Nomannic, Borg, Antwerp, 40í

In the corridor that leads to the space where the opening festivities of the festival take place, you find a mountain of cinnamon in a corner. During the speeches I enter the the corridor and rub my hands and feet in the cinnamon. After that I cover my face with a piece of red cloth. I lay down in the middle of the doorway betweeen the corridor and the space. When I lie there for a while, I take a pencil out of my pocket and write - without seeing - a text on my stomach: Ďa master of memories dives into the deepest sea of Nomannic, there he finds no manís land and chooses to stay forgetting who we areí. After that, I get up, get rid of the red cloth and leave.