sanama

Sluggish durations in a heat-wave. Aimlessly rolling through the city.

An elderly man melancholically asks if I need any help and doesn’t know where to position himself when I tell him that I’m not really looking for –– anything.

The slight wind gives me a reason to close my eyes at an intersection where everything seems to be paused for a while. Even a piece of white fuzzy pollen frozen in the air. 

When the traffic stops one can hear the sound of heat somewhere underground inside of the asphalt. A black-wavy melting presence. The sweat gives the sound underwater-like softness. It becomes a deep silent whisper when one becomes distant to their own mind. 

The sun continues to burn every facade. It wants in. And the poor creatures in the buildings want out. The individuals on the street want out as well out of the city out of their clothes out of their daily hassle.

The summerly desires leading one to ask what kind of life is this strange entity. Days when one hardly wakes up. Clear clouds time that can’t be measured. Goal-oriented practices are leaking empty ridiculously emaciated. And instead the space-duration where one moves is presented as a tube structure which makes one count weekdays in incoherent blocks.