You didn't see anything” – repeat the comforting voices, the needle pulls out of my skin.

“It was nothing, nobody, you're imagining it” – I hear, or rather dream, that they're speaking to me.

“Shh, shh, go to sleep” – the last thing I can make out is the voice of the scout leader: “Go to sleep, dream” – the warmth of a hand on my chest. The warmth of the sun still at its zenith, while I fall asleep too early, exceptionally early. A cotton ball with a drop of rubbing alcohol on it raises a silent toast to the little hole where the mixture of beneficent poison and healing sleep has entered. Time passes, the minute and hour hands can't hold me. The clocks on all sides of the tower spin. Now I can see in all four cardinal directions, too, but I can't seem to move in a single one of them.

Uranus

The control point is the smallest possible space that can contain the ultimate goal or just the temporary goal of this leg of the race, the searching and finding, the blazing of a trail in this thick impenetrable forest. So what's the function of the meadow, then – a place to rest and to play or a ruse, a trap set by strange forces? Clever bait to draw you out of the forest into the open, so that the eyes of spy

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