This solitude is rapidly getting more intrusive. I sleep too much and wake up vividly remembering all my dreams, they're with me up until the moment I get up and they dissolve like chimney smoke. Everything becomes an excuse for taking a warm shower, getting back into bed without clothes and fantasizing for however long it takes to be calm again (mother's wine only gives me palpitations these days). The subtle scent absorbed by my fingertips reminds me of Miri, the night we kissed in that drunken haze back in Los Angeles. I haven't spoken to her in years.
When I think of her I see the sepia-colored picture on the bedside table, my mother's father looking inexpressively at us from across time and space. The grandfather I never knew, the connection (if there is one) I've been searching for ever since I found mother's diary with those missing pages, her own words about the days on the Trans-Siberian Railway with my father, more than 30 years ago.
T:s silence is worrying me. "It's been done" he said and nothing more. Maybe I'm not as calm as I think I am, if I was I would be able to talk to him, to look into his eyes and feel that everything will eventually be fine, for the both of us. We're back where we started in a day or two, but everything has changed, of course. It's what happens in times of war, everyone has blood on their hands but it's only the honest ones who are not afraid of admitting it. What it does to the rest of your life is another matter.