I met myself, as it were, in the darkness of the morning, on the terrace by the garden, by the sea, by the clouds on the edges, as i was walking up the stairs, he passed by me like my shadow, but mirrored in every way, warm in substance, he told me in a vague, broken manner, that he cared about my health, for my health was his sickness, and my breath suffocated him. Who was I, if he was dying as I lived, and why did the air feel, so warm, so bright with the heat, of the past, leave me be, i ask, of my friend, my son, my father, i do not stay there anymore, I live here, in a house I thought was old, but I now find was built just yesterday. I have lived here longer than that.
No comments yet. Log in to reply on the Fediverse. Comments will appear here.