Ashes in Time.

You never talk about her.

But from bits of clues and traces I somewhat get the feel of the kind of person, the kind of girl she might be. I was browsing through her colourful recipes and I thought, what a passion, what a sweet heart she possesses. And it's so delightful, knowing after all it's your idea, it's you who have seen her enthusiasm and encouraged her pursuit. She's nice, very nice indeed. So nice that I begin to feel jealous and inferior, but some part of me couldn't help feeling happy for you. I imagined you two being together. I've seen that in dream already. She deserves everything, most of all, you.

All of a sudden I feel like all these times I was just talking to myself on the stage with no one but an imaginary figure that I've been creating out of my memory for my own amusement, in your expense. There was a time when we sat side by side and could exchange little secrets which sounded like silly jokes; a time when I used to brush through your hair with my fingers and it seemed the most natural thing to do; a time when you'd still call me on the phone and we'd talk about whatever that comes to our mind. There was a time when everything was simple, but possible.

Now it's almost nothing but a melancholic monologue which turns to ashes in time. And in the ashes I'd have to pick up the pieces of myself.