Thursday, March 11

C’était juste de tuer tous ces gens

As if the whole universe gathered around a Parker pen. A red pen that wrote fluently and unlawfully. All immorality could have been summarized on a single sheet of paper, in a single phrase, mentioning a single name.

Those days when I was throwing my scarf on the coffee table in the lobby, when I ran towards the kitchen for a good cigarette, when I was contemplating your minibar though I would always end up drinking coffee, when I was feeling small just because your arms were around me, when we were lying on the floor insensitive, when you were buying white shirts just so I could wear them… Those days have melted on the sidewalks in Bucharest.

You have permission to tear my clothes, my articles, my sense of humor, my projects, my hopes, my life… except my heart.

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