Cracks

For the third time this week, I am sitting alone on my balcony in the cold. I am wearing a black winter dress that I bought in Saint Petersburg five years ago, black leggins and pink satin slippers, both of which I brought back from Russia when I last visited in June. The glue spots on my right slipper reveal a missing bow. The bow on the left one I reattached a few days ago. I didn’t bring a blanket or a jacket on the balcony, I’m freezing on purpose. The clouds above me are distorted into a grimasse. Leafless trees are trying to grab them from the ground. They tear through the nightsky like cracks in a broken glass.

The world around me is falling apart. I can see stones rolling across the pavement and silently falling into the abyss. A group of people walks past me chatting happily. They don’t look up and they don’t seem to notice the little blank black spots slowly spreading around them. Once they leave, my world gets tranquil again. In my black and white vision, I can make out a missing lamp post here and there. How long until it gets to me? I wonder. Surely it must be but a matter of time.

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