Tu, na powierzchni, gdy odzyskuję głos i jesteś na wyciągnięcie ręki, chcę być blisko, jak najbliżej.
Muszę wrócić do studni.
When her head was pushed beneath the ice silence, yet before the last single draught of air, she thought about finger prints on her nape. Before she immersed herself into the most beautifull blossoming poison, when at least, her impuissance ceased to claw things remaining inside, and when on her soul's retina the last from the dearest images was illuminated, then she died. The well, which became her grave, was overgrown by the tafle of ice floe. It mirrored succulent sky in the summer. The archive of bloodstream, finger prints like crimson river, scintillating images from shivery, hectic words. The sorrow.
Here, on the surface, when i'm retrieving my voice and you are for the asking, i want to be close, as close as possible.
I had to go back to my well.