A phone call, Bilbao:
"yes, ok. Ok. Ok, yes."
Arms are waving
12 hours, a room in Paris:
a pencil case is being dropped on the floor, people are thinking in french
A police station with green walls:
a girl is stretching cling film over her face and falls off her chair
Somewhere else in France, I usually picture a farmhouse in the countryside:
running around in circles, reading from a piece of paper and trying to be heard over ‘Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux’
On a tube, London:
Takes off her bag, shoes, jacket, hat, jewellery, make-up. Lets down her hair
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
*On the soft place that I rest my head,
you cut away and left me lying in bones*
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
a meeting of three people, for 4 hours and 18 minutes
I knew her family,
tainted with happiness, their eyes drenched
in blood and horror movies.
Something is about to happen, child told me,
On a train home, or back or both.
Selling houses that don’t exit; not a conversation,
a meeting back and forward anyway
You look at it
Curiously remembering
her crying baby.
No one could see a woman who didn’t speak.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC