Four red digits dramatically pointing out the beginning of their departure. He woke up first. Crusted eyes unfastening on a silly flashy poster. Then her. Breathing hard before stretching her arms against her nude waist, then above her ruffled head, and finally towards the far ceiling, the pale hands waving like a skylark who silently devotes … Continue reading Skylark


Number 15

Me and coffee have the most stereotypical love relationship ever. I do love it, although it is suffered love, the one of the kind you keep on being stuck with even if it does not love you back. What does that mean? That I need it. My body calls for it; even if I am … Continue reading Number 15


Nobody really cared about what she said; she was the average girl, not really attractive, not particularly clever, not really funny. Less than average he thought. He although felt something on his throat when he noticed the high pitched tone of voice she reached in the effort to be heard among the circle.


In front of that kind, curly hair guy – a putto she would have said because of her country heritage – those big blue eyes staring at her – still something to be struck about, still because of her country heritage – she was drawing himself, he was drawing herself.


They had that dream. They hold it still, apparently. I saw them. They could have never managed it otherwise. They literally crossed the country, going over 700 fucking kilometers on that rolling bin, but they have, I guess, what you are used to call love.