A few weeks ago I was to an exposition about poster art, lithography and illustrated books. After most of the issued works kept my enthusiasm within bounds and also the talk of the private collector of these works fascinated more by length than by information, a wooden small box caught my attention standing at the cash close to exit and kept them instantly. When it pulled me near enough, so I can see the contents, I was lighted up in the most different colours by a heap of small rings of glass. Not blind by the colours I reached to the only uncolor, took a black ring, pulled it over my forefinger. It fitted perfectly what is a rarity with my thin fingers. Without taking off it I have paid immediately and have gone. It felt good and to me came the thought whether magic is in the ring.

This week it has broken. No idea by what. I have looked insignificant at my hand and have seen that a piece of the ring is absent. A strange feeling. I didn't have to search long until it has found, but it useless to me. The broken remains broken. I have tried to force it with glue to the reunion what functions, the ring becomes one. However, only with restriction. At the moment at which I am infected it, the ring disintegrates again. As if it refuses to be a part of me again. Well, it should be divided, it should be without sense; should broken remain broken.