The world must know a million things. A million things foreboding, haunting. I wonder how loveless his existence is, sitting on some lone rock looking out into the heart of the black sea, washed up in the afterthoughts of the eternal dream that it lives in; waiting for some thought to drain the world into a drier place.
I woke up around 5 a.m. that day. It was still dark, but if you looked hard enough in the distance you could see the light shying behind some scattered clouds in the horizon. I packed everything that was necessary for me. A couple of books, a pack of cigarettes, my tape player, a watch, and my livelihood. I walked up to the attic and set the birds free from their cages. I opened all of the windows of the house one last time, as if to grant it one final goodbye to the warm summer breeze.
The house stood on top of the hill overlooking the city like an ancient guardian, a silent fortress, patient for some turn of events that would conclude it. As I left the house I lit a match and let it fall to the floor.
I didn't look back.
I ran and ran, running with my eyes closed, descending into nowhere and nothing. But as I approached the edge of town through the maze of a wild garden, a ray of light struck my face, as if to say that it is a new day, where nothing is certain, and everything hopeful.
I reached the subway station by foot at about 6 o'clock as I had planned. I could hear sirens in the distance rushing to my house and could see a mass of vibrant orange, red, and gray in the sky. The smoke had trailed upwards and caught a draft, riding the air from the sea. Once the train had departed and the town looked like no more than a small blot or a mistake in the distance, I bid my existence farewell, for what was left of it no longer existed to the world.