D.

The bus stop makes me claustrophobic, and yes I know it stands outside next to a pretty supermarket. But there I share the dream of Thereza, that in which you never came. I know she was talking about a grave that contained an apartment in the bunker, like those you find in modern hospitals. It is pretty near, but why couldn't you anyway come home? We could drink some tea and I could show my latest poems, casually inexpensive as it's been my usual style. Perhaps you're better off not coming, I feel slightly exhausted tonight, exhausted from tomorrow, a temporal anarchy. I know I shouldn't talk too much, it makes me no healthier. I wanted to tell you I was listening to those songs of five years ago, when I more or less had a seemly interesting conversation with her, which was replaced by the electronic furies you expose me to unfailingly every weekend, when I take it for a task defiling the Bible. Yet on Mondays I'm as vertical as God, but most often have a very dim judgement. I'm slightly sleepy from the long cues in my room, awaiting for those moments of pleasure and unrest to relief my blood from the burgeois comfort of being immoral middle-class. The sky keeps changing all the time, I wonder... maybe the Phoebus is having another awry day, which often happens when you do politics and don't have the pleasure of dying beneath oceans of misspellings. Perhaps you fancy waiting for a little while? I want to finish my cigarette. Perhaps I also fancy awaiting a little more. Till that day when you'll fall into oblivion. That day you can phone me, I'll be waiting at the bus stop, a stone's throw from my house, and I won't remember all the songs. I feel fashionably tired, would you fancy coming another day? One in which I weren't to feel like talking. I'll hold those threads in my hands, to make sure that getting older will not damage your carelessness. I'll wrap them in hot desire, and then freeze them with betrayals. You can just as easily thwart them with the stupidity inherent to the middle class. Those who vote for nationalism, oh sorry... I thought for a moment I was talking to somebody else. I've bought myself new window so that my life can stare into the TV antennas and speak to them when you'll be around, so that a few glasses won't matter to much. Just like death convided Anja for breakfast, when both of us were hidden in my room where we no longer heard the sea-waves. She didn't have your charm, nor did I have the pneumonia typical of the jerking writer. I wouldn't write if you'd come anyway, I'd try to smile for pictures. I shouldn't tell you more about my beliefs, you might swell and burn, like the river beneath the tiny urban bridge. Five years ago, when I heard Kafka speaking for the last time. Since then, we only glimpse each other from a far, from a cliff paramount to being God. Would you fancy waiting till I finish my last cigarette? I bet you won't be late. For sure I can wait a little more, just enough as to treat myself to a new sight, just enough as to make you fit in my lighter. It's no problem, I understand... you warned me about rush hour. If you find my bodily hair somewhere next to the window, wrap it in desire, and worry not... for no person in utmost sanity would jump out of a window leaving an unfinished cigarette. I've grown the windows in my pane and wallpapers watering them everyday anew. The thrill disappears too, I might be waiting for you at the bus stop some other day, calm down, you can lie.