It's an elevated space in the city centre — ground floor, first floor, second floor — the third floor is cool with air conditioning and smells of something safe — whiteness all over, and a grid on the floor — how perfectly tidy these rectangles are — Andrius Mulokas made them by laying down A4 paper in a checkered pattern and sprinkling talc over them — he then removes the paper and a grid of white powder remains on the vinyl floor — Macklin says something about the Commercial Triangle and the city centre — from that moment all I can see on the floor is the urban grid, blocks of buildings, gaps of urban fabric as temporary layers of powder — some rectangles have already been stepped upon with a socked foot — I guess my life at the moment has the same fragile order as these powdered frames — how tidy it all is until you drop your keys or a person walks in unannounced — Andrius speaks softly into a microphone — his voice is coming from an amplifier behind him — it's so strange to have a person speaking to you softly in your face and his voice coming from the other end of the room — a pair of pink Adidas socks appears — a connection is made — the powder moves, the body moves — he makes a new pattern of powder rectangles next to George's feet — the powder falls softly on the floor, like ceiling dust during an earthquake — the bottle is empty now, he drops it on the floor too — he removes the paper, leaving behind blocks of dustless gray — the fluorescent lamps are so white — debris is gathering slowly: a shoe there, a bottle here, a bag, a plastic sheet, the microphone — distractions, but what for — the music is meditative, like a sermon from a trusted priest in slow motion — this room is the bottom of a bright pit gathering the dust of a life high above — the sun is down, the sun is down — we are tasting the ash of someone else's volcano — we are the white sediment of a saline solution of tears — a friend arrives late in Pride attire — Andrius forces him to read a text as he carries him on his shoulders — his feet are tangled in the microphone cord — a constant feeling of muted threat — he's threatening us with his apparent naivety — distracted again by a beautiful tall child — ballet’s only contribution to a person’s development is not a sense of discipline but elegant arms for a lifetime — a dry branch against the wall, his fingers stiff in the air — he asks a woman to paint his hair, and she obliges — pink, green, blue and yellow get mixed, ending up in a brownish blob of once-blond hair — he talks about how he wants to change the origin of things — to change things to the point you cannot tell where they're from —I'm thinking of wandering bodies without roots — origin as a privilege — he pirouettes clumsily and slams his knee cap into the floor — the audience asks him to dance with his stick — he removes his clothes and wraps a shirt around his waist — the music changes, he is frantic — dancing around like a tribal warrior, exhausting himself — he breaks the stick on his left thigh — blood glistens, dust rises — he can't hold it for long and collapses — he asks us to leave whenever we want — we are all about to, but he moves again — he begins improvising on the floor with his eyes closed — a landscape of pristine talc rectangles scattered with debris — and a slender hairless Caucasian body writhing and blind — he feels his way around as he floats — I can swear he's floating in the air like a Chinese dragon — but it's the floor, it's just the floor, and the twilight fading away — flesh slamming again, skin slapping the building — and what a release it all must be to be oblivious of the past — what an excruciating happiness to be origin-less, a ripe mandragora root running free across the steppe — the corpse of an albino whale is sinking into the depths of the sea — a hazy saline solution of tears — it slams soundlessly head-first into the gray sand that is the vinyl floor — he has landed in peace, and we are back in the gutter.