There is not a single thing with which to measure distance. As a child I would listen quietly with my eyes open, as if I would sleep forever – not by the windowsill, but within the room. The fluttering sounds came and went at will, so I would rush to open and close the window. Many years have passed with these situations stashed away in the attic; they combine with each other like dreams.We’re almost there. Past the row of houses and over the hill I open the gate, and the garden is enclosed by chains, and flowers cover a small flowerbed. Come to think of it, there’s still time. The birds are perched not in the thick of the garden, but on the neighbor’s rooftop; even if in the same place, depending on the time of day they appear to be pretty much the same. Not even the way the breadcrumbs are scattered is ever the same. At times there are such things as misconceptions, too.