We are walking in the night. She isn't in a hurry.

She smells like Jasmine.

We are listening to music coming out from an opened window. She stands and lets her things fall on the pavement. She leans on me, offering me her hand. She wants to live in the night. She wants to dance. She embraces me. I feel her breath on my neck. She writhes. She feels it. Falling in love is nothing but an initiation.

My palm crawls on hers. My body enfolds hers. Her leg cuddles me as it slides on me. She 's so innocent. Each one of them are going to be that. I slip my hand at her waist.

Love is an altar; our very own altar.

It's ourselves that we keep on worshiping, the very best of what we posses. Our partner is just an excuse; a so-called necessity. We get improved every single time.

Each forthcoming love is doomed to be better than the previous one.

Lust; me invading you. You are spinning.

Her eyes sparkle in the dark. She remembers; all that she has been before she was born. She suffers, My hands move on her body. There are moments that I think that I am detached from sanity when I think of our despair to hold on to what's not there.

I gripe her body and then I throw her on the pavement.

Stand up. 

Obey. 

Self-luminous or not; the illusion of a choice.

I will claim them all and you are going to surrender them to me. You can't resist. No one can.

She touches my knee. She stands up with my caress on her face.

If there was love I might could love her. We dance. She doesn't ask for love. She wants to touch, to witness, to believe. We agreed on this together, even before we were born. We conspired that we would meet at this place, that we would dance in the night. She is thirsty. She hungers for herself but she doesn't know it. She demands whatever she is; completely free from everything that she's been taught.

She wants to use me. I do the same. Our only difference is that I am aware of that; furthermore I am capable of admitting it; My original sin. She is an unrepentant soul, innocence's alibi. Each time I learn all over again, as if it was the first time.

The music stops. She looks for her bag and her white cane. She is afraid as she 's turning her face towards me. She seeks for freedom. I make a turn. "Come" she whispers. I stand still

"Come". None and nothing comes unless you invite them. Anything else that crosses your way, you are simply incapable of recognizing it; it vanishes. Nevertheless everything comes with a price. You are... your price; and you will offer that to me in return for something that you have no idea of what it really is, nobody has every talked about. I am not going to speak with you either. I am just going to let you see and then I shall perish. Then you will decide whether you will become or you will freeze yourself for ever because then you will know, you will recall. Life is death and death becomes life.

I follow her. We arrive at her house. She unlocks the door. She puts her bag on an armchair. She takes of her coat. She picks up some music and opens the door to her balcony. I climb the inox. Everything is moments; Time's detonation. A "bang" that requires so many things so that it could take place. We think we know how to aim. We keep training ourselves; nothing but fireworks. Your time hasn't come yet my love. No.

She burst into heartbreaking laughter; me breathing her. It's her birth, her first shock. We are floating in warmth, we swim, we are not hungry. Out of a sudden something pushes us, pulls us out, we are suffocated; we are dying facing the Light. It's so irritating. We are hearing voices. We die running out of time; tick, tack, tick... Make up your mind. Now.

I am holding your body in my arms. A scream, our first cry. Take your first breath.

Keep breathing in, breathing out.

I close her eyes. She surrenders. I start undressing her. She 's a beautiful rose and I am removing her petals one after the other. Elle m' aime un peu, beaucoup, passionnement, pas du tout, a la folie.

What's the point in beauty unless if you don't celebrate it? Everyone is born beautiful. We created ourselves that way, baits and hooks at the same time. We are lures framing our thoughts, passions, vices, acquired virtues, our gentle candle.

Do you love me? A bit? A lot? Up to madness... till the night's end, till you realize that you no longer need me, that you never did. Yet you convinced yourself that much that you forced yourself to create me.

A cigarette is turning into ashes at the astray. Wind blows. The sun will rise soon. I look at the watch on the wall.

How fool they are to believe that you can't stop time. On her neck her personal Judas is hanged. She doesn't need him any more. She grabs Him in her sleep, she pulls him and breaks the chain. I leave, going out on the street again. I am her gestation. When time comes, she will give birth to me again. My punishment, my victory and my very own conviction are hiding behind her heartbeat.

I am heading to the train station. People who are sleeping but they are unaware of that. They meekly follow flags which are waved proudly. Gods, demons, humans, symbols, images that may have never existed but for inside their minds. Millions of empty clothes, wandering in space and time; nomads as existences. Caravans looking for their oasis or its reflection. Desire has always been insticts' corner stone.

The train hasn't arrived at the station yet. I sit on a bench. An old woman is dragging a suitcase and she struggles to catch an old man's hand. He smiles half hidden behind his blue skull cap.

Ιn case that I would be able of any feeling, that would be jealousy.

The lady brings the suitcase next to the bench and she is about to sit down while her partner goes on walking.

- Where are you going, honey? Stop!

She grabs him and he makes him sit down next to her. She takes care of his clothes.

- Altzheimer. We figured it out the first time that he got lost and Police found him, she explained to me while she was searching for his dog tag on his neck.

- He is not here. I watch him but there is nothing that I can do. After he falls asleep in the nights, I start crying. I am a human being as well. Nobody listens to me. I cry every single night and every morning I take this suitcase and we keep coming back.
The train stops in front of us. She stands up, takes the suitcase and goes forward.

- Come! Her partner smiles happily on the bench. She puts the suitcase down and she takes his hand. She walks him to the train. I watch her behind the windows as she tries to make him sit down. The train leaves the station. I will take the next one.

I look at my hands. I keep forgetting their shape. My mind rejects their image. I try to recall my name. Names are marching in front of me. I imagine someone calling me. I don't answer back to any name. I have to come back but I don't wear a dog tag. I hold on to nothing. I stare at the sky. I am suffocating. I am suffering. A train stops in front oh me. I get inside it.

People stand aside. I stand on the door. The blind woman shows up at the station. I never asked for her name. If you take the name, you take a soul's piece on your way out. I never enjoyed pieces, nicknames or samples. I touch the glass. She stops. A woman who's in a hurry stumbles over her. "Helen" I hear her scream as the doors close and the train starts.

We worship our chains. We are ready to kneel in front of anything that's willing to take over our responsibility. We will frost it, we will praise it, we will even kill it if it's necessary. We are willing to do anything as long as it becomes our precious; our alibi. It's not our fault. It has never been. The presumption of innocence remains our existence's Holy Grail.

He think of our nudity as repulsive, regardless it's form; clothes, theories, relationships, anything that's necessary to wrap up us warmly, to help us fall asleep in the dark. Time is thought's last frontier. If everything has a starting point, then it has an ending one as well. Being is designed in rays.

Where should I get out of the train? I recall a voice inside my head. I can tell the words. The voice fades in. I can't breathe. I have to get out. The train stops. I get out. People move forward, vanish, are scattered in the roads. I don't know where to go.

Where is my home? What are these clothes that I am wearing?

I see a police officer and I am heading to him. Memory is our only homeland. Nostos. I am my home. I turn around and I get lost on similar roads.

What my house looks like? What is it made of? If only we could set our perception free from thousands useless information that disorientate us, all this confusion. 

I need silence. I want to fall asleep.