21 ianuarie , 2013

autor: Alexandru Mărăşteanu

”I feel empty. It’s my fault, too. I let them out, I mean, it’s my job to let them in and out, and I kind of got used to that, but I sort of feel like I’m being used, you know? It’s like I’m there but I’m not, you know what I’m saying? You know, they just come and go and go up and down as they please and it feels like… like I’m rotting on the inside, I feel like… it’s like I can’t feel anything anymore. It’s been a long – looong – time since I felt something! Anything! You know how I sometimes take a peek – although I’m not allowed to – but I take a peek every now and then and, you know, imagine how they are, how their life is, the people they meet, the stuff they do, you know. Often times a fine lady walks in – high heels, long legs, tight skirt, great skin, spreading her sweet fragrance all over the place, or even a boy and girl, and he starts caressing her breasts and, you know, working his way down her groin – but I’m unable to relate to any of that sort of stuff. I am – just think about it for a second – I am able to take a close look at them from every imaginable angle, yet it’s like I’m seeing through them as if they were as empty as I am. You know?”

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