As the one who died one hundred years ago observed, the moderns suffer from the illness of historicism. Among the buildings and towers, individuals reduce to very few properties. Discontinuity. A screen saves you, which makes you believe that you have rise above the space. There is no boundary for travelling. In the bank of history and massive vortex, you are overwhelmed by images and icons. To erase, to envelop, to destruct, to construct. The fetishists find that the old question remains unsolved, and knows that it is deceiving to regard longevity and short life as the same. The rupture is not recoverable. To be... Not! What do we have, and what to have?