At once, both within and without that dazzling crowd. You go from one to the other. Predictable, tedious, careless people. Darkness, and only a blinding light right in your eyes - looking at you. Deafening music drowns and bites your twisted thoughts. Drinks lean towards you, overpower you, and the bitter taste of alcohol pours down your throat. Silence, lights, solitude - the end of the night.
She meanders through the streets of a deserted and dusty city, alone after another night, going home alone. He emerges through twilight and daydream, breaking through the silence, through that slippery and rustic foam of the coming day and she’s coming home. It's five in the morning. The night is behind her, above her, below her, in her. He hides from herself, from him, into some blurred, distorted, dazzling crowd. Endlessly roaring nights, tobacco, incomprehensible people, fiery alcohol.
Morning approaches. It’s just the restless feeling of the early dawn by her side. The world is behind you, somewhere far away, melting, collapsing. It sinks deeper and deeper into the mist of memory, to which you no longer belong. It is wasted, dried up, the whole world is falling apart, while you are taking a small step into exile of your own making. You are coming into that apartment once more, sluggishly, from which you will, in a couple of hours again, slide into another side at night. Although at this point you're pretending this is the end. You are immersing yourself in the idea that you could change. An endless dark whirl and in it there’s you.
With your hands full of tight and wounding haze, you unlock the apartment. The door opens on its own, while the sound of the damp walls echoes in your head. The walls seem to have come closer to each other during the night. Your bare feet lightly touch the warm morning tiles. Twitches of discomfort glide through your mind and ache in you as you regain consciousness from the night. You know this room, you walked this floor. You used to live as a whole before you met him. Then why does this seem like him? This room in which he constantly gathers, squeezes you, tramples you, hunts you with the impressions of the past. They cross you and scatter you into a trance. You sober up more and more, and you find yourself in a familiar setting, in the fading feeling of the past. With cries you beg for his return. He languishes in the corners, in the cracks of the parquet, in the pillows. He is like a mine to another bloody day. All the remains of him, distorted by time, would return to your daily life.
You spent nights in the slimy underpasses of the past, and days in this dim and oppressive heaven - in this apartment. You drown in it, you drown back towards him. He left. Did he even exist or was he just an illusion, phantom of your senses?
You sit alone on the cracked parquet, while around you your lost dreams are wandering. Your cheeks are wet from the truth, your fragile body is not able to carry all of the past. You can almost see his elusive silhouette. It penetrates through your sobriety. You want to take it off yourself, all those whispers and cries of the past. You want to peel off yourself.
The room has just woken up, the shadows are meeting here above you. You are going to a new place and time, far away from yourself. You violently tear yours down and just wait for the time to pass. This whirlpool consists of the meaningless night and day that is your life. You're just waiting for the time to pass. Hoping it won’t touch you, you won’t feel it. Hoping for it to pass.