The worn out wet rained tiles sink away in my gaze while the soft lights of the street try to keep us warm. The city’s memories last and linger through it’s walls. The coldness of the wind indicates it’s pain. I feel it through my bones, while I sit and shiver on a rusty bench on the parking lot. My view tends towards a dramatic soap in the moment where someone get’s killed in front of your eyes. Though, the only thing that just has been killed is the last bit of warmth that my adolescences body owned. I’m tired and close my eyes. My clothes are drenched but I can shut out the aching pain it causes. My thoughts drift away on my evergrowing everlasting fantasies who have been with me since childhood. They whisper sweet soft little words with high voices and yell them gently in my ear while they overreach the howling of the cold western wind that tries to get me to think and act forwards. It doesn’t matter though. I keep on sitting, here, on this rusty old bench in the middle of the parking lot and my view get’s blurrier and blurrier, though I have not the tendency to stand up and walk home to put on dry clothes and to wander more on the side of my bed while I’m swifting on the clouds that color my mind. It’s the wet tiles and the dark atmosphere that trigger these remains of memories. Fading fragments of things I’ve seen and done. I’m the only one who might can find a lesson in it or even underestimate it’s value since it has no purpose as it can not serve others. But these statements and these wanderings and all the questions cannot give me the answer I have been looking for my whole life, they can not give me back the things I’ve lost nor will they make me feel any different than I do now. I’m still cold, wet, fucked up and alone as I sit with a constand shiver through the rain on that old rusty bench on the parking lot and the triggers and remains of everything that has united and gathered in my mind surrounded me on the worn out wet rained tiles. Nothing’s changed. It’s still like it used to be.