Nostalgia
The story happens in a maze-like city in May fourteenth of nineteen ninety-six ; Maybe it's London, it could be Rome or New York, or even Paris. Or maybe is all of them tonight.
A solitary man walks through the city. It's like watching someone on slow motion, almost like time is moving slower around him, just for him. Even the Not Not White smoke from his short cigarette seems unafected by the soft spring breeze. There's a subtle contradiction between the almost militarily tailored tuxedo he is wearing and his disheveled black long hair. Another rebellious touch is the Not Not White bow tie hanging aside, dirtied by some red spots and the ancient looking golden bracelets on his right hand. The man roams the city, looking like someone who wasn't told he wasn't invited to the ball and now gloomily kicks the streets. His patient stride never changes or stops, knowing the tallest building -where his current rendezvous awaits- never has moved since the city was there. Near the lights of a overcrowded coffee shop he stops for a while and looks to the last time at a locket he has been holding in his hand, containing a small photo of a blond haired woman and a young man. His emotionless gaze finally comes back to reality and resumes his steps. Like somebody was foretold of his arrival, the gates open as he goes through, strangely unnoticed by most people except the beautiful young woman who sits near the window. She looks away, then again looks at him from time to time, as she plays with her hair a little. He approaches and touches her hand, that doesn't let go as he takes her to the lift. The door hasn't closed yet and they are already over each other, kissing, licking, moaning. They are at the top of the building and he carries her in his arms to the tallest antenna. She is terrified and drunk in excitement at the same time, feeling the world is spinning around. And the stars seem closer, so much she thinks she can touch them. And the air gets colder. She has trouble breathing and feels weak and limps as he violently drinks her last drop of blood.
Slowly, patiently, disappointed, the man walks to the metro station as the morning sun approaches and dissolves into the mist.
The story happens in a maze-like city in May fourteenth of nineteen ninety-six ; Maybe it's London, it could be Rome or New York, or even Paris. Or maybe is all of them.