We are looking at the same thing, I guess. At least this is how it should be (almost for sure; maybe not; definitely yes). In the attempt to change my own perspective I move my head to the left, back to the centre and then to the right. I squint and bite my lip and most of all - I try not to look you in the eye. Space and time suddenly fall apart and I know it's exactly 12 PM, noon, and that spurs at our boots are the ones that are making this very faint clang. The hat, that you haven't had on your head just a moment ago, casts shadow on your face and the saliva in my mouth becomes bitter as if I had just bit a blade of grass. We stand opposite to each other but I don't think we can see one another. Everything that there is to it is just a dust on our faces and the Sun that burns our necks and shoulders; there is a yellow sky above and a very distant rumble of the storm that is approaching. (Obviously there is also all of that what is hiding in our fingerprints and shadows under our eyes.) Arms of the tower clock haven't moved for at least ten minutes now. Without thinking much about it I straighten up and tuck my hair to the back so I can look straight at you. I can't explain why I am so surprised that you are still here and that you are looking at me (into me, through me, to me). You are smiling. It starts to rain.
