I feel cold. I don't remember much. There was a smell. A very sweet tone which came from your fingers, most likely one of your teas. I remember closing my eyes and then all vanished like it never was. Most probably I imagined everything. It has to be so. It is so, I am sure. I feel ever so cold ever since, like someone constantly leaves the window open and I cannot find for the life of me your blue knitted sweater. I must have imagined it as well.
Red eyes, dark circles, red eyes, dark circles, red eyes, dark circles, dark circles, cigarette smoke and silence.
Each fight, a layer of skin, each memory, peels within.
I have this very vivid dream of us at a metro station in Paris. I'm crying, you're smoking. You put it out and walk away.
Nonesense. There is no smoking allowed at the subway.
July wasn't a good month. Well, neither August, September, October, November, December, January, February, March and half of April.
I think May should be good.
