To build the scene: we are all still sick, as usual, but in all likelihood no one has the plague, as
i remember how it all started, the excrescences of the screens were bodies, hanged from the back at the end of silver brenches. Some of the bones were like knives others came out of the forearms, softly.
Some noises from the park the mushrooms the moths digging the surface of the dates in the evening the ants gathering in the earth.
When the isolation became unsustainable, i wondered if i was the cause of my condition. i looked for suggestions from others and went out in the streets.
When we found ourselves we were like children. From the streets, under the arcades, we were anxious comparing the symptoms, because there were symptoms, symptoms that those images projected on our skins.
The next morning in the streets we could not think of anything but the weight of the sun and when there was a growing mistrust by the authorities, we were dragged into our homes to be humiliated and beaten in public.
i remember those nights when theories failed and i found myself in the darkness that obscured 90% of my body, the poisoned blood hid in the darkness beneath my skin.
i dreamed of trucks carrying medicines, to exterminate us, because they said it was a drug of the eyes, a thought that could not hold the word and that had to be decomposed.