A gentle touch of fingers and a faint discharge, white electric worms quickly spread across all fingers, lightly scratching the palm, and then leaping along the forearm and onto the kimono, as if bringing everything to life with their hustle.

Life is like a lost weather station in the depths of the soul, there on the second floor, in a wooden box for belongings, in a shoebox among skulls and electric worms, pain is stored. It lies dusty in the folds of the kimono, glowing with neon light on symbols drawn by someone on the walls, sprouting with black flowers from the darkest places, crawling like a glitchy spider, and scratching the skin.