It is three o’clock, the roundest of hours, when night curls itself against the chill and only the faintest pinpricks of light puncture the holy darkness. A scattering of frail and lonely streetlights perform their sentry duty on the bridge beneath my balcony. One apartment shines in this otherwise shuttered apartment building that leans over the river, its occupants hidden and anonymous. I am intrigued by that one small light shimmering against the negation of everything.
In this terrorized world where everyone is afraid of tomorrow, I am not alone.
I make my ghost walk window to window in search of a star, shooting or stable, that might be watching over us. It is two and a half months into quarantine and I have grown strangely contented in my solitude. It tastes of red wine so dry it pulls my mouth. It smells sour, of spring denied its blooms, of April aborted.
The night is silent and chill as the bodies that fill the morgues, the ice rinks, the refrigerated trucks. It is dark and hollow like their coffins, like this city, this night. I want to walk into it, to fill its vacuum with me, to feel the river lap my calves and rise to my hips. I want to walk until I am covered, enclosed in its soft shroud that holds at bay the dawn and its questions. Perhaps, if I could reach them without choking for breath, lungs calcified, without suffocation, I would join them, those dead-too-soon. Especially now when dark has arched from mountain to mountain, and lets me stand within its gigantic, impervious sphere.
I do not move. I don’t want to miss the pulling back of the heavy velvet curtain for the last act.It is three o’clock, the roundest of hours, when night curls itself against the chill and only the faintest pinpricks of light puncture the holy darkness. A scattering of frail and lonely streetlights perform their sentry duty on the bridge beneath my balcony. One apartment shines in this otherwise shuttered apartment building that leans over the river, its occupants hidden and anonymous. I am intrigued by that one small light shimmering against the negation of everything.
In this terrorized world where everyone is afraid of tomorrow, I am not alone.
I make my ghost walk window to window in search of a star, shooting or stable, that might be watching over us. It is two and a half months into quarantine and I have grown strangely contented in my solitude. It tastes of red wine so dry it pulls my mouth. It smells sour, of spring denied its blooms, of April aborted.
The night is silent and chill as the bodies that fill the morgues, the ice rinks, the refrigerated trucks. It is dark and hollow like their coffins, like this city, this night. I want to walk into it, to fill its vacuum with me, to feel the river lap my calves and rise to my hips. I want to walk until I am covered, enclosed in its soft shroud that holds at bay the dawn and its questions. Perhaps, if I could reach them without choking for breath, lungs calcified, without suffocation, I would join them, those dead-too-soon. Especially now when dark has arched from mountain to mountain, and lets me stand within its gigantic, impervious sphere.
I do not move. I don’t want to miss the pulling back of the heavy velvet curtain for the last act.
In this terrorized world where everyone is afraid of tomorrow, I am not alone.
I make my ghost walk window to window in search of a star, shooting or stable, that might be watching over us. It is two and a half months into quarantine and I have grown strangely contented in my solitude. It tastes of red wine so dry it pulls my mouth. It smells sour, of spring denied its blooms, of April aborted.
The night is silent and chill as the bodies that fill the morgues, the ice rinks, the refrigerated trucks. It is dark and hollow like their coffins, like this city, this night. I want to walk into it, to fill its vacuum with me, to feel the river lap my calves and rise to my hips. I want to walk until I am covered, enclosed in its soft shroud that holds at bay the dawn and its questions. Perhaps, if I could reach them without choking for breath, lungs calcified, without suffocation, I would join them, those dead-too-soon. Especially now when dark has arched from mountain to mountain, and lets me stand within its gigantic, impervious sphere.
I do not move. I don’t want to miss the pulling back of the heavy velvet curtain for the last act.It is three o’clock, the roundest of hours, when night curls itself against the chill and only the faintest pinpricks of light puncture the holy darkness. A scattering of frail and lonely streetlights perform their sentry duty on the bridge beneath my balcony. One apartment shines in this otherwise shuttered apartment building that leans over the river, its occupants hidden and anonymous. I am intrigued by that one small light shimmering against the negation of everything.
In this terrorized world where everyone is afraid of tomorrow, I am not alone.
I make my ghost walk window to window in search of a star, shooting or stable, that might be watching over us. It is two and a half months into quarantine and I have grown strangely contented in my solitude. It tastes of red wine so dry it pulls my mouth. It smells sour, of spring denied its blooms, of April aborted.
The night is silent and chill as the bodies that fill the morgues, the ice rinks, the refrigerated trucks. It is dark and hollow like their coffins, like this city, this night. I want to walk into it, to fill its vacuum with me, to feel the river lap my calves and rise to my hips. I want to walk until I am covered, enclosed in its soft shroud that holds at bay the dawn and its questions. Perhaps, if I could reach them without choking for breath, lungs calcified, without suffocation, I would join them, those dead-too-soon. Especially now when dark has arched from mountain to mountain, and lets me stand within its gigantic, impervious sphere.
I do not move. I don’t want to miss the pulling back of the heavy velvet curtain for the last act.