My body is such a piece of glass. I caught a cold. The TV is on all the time in this room in an attempt to make it snugger, but television seems to desolate it more. I still don't know if not letting myself to be caught in the cage of love was a big mistake. What is clear is that it's all done.
Everything looks boring now. It's the cold.
Not even music can fade the boredom away. I put Bebel Gilberto's Momento on and slept uneasily, fearing something. Something that could burst old accusations at any moment. My nightmares are about accusations on me, exactly like in Kafka's The Trial.
When you have a cold, reading In Cold Blood is hopelessly gloomier.
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