Nothing but something that is almost dead the certainty of Time the other side the certainty of Death the escape towards a space that no longer exists the desire to die dark time the fire colder than the hand not being not sleeping not dying not being neither replaced nor wandering holding your own head in your own hands along streets that do not exist for real blood the stain purity hanging your own face at the bend of a window in an enclosed space located between yourself and your own finitude the shop window is bleeding now your own head falls from your hands and rolls down into the gutter because you were never born sometimes you get the feeling that a building leaning over your head is going to collapse on you and flatten you on the ground to turn you into nothing else but a shadow that would bleed endlessly you almost want to cry almost want to scream but you don’t dare to do it for fear that the other passers-by might notice you and start staring at you with an intrigued frightened look or even a suspicious one as how can one guess what others might think sometimes now you’re scared just like that for no specific reason you don’t even know why it doesn’t matter you feel the need to lie you need to hide too you have to forget who you are and who you were for freedom there’s a price to pay and you’re ready to pay it you’ve already paid it you go out again but this time it’s not your own head that you carry away with you but the door itself and the door starts to bleed through its keyhole like a wound that would see everything that would know everything like a seer and then the keyhole closes for no reason like if it were actually the key of the rusted iron door of an old abandoned cemetery somewhere in the middle of a forest that no one would come to visit anymore.