i swallow another handful of pills in the last few hours, feeling bitterness and a feeling of nausea below my ribs. red wine leaves a sweet taste in my mouth: a sweetness that leaves a feeling of calm, a slight desire to disappear and leave behind only a glass filled with dry red wine and a single drop of my blood. i watch the stars drown in darkness against the pale moon, the white moonlight illuminating my room, every corner, every picture on my wall and passing through my skin touching my bones, i am enveloped in the cold of january, the cold of winter, the cold of nostalgia. nostalgia gives birth to fruits inside me that do not exist, that have no reason to exist and have only a shell without the content inside. every day, every morning, every dream is filled with the past: lost warmth, departed people, eaten croissants and listened to songs, read books and lived but forgotten feelings for strangers. one day in february makes me think i'm back in november: the month where i was wrapped in the warmth of autumn, gazing at the sea and the waves where seagulls were peacefully falling asleep. gazing at pink sunsets and the moon rising above the horizon. examining shells and gray stones, jellyfish and seaweed. i wrote a ton of letters to one address in november, kissing the back of each page and sealing the envelopes with blood, but i didn't send a single one, just burned them in the fireplace on a sleepless night. as i finish the wine in my glass, i feel the emptiness in my whole body, in every tremor of my hands, in every heartbeat inside my chest. i want to wake up a free man — with my memory cut off, but i'm sure that tonight i'll stumble and fall into the abyss.