He is neither in time, nor in space. He is sliding the dream's clock, he's flowing together with the flowing numbers. The only measures are tingles in the fingers, little needles in the eyes, quivers in the caches. Pleasant chill of the bodies and slowly springing warmth in the temples. As if plunging in a snugly warm bath water. The waves of touch rippling the cloth. The cloth, bound in smells and colours, is waving like warm water and is covering the skin. Hiding... but rather leaving both absolutely naked. More than naked.