She's listening to french music. Slightly touching her eye with her left hand (it itches), she thinks of how life would have continued between them if he hadn't decided to randomly stop writing, all at once, without warning, without hesitation nor explanation (her head was running at 100 km/hs, the thoughts she was having had the most exotic characteristics). Thoughts of what path should she take crossed through her mind, like ghosts through thick walls, leaving behind traces of their scent.
Between the thoughts and her daily routine (sleeping nothing more than 4 hours, drinking 10 coffees a day, reading, writing and eating roughly one meal per day), she was slowly trying to make her life come to an end. The love she had felt for that man, the feelings she had felt and the plans they had made, seemed to never leave the place they had once filled. She hated it. Had it been possible, she would have already performed some sort of plastic surgery to stop them causing so much noise inside her brain, like a poltergeist scaring a young child.
Her mind seems to jump from one thing to another, from love to death, from black to white (like the relationships she used to have - everything was in black and white, she knew no colours, no words, she had no verbal thoughts; she thought with images, visualizing everything). Nothing made much sense to her these days.
Tomorrow might be a new day, a new day with new thoughts and new loves she thought, and went to the door to receive Dick from his long trip.
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