COMPRESSED MORNING

COMPRESSED MORNING

Here stand things left on in the dark. In the room where tables creak, in the room where a lamp burns over a notebook without words. Where dust has settled on the camera, on dreams no one has developed yet.

In the background, the radio rustles — muffled voices mix with buzzing, music slowly fades, like an echo from another world.

The kitchen squeezed between walls like the last breath before suffocating, a pot without a lid like an old man without a hat, the smell of buttoned-up memories, a lonely beer bottle stands by the window, and towels in the bathroom hang like sad snowdrops waiting for a morning that never came.

A look through the window — a chimney behind the glass rises toward the sky, clouds lined up again like little soldiers. Silence has fallen asleep in the living room. The apartment breathes through narrow walls, and in the distance, the radio whispers a song lost in static buzzing.

Under the torn table — a sock, written papers, shoes that cry, forgotten words, and all the things that can’t be spoken.

A look at the building across — you can see windows of other people’s lives, tiny twinkles, lips moving like birds on rooftops. The chimneys are gray like drawings in the hallway.

In the bathroom, foam covers all worries. A book on the edge of the bathtub soaks up moisture like a soul sometimes soaks up the city.

In bed, body next to body. It’s cold… but warm, the night thickens everything into a silent noise mixed with the buzzing of the old radio.

On the floor — cables and wires and leftovers of lost revolutions.

Walls don’t forget. They listen without asking.

Angoulême, 2025.