Misconception of the self. A soft pain hitting his chest with a non-coordinated tempo. The smoke slightly escapes between the lips. The hands shake as thousand earthquakes.
You're nervous. You're hurt. You're mad. You're empty.
Only the afection of a significant other can return your senses back.
There's love, lust, pain, loss.
The blind sight of ten incoming trains impacts him to the bones. He falls to the ground and he barely feels. His brain replays a high pitch all over his head.
There's loss.
The wind fades the ashes away and he's left with a smoked cigarrette. He doesn't even smoke. His hands are cold between his thighs, looking for mutual heat. He sighs. Tiny pieces of ice cut his face sofly. Snow.
There's pain.
There's blood all over the ground and a corpse in the middle of the big red stain. People look, people stare. They scream. Some of them are even crying. Someone's calling the police. The ambulance. Some of them are taking photos. Others run, others sit there shocked. Life's hard to give and easy to take.
There's lust.
She sighs and smiles. Their bodies divide becoming two. They were an only and unique being, for once. He lays down next to her.
Her fingertips draw thin lines on his nude chest. Softly taps his shoulders, with a non-coordinated tempo. The smoke of her cigarrette escapes between her bright red lips. His soul shakes as thousand earthquakes when her hands touch his skin. "You're not that bad", she laughs.
He rolls his eyes. She laughs again.
There's love.
A girl sits next to him. She does smoke. He doesn't. But he has cigarrettes.
-Do you want one?- he says.
-I have mine.
-You can take my cigarrettes if you want. I don't even smoke.
-It's snowing. -she looks at him with piercing green eyes.- what are you doing here?
-I could ask you the same, don't you think?
-I'm smoking. What are you doing here?
-I thought I lost someone.
-Did you found that person?
-Yes. -he looks at her.
