Out of history. Out of time. Out of mind. Out of money.
In the sacred place that the brain reserved for the yellow cheap liquid of the CV dropouts. Where nothing becomes and nothing returns. I miss you, stranger. If only I could tear down your night without stars like a curtain. Like a muslim veil that got this country all heated up.
I’m thinking about your grandma. Your praying hands. Your first orgasm. The moment when it all crashed. The split of second of no return. The one that launched you to this no-place next to the train window. Line 7. On a way to Pont Neuf.
I get it. You need a rest. Drinking is not easy. You have to hold a bottle. All the time. At any price. Even when the thirst is gone. Even if there’s noone who’d dare to drink it. Even if there’s noone who dares to sit next to you.
If only you could dream now. But I know that you’re not.
This is not polish vodka 😀