Slowly only, the cold creeps through my thin socks. The old woman on the second floor across the street doesn't care about the outside chill; she talks to her cat on her balcony. Obscure shadows gesticulating, fluttering like eye lashes, monologuing, bending down. It is dark. Her warm orange curtains so distant. - I can see only schemes through these tears and this rain.
My right leg starts shaking uncontrollably. It ripples from my middle, impaling the unspeakable, taking over my body like a high tide. Words are stale and shallow, a kaleidoscope, a roundabout - inside, brittle and stark in the same time. Like little lamps flashing, reflecting in the rain. The green light on the fourth floor, the books, the wardrobe the piano and the girl who pulls off her stockings not knowing of me in front of her refrigerator; against her red brown wooden floors.
A big fat raindrop splashing on my thumb, I dodge involuntarily.
How long has it been? I feel the cold wall flashing against my skull. An old friend. Blushing because I remember how someone told you she still would and it's such a shame would I ever also find myself there on that threshing floor. Who
am I?
I feel the cold now. It creeps through my legs. The melody takes me far away, lifts me up over this canyon of stones, into the late summer storm, right before the fall.
The old woman is now inside one with her couch, caressing her cat, murmuring words of sweet nothing into the black. My words crumble and fall, specks for citybirds to find.
I have to go now.

A last look into the mirror on the wall. Red, black, dissolved. My face a whiter shade of pale. Echoes of sounds finding me, unlocking spacious rooms forcefully reflecting broken dreams faded. Words smudged under tired eyes spilling over from all that my soul understands -
but cannot say