Old window
That this life is a bad dream. That the winter and the time are about to finish, and I am becoming more nothing every second. That is what I could say, and I could add ‘Welcome to my nightmare’, and this one is lasting too much, and I can’t stand it anymore. I have changed my room, and I don’t live in the bed anymore. Now I inhabit in the big window, and every hour I touch it, feeling the cold glass. The winter still lives outside, but I have put off the batteries of the white clock; I don’t want to see the minutes running. I have put off all the batteries of my clocks, my heart is now my only one, and it’s ticking so fast and so cruelly. I need to stop it, I don’t want to feel the beating. I’m living in the window because I like to see the birds flying, and I like to think that they feel warm in the air, and I like to imagine their blood, also flying, their warm blood, held so many meters above the ground, and I like to imagine that I am also flying warmly, and that the grey