She stands up from where she had been sleeping and walks to the bathroom. Strips, washes, dries, changes, powders. Dabs on cream, rubs it in. Rings her fingers, paints her face. She walks to the kitchen, butters bread and chews. Makes a cup of tea and drinks it. She wanders around and finds a piece of cloth. Takes it up to wipe the crumbs off the counter. A slight breeze comes in through the open window. She stands at the glass doors that lead out to the patio. Stands and stares. Twelve minutes go by. She fiddles with her necklace. Her fingertips dig hard into the grooves of her intricate pendant. She feels the skin tear. Licks her wound. Checks her watch. The hands tick by, signaling the flow of time. She checks her phone. Tweets. A message comes in. It is him. She reads it. She replies him. A one-word reply, always a one-word reply. She braces herself, prays silently, sips water, grabs her car keys, turns the door handle, walks out into the world.

Before she left, I caught a glimpse of her face. Her brows are creased. The lines in her forehead have deepened. Her cheeks tight. Her lips drawn into a straight line. And her eyes. Her eyes. How could I ever forget her eyes? I could never forget her eyes. Her eyes are glassy. Glassy like the stale skin of dead fish. There is nothing left.

Everything is routine. Nothing spectacular, only mere routine.

Opinions,words, talk,saliva, opinions, indignations, confessions, talk, intervention, word, persuasion, late night dream-talks, dream words, words that take on the form of sound – all running on Empty. There is nothing more comforting than seeking out a blabber mouth (defined: a chronic sufferer of verbal diarrhoea), looking him square in the face, eyeball him, say: SHUT THE FUCK UP. say: SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU WART-RIDDEN MAGGOT. say: SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BIPOLAR SHITMONGER FESTERING A THOUSAND COLONIES OF SLIMECOVERED FUNGUS.

And then you are calm. Because you have clammed the clam. Nothing else matters but this beautiful, perfect ensuing silence – of him glaring at you, the power of words having left his side (for most of his vocabulary lie in shallow parts), his eyes are red and veiny, bulging with unnatural fury, his fists bunched. You? You are calm. You are perfect. You sit in your chair and take out a book. You read. 

The year is when buildings have fallen and angels have risen.

The following runs like an inconsequential train of thought, across tracks, over hedges, in a zigzag way that is not unlike the rolling hills of a tranquil meadow.

What am I doing here? There is only pitch black when I raise my fingers and draw in space. I cannot see anything. Once I felt like falling and it made me laugh till my sides ached and my gums showed but as orgasms last two minutes, this feeling left me within mere seconds. What am I doing here? I am not a part of this – fact. I am neither a creature of land nor sea nor sky. Fact.

I am not. Fact.

Then what is it that I’m doing here? Nothing. I am simply wandering on feet that would not deign to listen to me, carrying me about carrying our chores carrying bags of fruit and milk to the little hut that I struggle to live in, to recreate a semblance of the life that I used to lead. I thought I saw a bear the other day, crouching outside behind a tree, looking intently at my hut. It might have been nothing but a shadow, after all shadows dance on my walls often enough. Sometimes I catch myself dancing with them. My reflection shining back at me, clothed in emerald and gold, raising my fingers to draw imaginary spaces in the air, lifting my feet to make pirouettes across the floor.

What am I doing here?