It is as if that little yellow plastic bird, sitting motionless on the windowsill, casts a strange echo of something that was once alive and full of longing; a small, artificial being without breath or beating heart, which nevertheless bears witness to a kind of existence, a symbolism of the elementary but false idea of flight, freedom and longing. The vanished thought of an unattainable love floats somewhere in a corner of consciousness, like a half-decayed memory that moves now and then, slightly touchable but essentially ungraspable, like those unattainable people who leave traces without ever really being close. Chemically speaking, the little yellow plastic bird and the thought of this love have nothing in common; polymer chains versus neural signals, purely artificial stability versus electrical impulses and fleeting emotions that, as a molecular process, do not stick anywhere in the body.