An artist whose painting hangs in my parents' house has attempted suicide. My mother then contacts all the other artists whose works she owns and has them sign documents. I talk to a Finnish artist on the phone. She is completely distraught. I have the documents in front of me; she has to take photos of them so she can sign them. Her friend asks me if the police are at her friend's house. I am able to reassure her. There are new square pictures hanging on the cupboards. C. hung them there. I don't like them. When I get closer, I see that one picture is hanging on a bush. I have to repair something on the floor. Paint drips from my brush onto the carpet. It looks like feces. I try to remove the stains with paper and curse and scream in anger. The doorbell rings. I am in a tent in the apartment. Someone opens the door and I hear voices, but I can't recognize them. Someone calls me. Should I put on a T-shirt? I'm already wearing a long-sleeved one and step out of the tent. I ask whether we should sit at the table or stand at the bar. My father says we should stand at the bar. They are directors and want to make a play in the apartments of the house. I think I would like to do the music. My father clears his blanket off the sofa and folds it to take it to his bedroom. He seems like a teenager, also a bit chaotic. Then I sit next to a driver in a van. We are driving towards the house where I grew up. He turns right. It is too early and we are standing in front of the wrong driveway, which is blocked by a large garbage can. I apologize for not paying more attention. We drive on. I no longer know where to turn to find the house of my childhood.