day 100

on the 100th day,

we came out from our hiding, beneath the subterranean mines, where depleted of its resources, we could no longer keep our silence.

on the 100th day then,
we made an impression.
henceforth, we spoke, at length - these words:

We, as witnesses of this generation,
speak, with great trembling
of fear, lest we commit the cruel act
of leading astray more who are already astray.
Listen, then, those without your ears
and think, with as much wit as you can muster.
what is left is little;
what is to be said, even more pertinent
with as little words as we can,
we declare -
a generation of plagues
ruthlessly constructed by
a hyper-reality of the transparent world.

This World, always has been this World,
is where we believe in false teachings of
democracy,
liberty,
superficialities that only mask our true vanity
concerned with our health and wealth
we hide behind closets of gold chests
and mascara faces
we lie to our souls that the present age has hope.
we have had hope for centuries
and generation after generation of abyssal repetitions
one monster after another
how many more babies are there left to embrace?
only minefields and graveyards of mutilated bodies
declarations and manifestos of deluded ideologies
do we have enough populations to sacrifice
yet another massacre?
yet another silent mob?
No, we do not fight our wars with hijacked planes
and golden palaces
and staged rallies
we fight our wars with classrooms and manuals
our children are our arch-angels of wrath
our children are our Pucks with mischievous magic tricks,
inherited not only from fathers
but grandparents and dead people.

Do not listen to us say more,
what is said has already been done.
you will stone us, you will mock us
you will think we are foolish
you will think we are just pretenders
You will listen to the well-dressed wolves
you will listen to the men who cry Change.
you will listen to the women who seduced with Change
what has changed?
more men charging down the crowded streets with erected statues
banging on doors to enter the garden of Eden
and to violate the only last messenger of hope.

Alas,
We have no gospel to preach to you
We have no glad tidings to tell you
We have no ships to deport you from this hell
We only have more words, like your words,
on monitor screens
Ones and Zeros and in between,
to regurgitate what has already been foretold
You will hate us
You will shake more hands
hug more bodies
rape more bodies
and wear nice gowns
and praise more people
and crown more princes and princesses
hold more balls and banquets
shoot more fireworks into the dead sky
cover the great constellations of the universe
and impatiently wait for the sun to die
to implode
to disappear.
You will, with thanksgiving, await
News of new kings
of new devils
of kings against kings
of angels against demons
of one-sided narratives
among 1000-fold manuscripts,
derived from fearsome warlords
and equally fearsome peasants.
who only take our turns to stand on stage.

while you sleep,
will you dream?
what will you dream?
of the serpent again and again?
entice us, ensnare us, endure us
returning nightly to lay with us
to bite its own tail
to give us presents
which drop from the sky
which drop into windows
which we step on
which follow us
which teach us
which clothe us
We cannot run or hide from gifts
What is the Gift of this world?
Alas!
It is sin!

We are ending this soon
Sin, das Gift
a poison but also the pretext for salvation
Thorns that come with the roses
The bile that comes with the excretion
It stands before at every door
at every entrance
Help us,
We cry,
suffer
but we also suffer for lesser things
we cheat ourselves that the Gift is long gone
but the World and the Gift remains
Not even as a trace.
They are solid.

CHANGE is their name.
CHANGE is their banner.
CHANGE is their rhetoric.
We become sophists and polemics
that make us fools.
how many must die?
how many must be chained?
more heads will roll
more tongues will be cut
while princes sing and crown us with jewels and diamonds of the world
Extract us and pull us away from them
we want our voices back
to sing songs that You know
to dance with bodies only You gave
Find us again, find us again in the desert
we abide there,
nightly with our crying silent voices
only You hear
only You witness

Find us again, find us where we are least expected to be found
as prostitutes
taxcollectors
adulterers
thieves
lepers
murderers
as people who have long given up hope for salvation
as witness to our own gifts
now, let us be witnesses to the outside world
to the world we don't belong
let us not jump down buildings
let us not make the train tracks bloody
let us not swallow pills
let us not create images that haunt people
let us, instead believe
we are not meant to fly
but to remain as we are
here, there,
to not illuminate a broad path to some faraway place
but to illuminate this already too bright world.
We will find the needle in the haystack
we will fit the camel into the eye of the needle
let us stop talking
we talk too much
as we did.
let us be hated
for it is not us they hate
but who we stand behind for.
Let it be done
as it should be done.
Not anywhere else
but here, there
in us, outside us.

erasure.
deconstruct
us.

day 81

winterreise.

die Menschen war tot. nicht da.
diese grosse Landschaft, wird nie weiss sein.

so sang the old senile countryman.

he began this cold tale of men dying for unknown causes.

he forgot what were they.
he forgot who they were.

"weiss du?" he asked.

"nein. sag noch mal bitte."

This world does not have the language to translate what he said then on.

This world has lesser than it promised once.

We never felt so lonely till then.

Die Kinder sind schon alle tot.

Weiss du?

he bid farewell.

day 41

as if the days don't leave you.
No. They leave you behind.
No. They bring you along.

Wait, Wait for? Wait, we wait, gently we Wait. Wait for. Waiting,
there are many ways to wait.

so often we subject ourselves to endless debates to find a solution. A hermeneutic compulsion. A romantic love for fiction. A desire for resolution. In fact, we wait. We are just merely waiting.

come now,
kommen,
ankommen,
zukommen
auskommen
every coming has a way of announcing itself.

we just don't know why.

We are the Masters of the Universe.
We are the He and She Man of the World.
We stand united to destroy anything that stands against Us.
We are the Revolution.
We are the Change.
Believe Us.
We never quite change.
Because,
We are CHANGE.

THE WAR HAS BEGUN. 20 days later.

day 19

A.lpha - ω-Omega
In between the finite properties, elements, atoms, alphabets, possibilities.
Mix, permutate, restrict
the chance is yours.

do not be fooled by the punctuation.
The compulsion to continue, is always there.

Think of this compulsion in relation to the journey to reach a point of understanding
an encounter of I and You.

It is the full stop. Period. Moment. Pause. Rest. Stillness.
then I continue.
in relation to you

do you follow?
The moment in between A and Z
always in between.
It is always a restricted economy.
How do I exist beyond this? Otherwise than my being that encounters my other?

Today, I wrote a song for you.
Let it touch you, as I speak less,
and may it, put to right, and left,
a place to start after the beginning,
when it rains, the words fall, as they rain, we move to touch (or avoid the touch)
.
.
.
yes, no one understands. We won't move for others. We're caught in the moment.
Nothing is as lovely as that moment.
here is the song, that demostrates the touch.

Today, I wrote a song for you only
let it touch you, as I speak less and less
and may it, put to right, and left, hiding
in a place which is always already there
where and when we cry, as we cry, we find,
our home, in between brackets, we are
we are home, we are home, we are in love.

Tomorrow, I had written a song for us
let it fly away, as I write less and less
and it might, have flown up and down, disappeared
outside places which is always out of sight
nowhere and when can we cry, we only smile
no home, outside the brackets, we are
already flying, we fly, we are in love.

( ) ~

there.
my last attempt to make sense of our situation.
I hope it persuades you to stay.
but I can predict you won't.
A change is in the horizon.
A change,
once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!
(or close up the wall up with our dead.)



song continues; killing us softly with this song.

day 17

Dear Friend,

You hurt me. I shall cease to exist.

Yours,
You.





the letter was found torn and left behind before I left.

day 10

1010101010101010101010101010101010101010101001010101010101010011010101010101

it was at that moment, when I saw the message behind on the back. It had been etched into her skin. I dare not touch her. It is a message of:
revival, death, renewal, mourning, life, death. The gift of death.

0101010101010101010101010101010101010101011001100110010101010101010101010101

the modern wrestling of a human being and a divine being consists of two digits - 1 and 0.

1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. I can't choose the difference between life and death.
But from time to time, good luck and chance can still determine the outcome.
This outcome is a change of name.

Today, I call myself 'You'.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

How often do you dream of wrestling an angel? How often do you dream of wrestling a demon?

It always begins with a touch - between two.

The ancient examples always revolve around two and one.
1. Adam and Eve; in between, the serpent.
2. Abel and Cain; in between, the earth opened to reveal the brother's blood
3. Jacob and Him; in between, the touch of flesh and the Judge. (Was there a camel then?)

Then the stake. the blood. In between two sinners.
Next, the Holy Ghost that haunts two living beings.

The contemporary examples also revolve around two and one.
1. 1 and 0, in between, the computer that processes the digits
2. Performance and Audience, in between, the gaze, the paint, the frame, the act, etc.
3. You and I, in between MSN, Facebook, Mobile Phones, etc.

Angels have departed. But the purveyors of truth still remain.
We can't touch as much as they could. But remember how it feels when your parents touch you. How you lover touches you. How your murderer touches you.
The touch is intimate. It is always suggestive of both love and violence. Now, what we have left is mediation. We cannot remember how love and violence were simply touch - with it, every sensation and event within the moment of touching. The face, the breathing, the proximity, the groan, the sensation of you and I, tied in that moment. It is just us and the one in between. As close as we can get. As far as we can get.

1010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010

Do you lead me to death or life?

What is your password?

(empty space)

Amen.







where is my angel to lead me to you?

day 16

Dear Nameless I,

I'm extremely sorry to hear about your predicament. I reply with the intention of telling what I should have told you earlier. Please give up on me. You know I am not coming back. When I left, it was to be forever. I need to be away from you. We could not live on those invisible links. I need something concrete. I could not see a future together. Hence, I disappeared altogether. In fact, for me to write back, I have already disgraced myself and broke my own promise never to talk to you again. But the fact that I did, shows how much I need to tell you once and for all, the reality that you must now face.

I do not exist. I am a figment of your imagination. Just as you have imagined that we could be best friends. Do not habour much hope from now on. The further you continue with this, the harder it takes to forget about me. Let me go. Let us go. Allow me to be as I am: non-existent. We will be happier that way. Be that way. So please do not reply. I will pray for you. But do not reply. You won't hear from me from now on. This is our last communication. Reality hurts this way. But you must be strong. I promise you, after 5 days, you will be fine. Absolutely. Wait for that day. You will be renewed. The day is coming. Wait patiently.

Adieu.

H.

day 15

Dear friend,

Once, I imagined we could be the best of friends. Now, it has finally occurred to me that it is impossible. Whether it is more laughable that I should leave the arena and find myself all wasted but enjoying myself with my self-pity, OR I should just crash, burn and fall into the depths of the world, suspending by what I call the ecstasy of forgetting; frankly, I can't make up my mind. When this letter reaches you, and you have read the above lines, I hope you would have decided by now to burn the letter and forget that I have written.

Now. If you read now, then you have decided to give me another chance to violate your peace and torture with my thoughts as verbatim. I try to be honest here. Frankly, the past two weeks have been absolutely horrible. If words could describe my predicament, I would say that an infinite amount words would suffice. How could you leave me? What have I done to deserve this from you? Alas! The days grow stale, and I stink from the useless words I churn out every midnight, as if the clock refuses to stop and repeats itself, night after night. I hope you read this. Even if I know you will hate me. But where were you the past 14 days? Where were you when I needed you, a listener, a reader of my words, that I might have another chance to resurrect and breathe anew once again? You disappoint me. Alas! The nights haunt me, and I drown in my ocean of regrets. What have I done to deserve this? How slow you are to reply? Already, I expect a reply even before I post this. Must I send you a postcard to preempt the main course? I grow anxious, awaiting the result of my latest endeavour. How would you react to this letter? You must regret now. You want me back! Say you do. I know you do. That can only be the case. Oh! How I hate and love you! All the same.

But why do I even bother? I shall not send this letter. I shall keep my thoughts shut. You must never know of them. I only hurt you. I only break our trust, of what is left. Our friendship dissipates as I write. As if I am reaching that final destination as the words flow. It is like an eulogy of the death of our friendship. I cannot stop this ending. Every word I hear reminds me of you, the 7 days we had together. Alas...it ends today; which day? Should I find someone new to treasure? Teach me to move on, loneliness. When we strive and fall prey to the ventures of loneliness, we find ourselves in deserts and hallucinations. Alas...I must venture to new places and torture new people with my presence. I always think I am taking up time of somebody, each time I appear. It must be. How could anyone stand me? You did, as much as you could. You were always there, as long as you could.

What if, all along we are in a desert? And we have always been building sandcastles and sand beaches; great towers and cathedrals of worship, without resting, without stopping; flattening some, rebuilding others; and more people join us, in unison, with a common goal that is to reach the heavens with our tall towers; perhaps we desire to speak the same language; once and for all. You are at the other side of the desert. I know. But I dare not go to you. I must remain where I am. Away from you. Even if that takes us both to opposing poles. I believe in you. You must still exist somewhere. In silence.

I miss you, my friend. teach me this silence. and I will someday come to you, without moving.
The way is always there.

Yours,
Nameless I.

day 9

inventions of the other,
the days are set to separate us from once we were together.
watching a tape on rewind,
the days are hell-bent on reaching the end.
who can we blame but the far-reaching desire to conquer everything?
no, we can only blame ourselves for loving ourselves.
out of this world, while in this world, that is the problem here isn't it?
our predicament is produced by a joint effort of chance and determinism.
We just forgot how they interact.
are we looking at variations of the same order of things? or are they inventions of thought and effort?
This order, more likely ancient and contemporary simultaneously, consists of tautologies of the same:
this world - that world
nature - man
subject - object
I - You.
But frankly, are we so heterogeneous?
the same and different,
nothing much has changed. Only the content and media in which we invent or borrow.
There is nothing.
Hence, nothing becomes the order in which something must come out of nothing.
There is love.
Hence, love must govern us as if that is the only virtue that would redeem us.
There is nature.
Hence, we must co-exist with nature even if we make serious alterations to its nature.

la question, that is a 'she' we violate and rape repeatedly.
But she is babylonian, and repeatedly visits us and seduces us.
are we to blame?
But we give ourselves, in being, to the touch.
to the seduction and the touch in which the contract is sealed.
(once we had the possibility to touch. Now, we touch virtually.)
how are we to redeem ourselves?
The human touch is the most profound action.
For a simple handshake could both mean a greeting or a hostile desire leading to violence and mastery.
How are we to touch? To kiss or to rape?
There is nothing else that contains more potential energy than the touch. Without touch, nothing moves. Even if this touch is lesser than a human physical touch. It is a touch, nonetheless.
my touch, and my gift to you, both a sin principle and the potential for the touch of salvation and baptism, is my virtual writing. These words that touch you, without contact except the rays of light that bounces off your pupils. Reflected touch. I am always mediated. But if this touch can reach you and force you to stand in between sin and redemption, it is enough as it is, 'We' as churlish messengers.
let us then return to the letters, as we open each entry to read and to pretend to enter into a msyterious contact with them, and we should then find, how the touch is at the heart of communication, even if language fails us more often than we hope.

Once, we touched, embraced and truly loved each other.
im Paradies, the garden in which all could touch and feel as freely as we liked.

out of touch, that is the theme of these writings.

day 21

figuratively speaking, this is a true story.

W:
We can't say, 对，说不出口。
it's not in our language, 表达不出。
也许，it's not what we need. but let us 相信。
结合is, not the answer.
but let us pretend, 那就是答案。

after 21 days, the story finally begins; starting from tomorrow.

day 8

H

Happy is the world with individuals,
who pretend as if, the world revolves around them.
I and I
could not agree
eventually
it seems to me.
Happy is the abyss with crowded souls,
who pretend as if, they have to repeat their punishments
till eternity
till when?
Till and music could agree
but one must meet his or her end
I and I
could agree
anyway
it seems to me
Happy is the purgatory with nameless saints,
who pretend as if, they can float without blame
infinitely so
so infinitely benign
it actually irritates.
How?
It's not enough to imagine oppositions.
We have to suppose there are in between-s.
How banal.
Happy are the novelists,
who pretend as if, they invent new words.
infinity in finite forms.
don't waste our time
I'm sorry I wasted your time.
H.
It's better unspoken.

day 20

He,

H and I.
we're so unsatisfied. when will we meet? who speaks these lines?
morning has never felt so cold.
I don't mind dropping but give me a warning.
I can't keep up with him.
I can't follow him to the grave.
I had 19 days to say goodbye.
Mournings, however, are useless.
shed blood, not tears.
What are we afraid of?
I believe he'll come.
soon enough. enough.

M: (aside) 我们似趁相识。

I: I don't know you. But. I think...I am ready to die. He's not coming back. I'm incomplete. He's silent. He's not coming home.
I die.


Narrator: the third day, presumably he will rise from the dead and disappear from the tomb.

day 14

I speaks again.

repetition; would very much like to remain where I am; thank you.

welcome the nostalgia of:
when, once we could smile, laugh and jest at the mere thought of us, them, everyone, being themselves, exercising the childishness that we all possess; less-than-pretentious; we are delighted by the thought of ice creams sold outside the school compound, and the brief freedom we had as we walked home. That short distance, a world in front of us - of snails, toads, butterflies, tennis balls and guppies that weren't as free as us. we seemed proud of that. so innocently proud.
thank you, I would really like to repeat myself.
welcome to the reverse, the repressed state of the mind, when youths forget their childhood and look to empty promises of delirium, seduction and the less-than-eventful game of self-gratification. Still eventful. So eventful that nothing happens. nothing. just the seaside and the sun that never rises. I remembered, vaguely, how to be less than myself, and always projecting a future that lasts forever. we cycled through tar and melted sin, and rejoiced in the less; always incomplete self, imagining that we didn't have a future.
thank you, I would like to leap ahead.
welcome to the future, that will never come. I wait, listening for butterflies that would flap so hard that I could actually hear them. A moment in time, that feverish desire long gone, replaced by the concrete delusion and virtual world that dissolves the real and is the real. I am left with everything, too much of everything. Where is the future? Given a spatial reality, I am threading through virtual jungles and leaving places far behind me, I am remembering to forget my past; as if they never happened. At least, that's how I remember. Where am I? Still here, thrown around like a water balloon. I explode. Perhaps. I imagined it. No. I repeat the explosion. Reverse and it feels as if I implode. It is a display of slow motion replay of how water touches water. And I feel assured that gravity will pull me now. Almost instantaneously.
thank you, I hate the effect of the almost.
welcome the future. I would like to remain where I am. Almost ready to be gone. I disappear, only to appear as well. You, you who reads. Please replace me and be 'I'.

day 13

M's appearance remains an enigma.

But he speaks, as aside.

M: 面对心空，他，绝对存在。
我，开不了口。
我，的语言不同。
我与他，有一百种可能发生的未来。
但此刻，让我们，人与门，等待。
门将打开。人们会走完彼此的路，彼此的门。

day 12

M enters.
M sits besides I.
M does not speak.

I breathes.
I stays.
I sees.
I turns.
I eats.
I sleeps.
I wakes.
I thinks.
I speaks.
I says I as no one else could say I.

I...

day 11

4th day without I...
H is alone in the temple

Let us begin with H's monologue, which is so often the case.

I
but the crime
of today's democratic mandate(s)
is the didaticism that we can be
poets and artists
with something to say.
murmurs, to replace the past, configure the memories
our memories and theirs
and we end up with, really, too much to say.
the skulls, the knocking demon, the dragons and their friends
their tombs are empty
and we come back to another crime.
-
I
but the next crime
of today's democratic mandate(s)
is the delibration, hyperpassionate call for change
as poets and charismatics
with something to say.
glossolia, ecstatic misutterances, create hallucinations
of our future, always about the future
our and their futures
and we return back to the dead sea
the fish-bones, the scrolls, the salt,
especially the salt
and we want harmony but end up with perpetual chaos

already I said too much.
always already.

day 7

H: You skipped a day.
I: won't matter.
H: why won't it matter?
I: I want it over and done with.
H: With what?
I: I'm not ready to do this.
H: With what?
I: can I leave now?
H: are you leaving me?
I: ...no. but I have to leave. Physically.
H: you are leaving me.
I: Will you come with me?
H: I'm always here with you.
I: No. I mean. Come with me.
H: I'm always here.
I: Come with me.
H: I can't leave here.
I: I'm afraid. Please come with me.
H: But...we're not...in love.
I: I know. But come with me. I can't do this alone.
H: You're not alone.
I: Please!
H: (steps back) You're...are you okay?
I: I'm leaving.
H: Don't go.
I: Bye.

I left. The next day beckons.

day 6

I: Let's fall in love.
H: ...I can't.
I: Why can't you?
H: It's not time yet.
I: When will it be a good time?
H: Never.
I: never?
H: It's not so simple. I'm...I'm already attached.
I: (long pause) since when...
H: since I met...
I: it's okay. don't tell me. I don't want to know.
H: don't you want to know?
I: It's not going to change anything right?
H: I don't know.
I: We all don't know.
H: Can we still be friends?
I: Yes we can.
H: Thank you.
I: So what happens next?
H: I don't know.
I: Ok.
H: Ok.

day 5

they speak.

I: feels like yesterday
H. can't be.
I: the intention is there
H: to justify your imagination?
I: I feel limited by
H: your surroundings. don't be foolish
I: it's going to be tomorrow soon
H: No. It's today. Still.
I: It's going to be tomorrow soon.
H: Then it won't be tomorrow. It will be today.
I: Today?
H: do you remember the time we were together?
I: Aren't we together now?
H: It's different.
I: How different.
H: Just different. Don't ask.
I: You're weird.
H: so what can you conclude?
I: It still feels like yesterday.
H: if you can remember yesterday as a memory, it is gone. Today cannot be yesterday.
I: that's not what I mean. I said, 'it feels like yesterday'.
H: I don't see how different it is.
I: It's different.
H: How different?
I: effect, affect.
H: uh huh...
(pause)
H: so?
I: affect...effect.
H: You're not making sense.
I: I don't have to. I just think that it feels like yesterday.
H: argh.
I: you feel like breaking my neck.
H: No I don't.
I: You do.
H: let's stop this conversation.
I: We can't.
H: Why can't we?
I: Someone will read it. day after day. Now it feels like tomorrow.
H: You...are...not...making...sense...
I: Think about it.
H: Why should I?
I: We don't always have a choice. I say this. (pause)
H: this?
I: and immediately you think of this.
H: of course...that's what you said.
I: It feels like tomorrow. this is it.
H: What is this?
I: It.
H: It?
I: I don't suppose you know what it refers to, no?
H: Yes. No. I don't.
I: Yes you do.
H: Argh!
I: Pathos.
H: Eros.
I: who cares really.
H: can we talk about more concrete things?
I: Like?
H: what were we talking about?
I: I can't remember.
H: oh. (long pause)
I: feels like yesterday.
H: Yea.

Day 4

I encounters H?

they walked past each other. they did not know one another.
in this forest; which forest???????????????????????
that forest.
the forest of void.
where it was raining.
outside the forest there was nothing.
I and H do not exist outside the forest.
we then came to a crucial moment
when the circle could no longer repeat
and the past was a quiet mess
and they ignored each other
a passing reference
and no children.
without a family
each wending his or her own way through the forest
oblivious to each other's existence
so this limit; which limit????????????????????
shall be the swerve, in a brownian motion
the determined path of an encounter
forced upon them by the swerve of the fingers
and then they shall meet
and we shall see
the twain
framed in the path of a writing
delivered not unto salvation
but the repetition with a difference
each day and night
and the whirl of wind
between birth and death
no children yet
but monsters
that haunt the dreams of you and I

day 3

H.

I
-
I
if I could
I would
break
I
up
and then
I can
pretend
nothing is in between
but there could never be
I
perpetuate
in every
instance
I am where I am
I am who I am
I am when I am

Ha
is the most cruel thing to speak
so silent that it's empty
Ha.
I
-
I
a
I
always there.
am.

day 2

I.

I can't read prose. There is something highly stylised about this form of writing. It can't be taken lightly and you can hardly afford breaks and pauses...It escapes me as soon as I read it. One word after another. One sentence after another. With one, it becomes two. Almost instantly. I have to follow its flow; for better or worse. I cannot be sure until I get to the end. But it doesn't seem to end and here I am, the writer and the reader simultaneously. I am naked to my own device. How sinister is that?! Writing must be the single most frightening thing to do without much physical effort. It is as if I am almost still, working my fingers or hands for my eyes to make sense. I can go blind. But as long as I have the capacity to think, I am already writing the story of my self; creating and destroying myself simultaneously. What we truly see (and we spent alot of time seeing that) is darkness. And I see I blindly. It is one of those profound psychic exercises that I cannot and will not dare to disown for what it can potentially do to me if I were to put it to death; on the stakes, crucifixed or even buried with a ceremonious embalming. Don't underestimate your own power. of being blind, hence we fill the holes with imagination and tremble with excitement, like a boy having toys to proudly show to adult strangers. It is all strange, I the most.

day 1.

H: 1:17am, my fingertips, glued to the keyboard. and paused.

H: 1:17:56am. I drifted from one place to another. Out of 11 lamp posts I was seeing, one bulb was fused. Drifted back to the monitor screen.

I: There is nothing around. I can't look out of the window.

H: Out of the many loose hair on the floor, about 83% are mine.

I: There is a place called Vence, beyond the coastal Rivera. I imagine.

H: 2:11am. Blood on my gums.

H: There is little to wish for. Little to dream about. Little to remember about.

I: Were you there when I bled to death?

H: No dear. I'm still alive.

I: Cows are dropping from the sky.

I: pardon me, what is the time?

H: Shhh.

I: The rain stopped 3 hours 23 minutes and 12 seconds ago.

I: I can't count split seconds.

I: I can't measure myself.

H: Shh.

H: I feel separated from myself. Is it you dear? At the door?

I: Rest in peace. My friend.

H: I'm not dead yet.

I: I flipped to a page on the book I am currently reading.

H: It's already 1:25am.

I: I pointed towards a paragraph.

H: It's already 1:23am.

I: There. These words: 'It seems to me that it takes almost a lifetime to recuperate from such an attempt'.

I: My fingers are back on the keyboard.

H: I will not leave my place. I will not.

I: Swiftly, I wrote.

H: Who goes there? Is it you, my dear?

H: Everyday I think of you. Everyday.

I: It must be 3:23am. Now.

H: Should I write: ' "It seems to me that it takes almost a lifetime to recuperate from such an attempt'".

H: Hope. It begins with H.

H: How long is a lifetime?

I: I pretend nothing happened. In order for that to happen, I have to pretend that there is such a thing called nothing.

I: Willie fillie dillie tillie dillie sillie zillie

H: Who understands her?

H: I lost my virginity when I said my name out.

I: I am never alone.

I: I...I still feel lonely.

H: Haha.