Anyone who travels into the morning from, for instance, Europe to China, takes just a part of himself along. One is present – respectively, one is there – one is oneself, and one is also another self – one is, as it were, in the future. While a part of oneself in the Far East is awake and is capable of having the most alert discussions, another part is fast asleep at home in a Parisian bed – and vice versa. During the day one hardly notices that one is a couple of steps ahead of oneself. In the night, however, one is visited by dreams, dreams of another self, as it were: personal dreams, yet dreams that are made up of a vastly different constellation, another timbre, almost as though one has unexpectedly landed within the body of a twin brother. This feeling, however, fades a little bit with every day that one spends in the Far East. The past probably catches up with the future, or then one gets accustomed to being another self.