I keep on waiting for a sign, but signs are not meant to comply with my selfish wishes. I scan the day with a foggy eye and smell the scent of nothing that spreads in every direction. Rain finally subsided. Condensation sticks to the windows like a layer of glass covering another layer of glass. I hear the neighboring door opening and closing behind another closed door. And then it’s silence again. All the hopefulness I struggled to develop vanishes with the thudding sound of the wooden door. The neighbor is a shadow that greets me on the stairs once in a while, but for the rest of the time he is just a nobody like me, like myself looked at from the outside. Alone in the house I remember I am afraid. Afraid of what, I am not sure yet. I have a clue, a sensation. The kind of fear I experience when I am asleep and I dream about going back. A nightmare. The thought of exile disguised as a comeback. I’m not part of that anymore, but I keep on dreaming about it, I keep on living in fear. Nighttime extends itself endless like a formless stain. The room becomes a crate, in which light but no air penetrates from unwanted slits. The upper story tenant walks restlessly from bed to bathroom and from bathroom to bed, making rustling noises over my head. It’s early and it’s late. It makes no difference anyway. I wish tomorrow were here. I wish I will be here tomorrow.
