I feel devastated. I am utterly destroyed. I am dead, there is nothing more for me in this life. I just want to die. Because he is the love of my life, the only boy I'll ever want in my life, and he is going out with another girl who happens to be my friend. I cannot believe the she did this to me: I thought she was my best friend. And then she goes out with the only boy I want or will ever want, and I've heard that they are kissing and everything. I have nothing left to live for. Nothing, Nothing.

I am dreaming

of a desert,




a desert where
the sun is setting and

it's not hot anymore

but not freezing cold yet, either.

I feel nothing. He's dead, my mother told me. What a strange hat that woman is wearing. Between the classes she called and told me. Why on earth is she wearing a ridiculous hat like that?

Not that he was related, just an old man living next door. But he used to play with me. Yet I feel nothing. Fuck these traffic lights. Every afternoon, he used to play with me. Together with his wife they took care of me and my brother while mom and pap were at work. He was like a grandfather to us. Fuck this traffic and fuck this blasted heat. Everyday I spend hours stuck in a bus, listening to old songs I've grown tired of.

Probably we loved him, in a way, what ever that word "love" means, so shouldn't I feel something? Would that woman stop snoring, drop dead, just stop breathing right into my neck. Feeling that warm, moist breath on the back of my head is just disgusting.

When I was a kid, at the school yard, screaming and shouting always got me my way. If that didn't work I would go punching and kicking, spitting. When did that change? Today I lost my temper, lost control, and there was just this wall of silence, a stunned hostility. Everybody stared. There was the angry whispering. He doesn't look like that kind of a person (someone said). Is this what the adult world is about? An unbeatable wall, a system you cannot fight, kick, punch, and all your fury and rage is turned against you as you pound your knuckles bloody but
there is not a scratch on the wall.

Last night I re-dreamt a dream I had dreamt once before: I had just murdered someone. I remember disposing of the body by dismembering the victim and burying the pieces into holes dug in sandy forest ground. I do not remember the murder itself.

I wasn't proud of myself: Do not think that I felt that a murder was some sort of raskolnikovyan achievement of the will over the society or morals. Instead, there was a black, overbearing feeling of guilt: I waited for getting caught; every day, every night, every moment that I lived in this dream I was waiting for the police to knock on my door. When I was at my home I was both afraid to stay in and afraid to go out, and when I was out I was both afraid to be out and afraid to return to my home. That one real-time night would last for months of torturing dream-time.

But my victim was someone nobody cared too much for, and the ground is full of dark secrets, so I never got caught - like I never got caught for tagging, or smoking weed, the usual minor crimes that I actually did commit in real life. Yet the dream wasn't about the slight guilt I felt for these petty misdeeds. No, this dream was about a guilt far darker, something like the guilt one might feel - I guess - for a murder. A guilt for something I have never revealed to another person.

What really horrifies me is that when I re-dreamt that dream last night, this time the one I had murdered was my very own little brother. And, what's worse, I had the insolence to face my mother shortly after the deed, denying any knowledge of the disappearance of my beloved brother; a deadpan expression on my face.

I go home and she will be there.

But of course, she isn't there. They say that the people who have lost an arm, or a leg maybe, feel something called ghost pain. Those people sometimes still feel the missing hand, or the foot maybe, itching.

She will be there. She is my ghost pain.

She will be in the bed sheets and pillows and cushions, Gardel-records and novels of Proust. Her smell lingers there in the alcove, when I am sitting and drinking tea on that awful chair she would always sit on while drinking her tea. The plants on the balcony still shiver from her touch, you might think it is the wind, but it is her touch. My ghost pain, everywhere.

I should never go home. I should take a flight somewhere. Anywhere.

I go home and she will be there.

That street I used to walk for thirty years, thirty-one, thirty-two. Strange, I haven't been here for what, five, six, seven years? Thirty-two years, two times a day, to work and back, two times a day. The street hasn't really changed. They never do. Beneath all the neon and the ever changing posters, the street is the same. Buildings slowly grow older, but never die. Sometimes one is perhaps demolished, one or two but never three. No-one is left mourning, never. Unlike in the country. Back when I was a kid. Before the city. When a tree was cut down, I always felt sad, even terrified. How everything changes and dies. I wanted to have a funeral for the tree. In my secret way I did have a funeral for the tree. But never for a building, never. No-one never, ever holds a secret funeral for a building.