There is no one at all in the kitchen. I can hear the silverware dancing in the dish rack. No one is there at all. The kitchen -itself- is there. At last, there is no one at all inside it. Believe me, when it is finally free to be itself, it will not start cooking. You will return to find a jungle of exotic animals, a paradise, an anomaly beyond description, a florid dream of kitchens known, of kitchens loved, of kitchens lost… but not, a steaming meal. It’s all alone in there. The kitchen is empty. Gone. You remember it, but there’s nothing formal remaining. In your hand there’s a ticket to a train that only a ghost could catch.