I did my best solo ever. Being conscious about everything around me while just streaming into what is coming, hearing and sensing the others being fuel around, or listening to the changing music. Performing from the roots, I was the ancient time and the present as well. Looking at my parents looking at me being my audience. Thoughts were pushing down each other, streaming, creeping, crawling. Jumping and laughing. I was afraid of being crashed and dislodged by them or taken into their games, though. Though, there was no chance for that, I knew and I know now. I was untouchable, me the space traveller, the performer of all times. The mother of creativity, me, the mover of the stones, me, the healer of the society, me. Repetition is a biologically satisfying action. Someone said: Everything is creative under us above us next to us; moreover, inside us. Hm. Do the stones move? Do they rattle? I tell you: “They act verrry verrry slowly due to my invitation.” My immune system was fighting today. Those little stones in my vanes might pull down me on the ground. A magician is not afraid of the power of stones, she plays with them with her own will, of course, taking care all the time of their individual needs. There are many kinds of stones: colourful, desperate, sinking, thoughtful, shiny or warm. There is one thing that is common in all of them: their ability of change. Their beauty is hidden their. This is what the magician sees and moves. Through space and time. This is how they travel.