A whole week.
Seven agonizing nights; seven suffocating nights rushing over me, parching my soul with their torrid breezes.
Myriads of mosquitoes murmuring in the dark, looking for prey: my own flesh, my own blood.
Nights extending their heavy tentacles over the city, strangling it as a venomous octopus; abandoning it at sunrise lacking vigor, emptied of hopes, filled with trash.
I am getting out of bed. Lace and silk soaked in perspiration, glued to my heated body. I am looking out of the window. I cannot see you.
In this city clocks have no hands, years have no months, months have no days. Outside of time, the city is innocent, perverse, philosophical, suicidal. You will have to find a loophole to live here without surrendering your soul.
Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me. I cannot see you. It’s dark.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers