And it all tasted like shit. It wasn’t the breakfast I needed. A haze hangs heavy in the still air of the room. I hear the boiler flare in the kitchen. My head is as dry as ash. I stare at the floor and wonder what’s wore off first and what I still feel. I know I can feel the lights and the roads. I can still see the cold and the magic. The magic crept up on us as we crept around; Paris sparkled for us. We swirled in its darkness.
Now the sky has turned again and its light pushes in through the shutters. On the floor at my feet lie an entwined pair of lovers. Their peaceful sleep makes me jealous; my mind will not surrender to dreams just yet. The only comfort I can take is that their problems are bigger than mine; they will wake up to their touch.
When I close my eyes, I’m bombarded by images; embellished versions of memories. Faces and words I don’t recognise. There is no rest to be had. I just have to wait it out. Lay next to me is a girl, her face calm with sleep. I try to think about how I feel about her, but nothing occurs in my mind or chest. I felt so much yesterday, but how much was fiction?
Across the room, a body stirs on the sofa. Pascal sits up with a jerk, then softens again. He gently stretches and runs his hands through his wild hair. I smile as he fixes me with weary eyes. We share a sigh.
“I have to go. I have no drugs.”
Pascal pulls on his shoes and coat before making an exit. My mind wanders after him. My body waits until it can rest; it waits for my mind to stop.