The restless months that frame the silence of those days stretch out time between them. Light and shadows hastened the seasons while my body writhed in the sheets. Memory drew on imagination to materialize reality—the outside world, normality, a body integrated into its own spirit and into itself. I breathed slowly so as not to notice the autonomous thoughts that did not require my understanding. The word was a sensation that weighed on my tongue. My body moved only between his unblinking gaze and the murky reflection of the end of the day, while I listened intently to the hollow ticking of that fat, reddish sun that chimed an opaque, deep abyss that promised to let me rest.

Night fell and that pain I was afraid to voice grew clear: telling him reminded me, trembling, of the middle of the night drenched in whispers, of the beginning of a day empty of purpose. I happened to myself in the tumult, and in the sob of suspense I turned myself at the end of the spectrum. The doctor said I had to wait. I waited on that edge of the extreme, dangling my feet off the altar, and there, on that concrete ledge, the fog began to lift on its own, revealing the skin’s reunion.

Life slowly kissed my neck to wake me up.