The darkest night

Our coastal city lies in a constant twilight of a dream, the pollution painting the sunset in sickly colors of pink and tempting citizens to commit a crime. The water tubes are poisoned by copper and fears, and even our taps are shed tears at night. Our air is bitter, the mind is pouring out and everything has the aftertaste of tears. At the corner of the street a dignified man turns to me, and says: "When your loved one will be pregnant from you, at her sixth month, write on her stomach with a marker. 'I am the murderer of your passions'".

I woke up, and there was a dream.

Every morning I wake up from my bitter dreams into a reality where nothing in it is exciting; I watch all those blurry figures walking in the public space with no fuel of desire, and feel that there is a big fundamental issue in here that I don’t understand. I don't know what is broken in my self-mechanism, but almost every relationship that I had felt at some one point like the mighty wind that blows at evenings from the sea and threatens to disintegrate my desires into rust.
I don't want to hurt people, and especially make her realize what a fatal mistake she made when she showed me her honest love somewhere under the sky, when I immediately kissed her, and promised her my love. It's a quite a shame when women don't realize when you break up with them in your heart, just before they force their nudity on you.

I still imagine that one day I'll meet someone who'll have that elusive inner truth that no one else has. Hopefully her big eyes will shout to me: 'Let's do some vandalism together, not from hate, heaven forbid, but from a pure love'. And then my eyes will answer to her in a quite cheesy way: "You're everything that I have, my love, you and I came from the same quarry of precious stones'. I believe that I deserve to experience a small sample from of all that.

She would probably have thick lips and a huge chest that would contain everything that men crave for. And she'll be very beautiful, although beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and it's just the integration of her face components that communicate with each other and with you. Ok – so just that she'll have some damn thick lips.
Maybe she exists somewhere, and she'll burst out into my life like a storm. And then we'll meet at nights in some high places, and I will hold her hand under the meteor shower, in order to protect us from the star that falls on her. I just need to maintain some cautious optimism.

In the meantime, I hope I'll meet someone interesting enough for ordinary talking activity (which won't include mutual exchange of body fluids). We will talk about our feelings and won't fall victims to our sexual boredom. Maybe we'll have some unique click. I believe that is achievable, I only have to recruit enough self-ambition to struggle against my evolutionary urge to impose temporary desires.
I'm rolling another cigarette.


The day passes by and it became late, but now everything is clear for me, even under the darkest night. Now I understand everything. I begin to fall asleep on the couch, and from the emerging dream I start to hear out voices mingling together with an endless passion.