The Nails
Sometimes, I think of narrating all the details in a special hour: for example, this incurable disease that started on the opposite wall, or about that woman in the park whose body was nailed on the bench, and I say this without exaggeration; the nails protruded from her clothes, like small buttons, while her purse with her identity card, floated down the creek, and we couldn’t find out anything about her, and as I went up to the loft which they allotted to me for the night, I discovered they had moved, and only hay was left behind because they always had the fear of a comedown, and there were moments when everyone anticipated the inescapable and when the night fell serenely, they quietened down because the others weren’t going back and forth in the hallway to look behind the far end door. For this, I’ve stayed on the sidelines, hoping to rediscover that lost soul.
