This is an attempt to sketch a mood or event, a feeling without the constraint of words. I wanted to write of silence, about silence.
And then, after many harsh words, many cigarettes and many pauses, he rose and turning his back on her, opened the window. He leant out, his elbows resting on the ledge. It was night but not dark. The moon hung in the sky, distant in a distant sky. The stars were scattered all around, bright confetti. The sky was like carbon paper, blue-black, an abstract sky. He felt his own breathing and himself being slowly stretched against the sky. And then quite suddenly, he felt all his previous rage dissipate, leave him slowly. It seemed as if he was noticing the sky for the first time. He realized the impotence of his anger and the inconsequential failure of his misplaced love. He wanted to be out of himself, besides himself, detached. He didn't feel anything anymore. He wanted to join the stars, in silence. He wanted to break free from words. And then he heard her rise and the flourish of finality in her Bye but he did not turn to see her. He heard her footfalls down the stairs and the gentle sound of the shutting door. He felt peaceful and almost happy. He did not even feel the need to light another cigarette.