Night to the 17th of July, 8 hours of sleep, interrupted I was dreaming being in the state of temporary homelessness. I was in an appartment building seeking shelter, and surprisingly getting an offer by a policeman to inhabit for some days the flat of a man who would no longer need his former home. The door was still broken (by the police) but they as well would pay for everything necessary to repair this. "What is the story behind that broken door?" I asked the emotionally agitated officer. "A man lived here. Middle aged, a drunkard. During a party he offered in a state of grandiosity 'Yes, I bet, you can tear out a quarter of my body or even cut me in half. Yes, I can... Prize is a bottle of vodka.' " The officer almost cried now, but because he was so furious. I thought: " What an artist this man will have been...!" Interpretation: "What an artist I'd have been...", if only I had been trying like this vicious drunkard to bring out some of the hate and fear and pity of 'people'. I myself was admiring the brilliant trap this man had invented for himself and the others, but as well disgusted by his wish to be the object of desire at any price. Kill me! Me! The police officer was shaken, I would say, because of the 'femininity' of the drunkards self positioninig and the subversion of order within this probably successful suicidal invitation to murder. That was not about alkohol, this was about hate and what is inside hate. The offer to live in his flat, to profit from the remains of this man or even to continue his art was inacceptable.