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.
Glued to my heated body, lace and silk soaked in perspiration. I am looking out of the window. I can’t 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.
Shadows of your eyes; fragments of your voice hidden inside me.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers