It is a place where you may experience a dialogue like this:

Where did he come from?
I don't know. He came down this road.
But this road goes nowhere.
Well, then he just arrived from there, I swear.
Yet, that doesn't make sense.
Should I ask him?
What?
Should I ask him where is he from?
No. It just doesn't make sense.
Yeah, he is not like us. He is not-we.
You got that right.
What should we do?
(absentmindedly, vaguely pointing at the road with his hand) This road is closed and it ends in abyss. I wonder..
What?
I mean, if this is truth, if you really seen him coming down this road, how he got there in the first place?
That's strange. Do you have any idea?
Maybe.
Huh?
He left "here". He left in a search of self.
But there is nothing out there.
Right. And he did not find anything.
So, he came back. Oh, I get it.
He lost us in the process. He is empty of us, now. We are strangers to him, now.
So, we have to fill him with us again.
Let's pump some TV in him.
Yeah, smack him with TV. That should work.
That always works. TV is the cathedral of our newly found soul. Go, do it now.
(carefully) Father, what if that fails?
Well, we cannot tolerate presence of those who are not we.
Then, should I waste him?
We should do whatever is necessary. Let God be our ultimate guidance, my son.

You don't have to play it, not even to open it. The cover tells everything. That cover kept me of returning Firci's his album. Subconsciously. The album just lingered around me. I had no turntable at the time (where would you get vinyl albums on East Coast anyway), so I had no albums. This was actually the only one I had. And I've never had a chance to listen to it. Ever. Sorry, Firci. Shame on me. However, I used it instead of painting on the wall. A man, a soldier judging by the haircut, half-naked with the gun in his hand. The gun was pointed to his temporal bone. A heart is taped over the vague area on his body where the heart is usually supposed to be. There was that very intimate moment, condensated in the short time just preceding suicide - or, in some cases, a relapse to life, when oneself ultimately decides his or hers destiny, that kept me (of returning the album to Firci). And wasn't it at all a very appropriate cover for an album of a Serbian rock band in that very particular hour of history? Milan, the singer of Ekaterina died meanwhile from pancreas failure; ultimately it became too hard for him to digest the new world.

They understood. There are always people who understand, even in the most macabre places, like Aberdeene, or Belgrade. They are trying to reach to us in any way they can, and they are scared, scared shitless, because they see what is going on around them and they see that they have no power to stop it. And we just don't hear them. As we didn't hear Kurt. None of us, indeed. Although he really screamed his way.

But not only the notoriously emotionally disturbed rock stars commit suicides: the U.S. police officers commit suicides, too, in increasing numbers showing with their example the depth of crisis we are aproaching.

And again, today when I came home, police just blocked the corner of 83rd and 2nd, right where I live now, because somebody was threatening to jump from thirtysomething floor. That became a fashion. Almost like a plaid shirt and combat boots. I can't wait to see manequins with their plaids and boots on with noose tightened around their necks hanging from the ceilings in Gap's shop-windows: dress-up to die. And tommorrow, when I walk to my job, I'll see the glass on the awnings replaced (it was actually done yesterday), and the world would be the same as it ever was. Well, shit happens.

It is always better to have a gun and not need it, then to need one and not have it. (wiseass Clarence in True Romance)