Last night, I was in Sweden. Everything looked like a scene from a Bergman film. I remember no colour except black, white and light. A cafe filled with people. Someone brings me a pitcher filled with some cocktail. I take off my shirt. I look at everyone and no one looks at me. A dream.
How fatally beautiful the rain looked to me as a mosquito. I cling to a raindrop. It takes me to the end. After I die, I wake up.
A sketch of a bull crosses a street. Hollow outlines dance in the dark. The night calls. Voice mail.
An uneasy night. Fire flies. OnOffOnOffOnOffOn. I unplug my computer. The world is no more.
A thought is as warm as blood, someone whispers. My eyes open into a grave. Only the dead know what death is. Only death knows who the dead is.