and it's a shattered glass on the floor, it's the noncooperative gas of the oven, and the weakness is all over, not hidden inside anymore, but in the house, as a roommate. and it's out where you can see it, in the shallow footsteps when out of the room to the kitchen, in the blank look to your feet, wich never seemed so purplelike. and you just wonder when have things got this way, when was it you stopped to think about and let them get away with. but now is pointless to think about it, isn't it? it's there as a fact. it's in your way of taking a place on the couch, is in your way of boiling the water for some tea, it's in your behaviour, all the tiredness, the sadness, the deception, the frustration.

and you're not so different from the characters he admires on those cool books. you're as drunk and as decadent as them, maybe that should make you his live shortstory. maybe that's why he looks at you as if you had kept something for him all this time you hadn't met. oh well, but you know that he looks as if you were as easy to burn as a piece of paper. you know that, though he treats you as the best literature, you're nothing but a comfortable reading before the sleep.