Sat looking up at the ceiling with my eyes closed, I pictured her wrapped in a dressing gown, all curled up against me on some winter morning just like any other. It made me want her again, so much so that I grabbed a piece of paper and pen and thought about all the right words to use to capture her beauty, but then I found myself drifting and just like that, I returned to my lethargic state. And yet I could still smell the back of her neck, and in particular the scent of her flesh mixed with the shampoo she always used. The memory of her body made my fingers tingle despite me stuffing them in my mouth like a toddler. She’s not the kind of girl you can just drop, y’know? But still, the hours drifted away, and with them my emotions, too. Sat there lost in thought, my senses dulled until all that was on my mind was the sound of the wind and rain coming in through the window. Such purgatory days are like so many that have gone before. I try convincing myself things have changed, but in a hundred years from now, such days will have long been forgotten, and such indecision will be as meaningless as the memories and feelings I don’t put down into words. Lighting a smoke, I switch on the radio. There are voices, but they don’t say anything. They do give me something to take my mind off things, however. There’s some slum kid in a Brazilian favela. He’s running down a dusty street with flip-flops on. He’s being chased by some other punk with a gun and when the punk fires, the bullets make the slum kid’s head flower up. There are so many lurid colours. So many flashes of red and white that my fingers begin to shake until I tighten them around the frame of the chair. When he’s on the ground, and the blood flows out in all directions, it reminds me of her, and how when she was in the right mood, she’d blossom like a new moon.