[image error]We forgot. We took up the task again. The second time around wasn’t as simple as we’d hoped; there were too many blood baths in our rooms, too many graves lining our wardrobes and too little moments on the side of our slippers placed on the floor.

There was a black sky above my head. It contained all the words I had never uttered. Now I wonder why, but the reasons are a far off dream not worth venturing into. I forgot to slow down on my way, yet I still reached the point where the death in me collided with the life in me. Now they walk hand in hand – sometimes without a quarrel and sometimes with animosity.

So when we started living for the second time, do you know what it was like? It was like staring at the eyes of a beheaded sphinx. Our bodies were hijacked away from our souls, and the carriage definitely exceeded the speed limit on the highway to purgatory.

The second time is never the better time. The second time is the blurry time. The second time, we learned how to crash without tasting the glory of flying. The second time, there were sleepless nights. The second time was storms and drowning at sea. The second time, we were defenseless.

No one was listening. So we played our melodies on the record machine high up on the moon.

Each night since then, there is a song playing in the blue silence of the dark. It’s the sound of our lost hearts roaming in the purgatory.