»In the midnight hour she cried more, more, more!«Ko se glasba ustavi in odpreš oči, ko spet čutiš parket pod stopali in bi spet znala povedati, na kateri strani bi zrasel mah, če bi sredi lokala slučajno pognalo drevo. Ko namesto hrapavega dotika na sencih vidiš, da te gleda neobrito lice. Ko namesto njegovega diha na tvojem vratu vidiš njegov nasmeh. Ko slišiš smeh z drugega konca plesišča, ne slišiš pa več tistega trenutka tišine med vsakim vdihom in izdihom.
Ko se začneš zavedati več in čutiti manj.
Ko bi še.
The 2 a.m. blues
»In the midnight hour she cried more, more, more!«
When the music stops and you open your eyes, when you once again feel the hard floor under your feet and you once again know which way is north (or at least in which general direction you left your last drink). When instead of the pleasant scratching on your cheek you see an unshaven face. When instead of the caress of his breath on your neck you see his smile. When you hear laughter from the other side of the room but you no longer hear the moments of silence after each exhale.
When you start perceiving and stop feeling.
When you cry for more.
»In the midnight hour she cried more, more, more!«
When the music stops and you open your eyes, when you once again feel the hard floor under your feet and you once again know which way is north (or at least in which general direction you left your last drink). When instead of the pleasant scratching on your cheek you see an unshaven face. When instead of the caress of his breath on your neck you see his smile. When you hear laughter from the other side of the room but you no longer hear the moments of silence after each exhale.
When you start perceiving and stop feeling.
When you cry for more.
Piše: MălaMu¡er
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