It is the first novel of the writer. The observer/author, who is strolling – in the present time and in his memory in parallel – along the city avenue, passing weird cafes, the Musical Theatre, remote ins and outs and the room space, proves that vagabonding and overindulging in alcohol may turn life into an intoxicating fact of art, if trying to suppress, but the overpowering fantasy ferments the impressions in the right way. The protagonist dies and cannot make sense of where he is; he watches his funeral through the hole in the screen, relaxes and enjoys his after-death adventures, entertains the readers with unexpected twists. Navakas is making a collage of items found, people met, music, painting, literature, and writers, films and actors, philosophy and philosophers. It is a dreamy, poetic and raving book without a clear plot.