It's all about Anna or Suzy, can I call you Suzy?

“Smoking can kill”

a cigarette package

Raining all night long.

At times you like it, at times it keeps you from falling asleep. Then you can not hear it any more. You can only see silent drops of water sliding down your window. Drops that are breaking the lights of the city. Rainbows. A magic land somewhere far away. You decorate the view with luscious curves of smoke you exhale so tenderly. So softly. So lovingly.

Memories. One with the birthday cake. One with a kiss. One with streets of an unknown city. One with loneliness. Heavily, light stars above the still sea. Dark blue, invisible the distance, it melts with the sky. There you are lying with him. Fragile.

You give in to the passion. The whirlpool of thoughts.

It is the skin that asks for your attention. So awake when all else, but traffic, is asleep.

Butterflies fly no more. They are still. As silent as sheep, warm, wrapped in the softness of they wool coats.

It is me. On a corner. In front of the news-stand. Freshly printed Le post has just been delivered. An older, grey haired, man comes out of the back of a van, throwing bundles of newspaper to the woman in front of the tin box with glass windows. She looks at him, silent. Rain. Hope in her eyes, pain in her look. She longs for him. The ignorant delivery person. The van joins the slow, night traffic when she picks up the new paper that will once again be recycled in a week. She looks after the van one more time. Then sighs and returns to her late night work. Selling newspaper, magazines, postcards, gums and tobacco.

It is the skin that asks for your attention. So awake when all else, but traffic, is asleep.

Butterflies fly no more. They are still. As silent as sheep, warm, wrapped in the softness of they wool coats.

Anna. Anna is my name. Anna, the flat battery. The city is dark. Like the deepest forest of the lands far, far away.

You can hear the sounds. The nature calls. Mating. Loving. Living.

Generation after generation, time passes. Slowly flowing, present.

Your past in your memories. The inability to prove it ever existed. Like smoke. The luscious curves of smoke you exhale so tenderly. So softly. So lovingly. From the deepest depths of your lungs.

The neglected promise vanishes forgotten in the distant past of yesterday.

You light another cigarette.

And you sleep.

Alone.