Some day, some random sunny day, you feel tired. You feel like your eyelids hurt much more than they’re supposed to and you sleep much less than is healthy. You notice your hair doesn’t shine anymore, and he’s all broken and matted and you don’t even remember how it is to turn the corner of your lips up. The wind blows and smashs at the window, just to do it again and again and again and your back hurts whilst shivers don’t run down your spine. Your coffe is cold and you haven’t seen the sun rises. You were just another night wide awake, the screen of television glowing hopessely begging for a crowd, hurting your blown pupils and your ears are just filled with non sense noises. You went to the rail at some lost point, light up an creased cigarette that you found floating in the carpet. Your lighter barely works, you know the gas is running out, but you don’t remember how to take the elevator and go down the street to enter the supermakert and buy some more. Your cigarettes are just ending, too. Your food is ending and your toilet paper and your toothbrush is too worn out and your shampoo is just water with sighs of former chemical and the newspaper's been pilling up some stair has been months. The coffe is coming to an end too, just like your hope. And this is despairing – you nights on wouldn’t fall down and fade again, they’d just become more unberable to swallow. The smoke scratches on your throat as you take a deep drag. Your eyes threaten to moisten but, simply, they don’t. Such an effort you’re not allowed to do anymore.

In the distance, you see an lighted up window. You see an fleeting smoke, translucent, glowing slowly. You can feel the taste of that smoke and you can feel it in your eyes while you blink painfully. You can see tip of the nicotine at gleeds, that little reddish ephemeral warm thing burning into firgers. You can see an blured version of you there, supported in the rail, blowing smoke to the cold dawn air. You start to wonder why is that petty point is staying still in the freezing winter breeze, looking down or up or with an unfocused glare or with closed eyes, seeing things only granted to itself, or with tears or with bad sight or with the smoke to cover the way, why is it there, with trembling hands, in the middle of night in the middle of nowhere in the middle of forever unfinished thoughts, why is it there? Does it have someone else in room and they’ve just fucked and it get an cigarette off the pack, got out and blow the smoke, and blow the lungs, and blow injuries, and blow whines, and blow moans, and blow a life or two out of its mouth, whilst other mouth is waiting in a messy bed, covered by sweat and sheets and shivers and sex and the smooth smell of nicotine, just waiting it to end that worn out cigarette and put the ash on the ground and step on it and step inside and fuck and sweat and shivers and whimpers and sheets and noises and the lasting smell of another lost cigarette? Does it have someone in the world, if not in the bed, at this right time? Does it have anyone waiting for them when it gets home, someone to hug, to kiss, to scream, to share, to have combineted toothbrushs, to love? Does it is alone, lost, losing, loser? Does it cries at the edge of the night, listening to old songs in an old radio with bad reception? Does it loves? Does it lives? Does it breaths quickly or slowly or soft or asthmatic or loud? Does it has an loose lack heart in its chest, burning, crying, begging, suffering, breathing? Does it really exists or does it is just a mirror?

In the distance, the tires of some random car whistles and your look goes down, and you try to find the car or the person or the dog or the signaller or the hooker or the old boozed man or anything or something and your try to hold on at it and it hurts and it burns and the car is too far and you’ll never know. When your glare goes up, the light is off and you’ll never know. Does it existed or are you sleeping standing, are you dreaming?

It existed.

You conclude. It existed ‘cause you don’t dream. You can’t dream. You can’t sleep. You can’t let fo the coffe and the cigarettes and the insomnia and the lack of everything. You are too hopeless to put your head on a pillow and just dream.

You laugh.

You’re tired. You’re so tired. So, so, so, so tired. 

You don’t even know how it is to try anymore. Any more. Some more. More. Just a little bit more. You don’t even know how it felt, once, to do your job for the pleasure of doing it, when your mind wasn’t aspiring to money, intending to be huge and famous and loved. You don’t even know how it was to feel like that. You never dreamed of being an inspiration, a poetry, a lyricist, an actor, a something, a someone. Once, you’re dreamed of being happy. And full. And complete. And an other half. And something, someone just to something, to someone. You dreamed of drawing or maybe singing or maybe saving lives or maybe extinguishing fire or doing ballet or doing any kind of dance or playing a piano or a guitar or a cello or a drum or being a teacher or being just happy. You dreamed of being small, smaller, minuscule, unimportant, insignificant, invisible. You dreamed so big and at the same time so petty, my kid. You wanted the world laced on your middle finger, without it even figure out. You wanted it all and you wanted nothing. You dreamed of just live and just this simple sigh of oxygen be important. To something, to someone.

Your dreams never come true, so you never dream anymore. You never close your eyes. You never close them long enough to get into a fancy ordinary world, all yours. Oh kid, do you remember? The last time? You dreamed, you smiled, you loved, you fucked, you walked, you petted, you cared, you cried, you slept, you yelled, you sang, you made a wish, you felt the wind mess your hair and the sand close over your toes? Oh kid. Why don’t you live anymore? Why don’t you allow youself to dream, to love, to feel, to be? Oh kid. When did you get that lost? So alone, so exausted, so hopeless, so asleep, so awake, so loose, so fancy, so liar, so misunderstood, so small. So nothing you once dreamed. Why are you that sad, kid? Why? When did life hurted you so bad that you can barely keep your feet on the ground and keep yourself still and rise your head and fake a fucked up broken smile? You knew you would’ve been so far, far, far away. You knew you will. But you won’t. At some lost point, you light up that cigarette, yellow filter, creased, that was floating on your carpet knows God since when, leaned at the rail, and saw a lost bug, hovering alone, smoking, maybe the same hype of your, the same yellow filter, the same worn out and creased shape, and you got lost on it. And you fell for it. And a car comes, with its dogs or signaller or boozed man or hookers or anything, and you lost it. You were loving it and you lost it.

For a moment, you were in love. You were seeing its eyes, its smile, its hips, its lips, its sighs, its sights, its tears, its everything. You were seeing someone in the same place as you, with the same tiredness feeling, the same fleeting smoke, the same broken heart, the same cold sweat at the temple, the same trembling hands, the same worn out lungs, the same bored carpet, the same ghosts, the same newspaper at the stairs, the same shadows, the same fears, the same losts and the same earning. The same yearning. The same cold finger in the cold breeze in the cold apartament in the cold building in the cold town in the cold state in the cold country in the cold continent in the cold world in the cold Solar System in the cold universe, waiting for the same cold neon God that won’t show up.

For a fucked up moment, you felt love. A sick kind of love, but it was there. You even knew. You even know. You may never know, but it was. You loved it, for seconds, or minutes, or hours, or months, or for your hole life, you’ll keep imagining how it’d be. You lost it, but it was loved. Deeply and desperating, it was loved.

Your cigarette is at the end and it has been, what?, a month, maybe. A month you loved. A month you felt. A month you dropped your cigarette accidently on the cold tile floor and it was your last cigarette and you felt angry and felt the will to cry and you tried to sleep or to feel or to think and you don’t know if you felt sleep, if you dreamed, if you stared at the ceiling ‘till it lost its form, if you simply closed your eyes without realise and everything just turned black for a moment and you just let the eyelids go open and watched the sun going into your dirty window and you haven’t seen the sun rises. And you were confused and angry and when did your coffe get cold and when did you make new coffe and when did you slept and when did you didn’t and when you just became so empty and unnatural and closed and shuted and when?

You mouth feel dry.

You bought a new coffe. And fifteen new packs of cigarettes. And some fast food. And some toilet paper. And some toothpaste and a toothbrush. A blue toothbrush. You hate blue. Does it hates blue too?

It isn’t there tonight. It never showed up again. Or if it did, you weren’t watching. You were looking for the dog or the cat, this time, or the soul, or the stoned teenagers, or the boozed old man, or the car to crash on lamp, or a hooker, or anything.

Does it existed, after all?

You’re tired. You’re just tired.