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M.N.: I walk among the thorns in the dark
in those that are to come and in the yesteryears
and I have as my only weapon my sole defense
my purple nails like cyclamens.
A.: I saw her everywhere. Holding a glass and staring into the void. Listening to records lying on the floor. Walking down the street in baggy pants and an old gabardine. In front of the children's windows. Sadder then. And in the record stores, more anxious, biting her nails. She smokes countless cigarettes. She is pale and beautiful. But when you talk to her, she doesn’t hear at all. As if something else is happening - that only she hears and is terrified of. She holds your hand tightly, tears up, but she isn’t there. I never caught her and took nothing from her.
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