I dream of an old café that once lingered by the side of the road. I dream of its menu and what it felt like to savour its culinary delights as the rain pissed down on the grey town outside. The café has been gone for years. Non-existent. Full of shadows and mispronounced words as the lights change at three in the morning when the streets are devoid of traffic. Lost touch, like a whiff of perfume. Fragments of smiles, still disarming hardened hearts. I’m afraid of everything and nothing. I worship oblivion more than the orgasm. There’s fear, though, and what I fear is that when I’m gone, my secret history will be as silent as the minds that try their utmost to quell mine. That old café. I’d pass it on my way to and from university. How many years has it been now? It’s just like yesterday. Yet the older I get, the less anything makes sense, and time races away from me like a wild horse. Hours hang suspended like snowflakes. The years slipping between my fingers like sand. The café is gone, yet I sit within its walls whenever I close my eyes. The decor yellow, like smoke stains. The smell like singed hair. The air warm like the comfort of a blanket, yet there’s a draft creeping in, and the more it creeps, the lower my heart sinks until it joins the puddles that drip down drains unseen.