I'm going back to that restaurant where we were together last time you were here. I sit at the same table and choose the same dish. Just like someone looking for the last words on a wake. But this time it seems the corpse is mine. I do not know how many times I died and reincarnated since that Thursday in October that it seemed more like a nightmare that I still insist on not waking up, but I know it's over now. For the first time since you come here I stopped believing. All that occupies my chest is a void. I just do not care anymore. Your absence is not bleeding anymore. The limb of love was amputated, ripped out as in a forceps birth. Now that phrase of Tsvetiávava insists on hammering in my head, don't letting me run away, as if leading me back to my place: "Somehow I drag to love something that causes it not to be realized, it disperses, it undoes"