New Sheets

Rain in that forsaken city seemed somehow dirtier. Or maybe it was just his state of mind.

In any case, it felt like each drop had been stained with the soot of all the dreams he had burnt to warm up the long winters, darkened with the shadows of all the people he hadn't become.

There had been a time, long ago, when rain had the texture of purity and nostalgia, as if it was a natural catalyst for that particular state of clarity in which he felt like he could grab that elusive masterpiece and tie it to his notebook. Of course, that might have also been a delusion, as the master piece never left the limbo of his imagination.

As the storm passed, he looked through the window and saw his sheets still hanging from the clothes-line, now drenched in a black and dense filth. He wrote down a note to buy new ones, and wondered if maybe he had given up more dreams than he thought.


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