The palaces at Silginy, Prosna or Masuny fall apart as we watch they disintegrate into their basic constituents, into ill-fitting elements. The old cottages, carved out of enormous logs, fall apart, as do the intricate plans made for the day, as do the ideals of young people when confronted with political reality. Walls fall apart after every winter, as do financial empires, as do chapels at Jelenia Góra under the blows of axes, as do pyramids built by earlier and later dynasties. Syntheses, when confronted with actual experience, scatter like pearls from a broken necklace. Village or city streets disintegrate as soon as they are open to the public. Vain expectations, old viaducts and halls hundreds of years old disintegrate into dust. Carriages fall apart while travelling. War memorabilia disintegrate in some backwater (not only in Mazovia), principles (Stoicism, Epicureism) disintegrate when faced with the immediacy of personal tragedy. Government plans for improving the energy security of the state fall apart. Meanwhile, a little further on, old abandoned Jewish tombstones fall into dust. Words disintegrate into sand, into ashes, until all trace of them disappears. Theories usually fall apart by the time of formulating the conclusions. Buildings are falling apart throughout the city of Zabrze. Old stoves and castles of Prussian Junkers disintegrate, as does every material thing. Historical burgher houses, garden furniture from the hypermarket, local mayor’s successes when confronted with the goddess of Justice – they all break up like china thrown against the concrete. All the literary divisions dissolve in the end under the pen of Jan Błoński. All that is left is the grainy, powdery, round, infinite sand, which people later heap into mandalas, twist into whips, turn into sculptures, books, castles, houses and bridges, works of art and ornaments. Arranged out of phrases found in the sandpit of the worldwide web.