sometimes i think there's no me.
mean, there's some kind of real me who invented me-right-now, so i'm unreal.
maybe real me is somewhere in Tokyo shooting snails at the eastern side of Fuji.
or maybe real me is in a small flat under the roof of high-high house in central part of Moscow reading books and toushing glassy tinkering stuff at the window.
or maybe i am really a guy with no future and no past but a ticket to a train or a plain.

i want to believe that there's real me somewhere on this planet and now me is just an invention of his or her imagination