He came in while I was still in bed, with an old embroided travelling bag, a beautiful piece, what a great thing to get at a flea market, I thought. In a soft protective tone he asked me to come since there was no reason to stay anymore and started packing my clothes, but I had to keep rolling the film to keep his face alive and my shirts kept jumping out of the bag. He got up and put a sticker on my thigh, a big yellow sticker saying crazy things I used to like, a big yellow sticker stretching it’s arms out like a hungry baby, a sticker you can take off your thigh and preserve. But it all felt somehow empty or maybe it was me, with my passions and lumps of my fresh air piled up in a landfill, waiting to be reused. So I said no without even looking at that holographic face shimmering in front of the window pane

and turned to the beloved flesh, the blood and milk, the milk and honey resting next to me and felt like turning the page, turning the hair, clock-wise, into a correct constellation, into a night which gives shelter, into a day which gives joy.

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