At the beginning there was air. A biography without a name. And then there was walking, on a bridge arbitrarily constructed, a bridge spanning between two banks of void. A passageway, a bridgeway and two empty envelopes. And then there was crossing, on the bridge of lan­guage: a waymaking. Going from here to there, from there to here. What is given to the world and what is received from it. How did I get lost? How did we get lost? A biography is the rushing from one side to the other side of the void - a busy-ness she refuses to adhere-to, to obey, to achieve or to accomplish.