We all strive for our way to the artificial paradises, to the feelings, the odours and the tastes of our childhood and of a world before our time: We can find access in old photographs, in accidentally read names of streets or people, in handwritings on postcards and notebooks, in the levity of a transitory motion or in the distant sound of a summer night’s party: All the pain and all the beauty of the world concentrated in a single chord, a single moment, a single word: ACÉPHALE.