The Soundtrack of Writing

It’s dangerous to reflect once it’s finally going the way you hope. Writing seems like a delicate balance of happiness, frustration and a sense of urgency. Is it me, did something change, or I am I just (finally!) ready to write my PhD, after two-and-a-half years of reading and preparing?
Building momentum, struggling through meters of books, reading complete oeuvres and random books that happen to exist. Reading systematically and hap-snap, but most importantly: taking notes. My notebooks don’t only provide the background that help me now, but will also be the most valuable archive of my own thinking, my development. Future-me will laugh at them, recognising turns in my thinking due to Agamben, Wittgenstein, Badiou, Blanchot.

Working at the library, early, the first to arrive...
Working at the library, Staatsbibliothek Berlin, early, the first to arrive…

An interesting aspect of writing is rhythm. Everything is music (sorry, Jim, not sound). The importance of a rhythm to propel one’s writing forward, music without words, music that is more than background, more than closing off the world around. It’s a beat that moves, the lets the words flow. It keeps out the superego, that would refuse every single word as none reflect the truth that is to be said. That cannot be said. Which is precisely why one needs to go on, either in first person singular, or in the formal we/they.
The present-me is happy. Is only concerned with this moment, one word at the time. Reaching the end of this project, already thinking and constructing the next. Always continuing, faithful only to the illusion of the philosopher-me.
Language. Always language. Something that I don’t understand, which is always beyond understanding, always framing us. Which makes me want to re-read Benjamin. Again. Always already again. While I spend my days here, speaking German and English, writing in English, thinking in Dutch/English/German, reading French/Dutch/German/English.
But always dreaming of the beyond.

Violence at the Playground

On this birthday of Sophie Scholl, having just moved to a country drenched in a history of injustice, it’s time to reflect. On the present.

Sophie Scholl

Normally I speak up if injustice is done. I try, make an effort. As justice is something I value highly. Having said that, this doesn’t mean I see all the injustice that happens around me, by not recognising it, or perhaps by being its own instigator.
But a few days ago, I was confronted by some clear injustice, and I did nothing. I stood there watching the story unfold. I did nothing, even though the victim looked at me, clearly expecting me to say something. I didn’t.
There are of course reasons why I didn’t. Rational reasons. Which don’t make me feel any better about myself. I was in a new surrounding, I had the responsibility over another small boy who I wanted for sure not to get involved. I made a judgement mistake, and once I realised that, I could only relate to the fear they felt at that time, and I was simply afraid. Afraid to act out.
So perhaps this is a tale about how wrong one can be, judging others, judging oneself.
Martin Luther King

I was at a playground, playing basketball with the boy I was looking after. He wanted to play soccer, but the soccer area was in use by two boys who were a little bigger than him, and they were using a lot of strength in practising aiming at the goal, so I could understand he didn’t want to join them.
There was also a group of little girls, who also wanted to play at the soccer area. They asked the slightly bigger boys, but they said they were still playing, and the girls had to wait. The girls left. The girls came back, asking how long it would take. The boys felt their power, and laughed at each other, said they would play however long they would liked. At this point, I thought those boys were kind of mean, but those girls would have to figure it out themselves, or negotiate to share the area, which they didn’t. They started whining a little and irritating the boys. (You know how girls can be.) Of course the boys didn’t buckle out.
Later two other little boys came, with one of their dads, and they asked if they could join the bigger boys. I foresaw some problems, as there was clearly an age difference, and if the bigger boys would continue to using all their strength, clearly someone would get hurt. To my surprise, the bigger boys agreed, and they formed teams and had a really nice game. The bigger boys came to the little boy I was looking after, and asked him if he also wanted to join. He didn’t want to, instead continued to watch their game. They asked a couple more times. He continued to refuse. When I asked him later why he didn’t want to join, he said he didn’t like how they spit on the ground. He knew some soccer players do that, but he didn’t like it. I agreed with him, and we continued to watch their game.
But then. A father game, with a girl on his arm. He started talking to the two boys who were there from the beginning. He was very aggressive, telling them it was not okay to spit in someone’s face. He walked up to them, started threatening telling their parents what they had done. The boys replied they had not and never spit in anyone’s face. The father said his daughter had said they did. That they should man up and admit to what they had done. That they were sissies for not admitting. He walked even closer to them, saying he would spit in their face to show them what it was like. The boys looked at me, saying they really hadn’t done anything.
That was the moment I should have said something. But being both so amazed by this grown-up man who was so ridiculously collecting spit in his mouth, threatening the boys to spit in their face. Boys who couldn’t have been older than about 12 years old.
The young boys didn’t become violent. They collected their things, said goodbye to the other boys, thanking them for playing with them, and they left.
They were the adults there.
They were extremely well-behaved.
They were of Turkish background.

Why I Watch – Theatre & Me

Lately I’ve been kind of involved in the art we call theatre. Writing, acting. But these past couple of weeks I’ve done none of that, instead I’ve visited a lot of plays. And watching theatre performed right in front of you, is maybe the most tiresome way to be involved.
For either the play is so enchanting, so mesmerizing that I takes days to recover. Words echo in your mind, the smell of the actor’s sweat stays with you, you recognize scenes in every-day life. And, most worrisome of all, you repeat phrases out of context and you’re upset that no-one else finds it as thoughtful as it was meant to be. (“Or not to be, that is the question.” See what I mean?)
But this is fine. It’s like living in a big book of spells and you get to see one acted out in front of you, once in a while. The big ugly world is a little bit sunnier for a while, and life is bearable, slightly, until you need a new fix.
The real problem comes, when you are in desperate need of a fix of captivating mind-blowing blood-quenching theatre, and that you’re faced with a bunch of emotionless hippies that don’t understand a single word they’re uttering – although they might say it with a most delightful cheer. When you’re made witness of an uneventful event that is full of clutter.
Tonight I saw precisely such a play. A beautiful Greek original materpiece, stripped of all its beauty, and left with only the complexity of names and willful and god-inspired acts that are devoid of any meaning, filled up again with attributes and lectures. As if I don’t know who ate whose children, and why Iphegenia was killed. (Not to mention the fact that they didn’t even know how to pronounce Clytemnestra.)
I don’t go to the theatre to be taught mythology, to be told a story, to be entertained. Please, the world is full of entertainment and bad teachers already, don’t take away from me the few things that remain – music and words. Please go away and make television shows for elderly people, teach people correct grammar, something, but don’t spoil the truth that the event of theatre is capable of. Don’t look at me, the audience, but look at yourselves.
Perhaps I am not of this age, in which everything must go faster and wilder, in which sex and murder are the only things that can capture someone’s mind for longer than a second. But there are more people like me, there must be, for else there would be nothing left in this world but the idle imaginations of the remnants of the past.
It makes no sense. It should not make sense. There is no sense. Don’t pretend otherwise. But please, don’t add to the heap of nonsense already present in this world.

© jan versweyveld

Jelle – reactie op het Arctisch Dagboek, Boekenweekessay

Lieve Jelle,
Ja, ik begrijp ook wel dat je zo niet een stukje kunt beginnen. Vooral omdat ik je niet ken, of tenminste, degene die ik denk te kennen enkel de ‘Parallelle Jelle’ is. Iemand die ik vijf jaar geleden al ‘kende’ van Moermansk enzo, en nu met Sotsji en een blog en boeken – en nu zelfs een dagboek. Een dagboek krijg je niet zo vaak te lezen, zeker niet als diegene nog leeft. Zeker niet als de ironie voortkomt uit welgemeendheid. Toch voelt het alsof ik je ken, of tenminste vandaag een stukje beter heb leren kennen.
Zeker aangezien ik je al te zeer goed kan begrijpen. (En met die opmerking val ik direct in die groep met mensen die jou juist niet kunnen begrijpen, ook dat begrijp ik. Het is waarom ik tranen in mijn ogen kreeg toen ik Derrida las, die tussen haakjes schreef: “When someone suggests to you a solution for escaping an impasse, you can be almost sure that he is ceasing to understand, assuming that he had understood anything up to that point.” (En ik ben filosoof van beroep, dus ik lees geen Grote Namen om ergens bij te horen, want je filosoof noemen is zeer on-hip en brengt ook de slechtste grappen in mensen boven tijdens feestjes. (Die Gebroeders Karamazov kwam ik ook niet doorheen overigens. Maar dat heeft geen problemen opgeleverd tijdens mijn reizen in Oekraïne. (En ja, dit zijn nogal wat haakjes binnen haakjes.)))))
Maar goed. In de trein vandaag las niemand je boekenweekessay. Veel mensen lazen wel het geschenk, die mooie jonge vrouw. Wat ook wel begrijpelijk lichtvoetiger en minder confronterend is. Want ja, je trouwe fans die zelfs een cruise boeken om in je aanwezigheid te kunnen zijn, hoe kunnen die nu nog rustig jouw boek lezen in de trein? Ik voelde toch ergens wel een beetje meedelijden met hen, die oudere echtparen op zoek naar avontuur, je aanklampend als broodnodige aanhoorder van verhalen die hun originaliteit al twintig jaar geleden verloren toen ze het op het zoveelste feestje aan zichzelf vertelden.

Maar ik herken het wel. Ik moest dan ook hardop lachen, zelfs in de overvolle coupé (gratis reizen trekt toch heel wat mensen aan in dit kleine landje waar het normaal lijkt dat retourtickets alleen geldig zijn op een en dezelfde dag), over je opmerking over dat iemand niet had verwacht dat de wegen in Rusland zo onbegaanbaar zijn. Zoiets valt niet uit te leggen.
En ik moest ook even denken dat ik tijdens een conferentie, nadat ik in een zaal vol empirische klimaat-verandering wetenschappers mijn oproep tot de noodzaak van onmogelijkheid had geuit, door een vrouw uit Venezuela werd aangeklampt die van mij wilde weten of ze op de goede weg was, aangezien niemand in haar land haar goede werk tot verandering echt kon waarderen. Mijn mond vol tanden klamptte ze aan om haar hele levensverhaal te delen. Interessant genoeg om direct weer te vergeten. En de man, grijze haren en vaal colbertje, die naar me toe kwam en het zo goed vond dat ik Foucault las, dat had hij ook gedaan in zijn tijd, hij had immers ook wat vakken filosofie gedaan indertijd, en het had zijn werk ook zeer beïnvloed, en of ik daar niet later nog wat over wilde horen, onder het genot van het een of ander. Of een van de vele andere vergeten gezichten, mensen die me aanspraken met mijn voornaam en zich nauwelijks introduceerden om de vlaag van vriendschappelijkheid niet formeel te verbreken. Gelukkig zat ik niet op een cruiseschip, en al hoefde ik geen trein te halen, waren er vluchtwegen genoeg.
Eenmaal in mijn leven ontmoette ik een filmster – tenminste, in mijn ogen is het een filmster, een zo’n indertijd nog niet doorgebroken Zuid-Amerikaanse filmster wiens films ik allemaal had gezien, maar dat komt omdat ik nu eenmaal dat soort moeilijk te kijken films graag zie. Op een feestje, ik was er niet bekend, kende eigenlijk niemand en besefte me dat nog eens erg duidelijk, toen iemand zichzelf voorstelde en me bij een groepje betrok, waardoor ik door allerlei mensen omhelst en gezoend werd, waaronder hij. Ik kende zijn voornaam, maar wist geen woord uit te brengen. Vreselijk.

Maar goed. Terug naar dit arctisch dagboek. Het mooie van het lezen van dit dagboek is wel dat als je het leest, je eigenlijk jouw stem continue hoort. Alsof je het voorleest. Misschien komt dat door je manier van schrijven, die even droog is als je programma’s. Hoewel ook persoonlijk en extreem eerlijk. Fijn.
Jammer dat het uit was voordat mijn treinrit voorbij was. Maar toch bedankt.
ps. Ik hoop dat veel dochters je gaan schrijven vanaf nu, in plaats van de moeders. En ik hoop nog meer dat er meer van dit soort leuke verkapte oproepjes in boeken zullen komen in de komende jaren, zeer wat verfrissender dan welk nieuw dating-concept dan ook.

Optekening van een ervaring: Na de Repetitie & Persona (Toneelgroep Amsterdam)

Een onmogelijk verslag van de aanschouwing van twee toneelstukken samengebracht op één avond. Zonder spoilers, aangezien iedereen deze stukken voor zichzelf moet gaan bekijken.

Karina Smulders in Persona (bron:

Afgelopen woensdag mocht ik twee juweeltjes aanschouwen, op het toneel gezet door Toneelgroep Amsterdam onder leiding van Ivo van Hove. Twee filmscripts van Ingmar Bergman, twee existentiële drama’s over identiteit, leugen en waarheid, levenskeuzes en verlies. Twee zeer verschillende en opmerkelijk overeenkomstige voorstellingen, met daartussen een pauze.
Het beoordelen van de ervaring van een toneelstuk is niet eenvoudig, zeker niet wanneer je al heel wat gewend bent van een groep acteurs onder leiding van dezelfde regisseur. Zeker niet wanneer het materiaal waar ze mee aan de slag gaan al zo’n eigen kracht bezit, dat het niet altijd mogelijk is het verhaal, de getoonde emotie en de ervaring als publiek te kunnen scheiden. Wat overigens al aangeeft dat het een top-prestatie is. Wanneer je vergeet dat er gespeeld wordt, wanneer het gestileerde werkelijkheid wordt, wanneer realiteit improvisatie wordt, dan heb je te maken met kunst. Toneelgroep Amsterdam verstaat die kunst buitengewoon. Het is dan ook onbegrijpelijk dat de zaal niet afgeladen vol zit.
Vaak beoordelen mensen een toneelstuk naar het aantal reprises (dit stuk is nog te zien tot 18 januari!), hoe snel mensen gaan staan klappen, hoe vaak de spelers terug het toneel op worden geroepen. Achteraf. Maar soms weet je al direct dat je ergens mee te maken hebt waarbij je het liefst je adem anderhalf uur inhoudt. Dat je hart sneller gaat kloppen, dat je de mensen om je heen ook op het puntje van hun stoel ziet zitten.
Maar de beste beoordeling vind ik toch zelf het moment dat je temidden van het publiek staat, buiten de zaal, jassen aantrekkend, wachtend op iemand die naar het toilet moet. Dat je mensen de verstilling hoort doorbreken en hen ziet worstelen, op zoek naar woorden. Of eigenlijk: ze niet ziet worstelen. Want de reactie van de doorsnee mens is vrijwel altijd identiek. ‘Mooi.’ ‘Prachtig.’ ‘Wat waren ze goed, hé’, naarstig op zoek naar instemming van hun wederhelft. Het gevoel van misselijkheid en pijn dat zich op zulke momenten van mij meester maakt, het gevangen zijn in de ervaring van een stuk en geconfronteerd te worden met de onkunde van een taal om zo een ervaring onder woorden te brengen. Hoe meer pijn ik op zulke momenten ervaar, hoe beter het stuk. En zelden heb ik meer behoefte gehad om iedereen tot stilte te vermanen, te smeken om bezinning, om niet te praten over trams of logistiek. Het liefst was ik gevlucht, struinend door een stad die nooit meer hetzelfde zou zijn, de zachte nacht die zich als een geruststellende entiteit omarmde, ons, het publiek dat was opgeschrikt uit de duffe doordeweeksheid van het leven.
Misschien vraag ik te veel van mijn medemensen. Maar het is de uitnodiging van de ervaring van goed toneel, voor iedereen die deze durft aan te nemen. Want trams rijden altijd wel. Maar Na de Repetitie & Persona zijn enkel momenten. Het openbreken van het alledaagse, scheppingen waar je bij moet zijn.

Reflecting on Radical Emission Reduction Conference 2013

This week the Tyndall Centre for Climate Research organised a conference on the need for ‘Radical Emission Reduction’. I was given ten minutes to talk about a philosopher’s take on ‘radical change’ and the consequences for the manner in which we frame responsibility, for both individuals as institutions – in front of around two hundred (social) scientists, mitigation specialists, lawyers and journalists.

One of the main points of the conference was that a rise of the world’s temperature is inevitable if we continue down the path we’re on today. And whether this rise will be 2 degree Celsius or 4 or 1.5, we need to avoid this in order to avoid radical situations in which the world as we know will have disappeared.
My own take on this is that change, when it is not just a mere illusion or modification of the same, in other words that ‘radical’ change consists of a break of the present epistemic order. Which goes beyond discourse analysis and paradigm shifts. And that so-called solutions that bring the climate debate into the present-day (economic) paradigm that is responsible for the problem, are not going to solve the problem.
One reaction to my short presentation called it ‘provocative’, another wanted to state that we had come a long way from the 1960s French structuralism and that he felt the need to save philosophy’s name by distancing (himself/philosophy?) from my views. In general my calling for the need to commit to the impossible did stir the minds, and some form of academic discussion ensued. (Which is more than I can say for other presentations, but then I’m not a scientist so I tried to keep myself away from commenting too much on empirical datasets and its analysis.)
I don’t think any philosophy that needs saving, should be saved. Philosophy is an act. Anything that calls itself philosophy and does not move away from present understanding of reality, cannot be called a lover of wisdom. And when asked to answer the question as to what they consider ‘radical’, silence is their only answer.
Which is fine. It only shows that the on-the-side conclusion of the conference, that the real change in behaviour and thought was to be found in students and in small community networks. We cannot look towards our corrupt governmental system for guidance. In the closing remarks of a Member of Parliament, Caroline Lucas, this was once again painfully visible. She said that “it is not enough to be right”, meaning to say that the support of the people is needed to create different policies in government. But what she actually acknowledged with this remark, is how MPs think they know they are right and therewith closing off any possibility for deliberation, for a combined search for solutions and a framing of the problem.
Another interesting ‘attack’ came from Andrew Simms in his closing remark, which I do want to go into a little bit as it was quite interesting. He started out by repeating some of my thoughts and making them ridiculous. After which he tried to explain how his own idea of a new green economy is much more sane. He gave the example of a small Swiss village in which a new paradigm was once born, at which time it was ridiculised by contemporary thinkers, but how that neo-liberalism has become the leading paradigm of today. (Get the irony here?!) After which he ended by saying what he thought was necessary now – a verbatim account of my presentation but minus my language (for something can only be deemed reasonable when it can be said without words like ‘discourse’ and ‘impossible’).
Another interesting point about this conference was the precense of quite some young(er) people, who were oriented towards all this in a positive fashion. Bruno Latour was mentioned a couple of times in private conversations. As was the need to be okay with the paradox that two things can be true at the same time.
Most interesting perhaps was that many people picked up on the word ‘humble’. Larry Lohmann gave experienced this first-hand. It is counter productive to try to get people interested in climate change issues. Instead of showing them your wonderful solution, one needs to be willing to listen and see how the concerns of the other are related to what you are thinking about. You cannot do this by bringing your own superiority to the table – humbleness is what we need as we approach people that matter to us.
Another example in this regard was given by professor Wilks, who talked about a people in Belize, who had a very egalitarian society and when one wanted to get into office, one had to spend so much money one ended up poor. This is the only way to prevent the hunger for power that we witness today in many societies around the world.
It is strange how certain words are picked up on, whereas others are taken totally out of context. Perhaps my blunt statement that “I don’t belief in physical reality” when asked how to deal with the discrepancies between shifting conscience and physical truth, didn’t make it easier for people to hear the rest of the sentence. This is always a problem when philosophy is brought back to slogans, time limits that make it impossible to go through the whole argument.
Hopefully when the full article will be published coming spring, people will be able to object with regard to the content, and not focus so much on their problem with a framing that reminded them of French philosophy. (Although it is a funny thing when you realise people label you a french philosopher, unable to pronounce my name, and calling me by my first name even though we’ve never met before.)
The video of the presentation should be posted on Tyndall website someday in the future. For now, the conference website which also includes the programme and abstracts:

Presenting the Impossible

Imagine yourself in a conference hall full of scientists and policy makers. Imagine you are a young woman addressing the crowd and telling them that they (including myself) are a part of the problem. That the fact that they are even thinking about the problem, is keeping it alive and preventing change. And that if they truly want radical change, instead of mere modification, it is necessary to take their ego, their ideas, their prejudices out of the equation. That they need to long for the impossible.
And no, I’m not referring to Naomi Klein, author of The Shock Doctrine, who will also give a lecture at the same conference. (Which I am looking forward to.) I’m talking about me presenting a paper on our shared responsibility towards achieving radical change in greenhouse emission reduction, using Einstein, Badiou, Derrida and Foucaultian perspectives.
Yes, it’s kind of scary, but also a lot of fun. Hopefully.

Auto-Didacticus Philosophicus

Four years ago I decided to take matters (my life, my thoughts, my world?) in my own hand. Frustrated with unanswered questions, irrational belief and the fear of averages, I found my way to the library at Haifa University, Israel. A library in which half of the books were in languages I could not read. But in which the philosophy bookshelves held some real treasures.
Four years later, I still don’t read Arabic, Russian or Hebrew. But I continue drawing on the books I read in that period. My own crash course in philosophy proved very fruitful. And especially as I read them without any prejudices (mind you, I didn’t even know the difference between analytic and continental philosophy), without any greater scheme in mind… I could form my own thoughts. I could decide who to befriend and who to shun.
In the year that followed this first visit to that library I continued this self-education. In February 2010 this free-floating was brought to a stop, when I started a master in (political) philosophy, when teachers started to fill my time with required reading list. But that first year and the books I choose – why did I pick these specific books? – continue to be the basis of all my present thought.
I started with reading Michel Foucault‘s “The Order of Things”. Still my favourite philosophical musing, perhaps also because it was the first book I ever read to make me realise there are things that are bigger than anything I can ever understand. My notes from that time are priceless to me. My trying to figure out these strange words like ‘episteme’ remind me of this struggle that brought me back to life at a time I was really in one of the worst places I’ve ever been. Needless to say, the notion of ‘episteme’ is so dear to me, that it’s pretty much the topic of my PhD now…
I continued reading all of Nietzsche, and a biography on Nietzsche by Walter Kaufman. Again, I don’t know why. But it appealed to me, as it still does. It has become part of me, this notion of the death of the church, the need to face what one is despite human structures… “One should only speak where one cannot remain silent, and only speak of what one has conquered—the rest is all chatter, “literature,” bad breeding.” (Opening lines of “Human, all too human”)
And I read Kojéve‘s Introduction to Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Karl Jasper‘s “Origin and Goal of History”. Martin Buber‘s “I and Thou”.
Although I still linger within these texts, there is also much more. I’ve made more friends I could have ever realised, Sartre, Heidegger and Arendt amongst others. Lately Badiou and Benjamin should be added to the list. But I am still young, and it’s never too late to make new friends…
Fortunately, now at the European Graduate School, I’m having the opportunity to float within texts while finding my own voice…  And to meet living thinking friends, from all over the world…

Priorities and costs

Lately I’ve been reconsidering my priorities. There was a time I was mostly focussed on efficiency, trying to not waste time, fulfilling goals in optimal curves. But it started to bother me, realising that whatever I would try to accomplish, no-body would care whether it was done optimally or not. Graduating within the prescribed time-frame doesn’t give me a better job (or any job at all, for that matter).
“I had this vague idea that I would try to get the most pro-capitalist job ever and try to screw the system from the inside. But these places know better than to employ philosophy graduates.” (p.307 in my present ‘fun lit’, the amazing “PopCo” written by Scarlett Thomas)
So, I’ve be re-considering my priorities. With regards to whom to call and treat as friends, with regards how to spend my productive moments.
Priority etymologically refers to that what is prior in time, first. Only later on it became a first-in-rank-business. Perhaps it is the same. I have the inclination to believe that originally, we as human beings, as a race, but also us individually, know very well who we are and what we can and cannot do. Unfortunately this is distorted over time, through media, friends, everything they call education. We stopped listening. The knowing that was prior, disappeared. We all give in to the yoke of mediocracy – by stopping to question all the influences form the outside.
That’s why we should always give priority to what was original and is still originally what and who we are. At least, I feel this duty – as a human being. And I cannot but see other human beings as also having this duty.
All we do is the result of a choice. (If not – then why bother with education, public discourse and the likes?) I choose priorities. Even though it has and will continue to cost me. Friends and relationships. 
But it costs them much, much more.

popco close up
popco close up (Photo credit: naufragoenlasopa)


Little Bird…

I’ve started a new phase in my life, as you might already know. So I decided to start with another try of the poem-a-day… the idea is to write a poem every day, very simple. I’ll stick to the 4×4 scheme this time, to spend less time thinking about form, and more on sound and interpunction… It is a nice way for myself to see how the things I read influence my use of words and my thoughts – so if you recognise Walter Benjamin, I’m not sorry…

A little bird told me
Nothing – language-less
As it was me listening
Naming the created
I am inextricably
Related, confined, bidden
To my self, my desire – for you
You impossible, unfindable self
I can tell myself everything
Including lies about you
And I do, constantly,
You amazing, wonderful self
A little bird told me
Everything – in a song
And as I listened
You became real
~ Nobyeni