Our life is no longer a narrative, as it used to be. It no longer resembles stories by Ayn Rand or Veniamin Kaverin. Our life — like the world around — is no longer linear. It runs in labyrinths, thousands of tracks, nooks by seven torn red lines that intersect, escape, meet again, and part forever without answering the question «Why?» We have no destination but seem to be moving in an endless middle, as if our life were a picture by Escher. This work is a poetic tragedy of the forced drift in a world of torn paths.