XX/XX/XXX XX: XX
Wake up in a cot under the eyes of Baroque pale-skinned babies, does not annoy me, but it confirms the irritability of my being.
Angels weep with happiness that human life is happening above them as well, and the heavens are opened not only by the wrath of God.
The baby’s stinking tear rolled through his lovely roundabouts and fell in sinister proximity to me.
We should move the cot closer to the door. But my uncle often goes to the bathroom at night.
The Angels remind Louisa of something. Her child’s face doesn’t fit her physical exterior, just like this room’s ailment of a pastoral painting over my head. It’s the other way around.
The uncle seems to be trying to bypass my corner. I folded the cot and wiped the gloom off my face.
How did I eat? How did I wash? I don’t remember much about myself. Sometimes it seems like my life goes by in pieces. It’s amazing how fast I forget what’s going on with me.
English isn’t easy for me. I’m learning the phrases. After school, there’s only one sadness left in my head. This is a torture by boredom and pointlessness.
I’m on a bus to Louisa, and I want to show her the green house. We go there to burn diaries. Maybe you should drown them, though. Why does fire always accompany rituals? I don’t think the house needs any offerings. But I still keep a diary.
We’re standing on the doorstep. She’s looking at the door. «Come on?» I pushed the door. The green paint scraps stuck to my hand. She went inside.
Our feet have drowned into black. I think this is where the floor goes to nothing.
I reached for thousands of needles in my hand. I don’t even know what I touched. Louise looked at me like she was drowned in air.
She looks like she’s tied to the floor. The lips have put out some words. I sat on the hooks to disappear in the dark. I’m always dreaming about how I pat on Louisa’s hair. But Louise herself isn’t there.
