The pain is dragging me back. Silence is replaced once more by that buzzing sound. Everything is coming back now, the heaviness inside my body, the division, mitosis, multiplicity, cause and effect, result, responsibility, the world where everything should make sense and where ultimately nothing makes sense. Time is accelerating. I can hear it. Time is a sequence of beeps, time is a sequence of heartbeats even in the absence of a heart. There are other hearts that measure time in the absence of one’s heart. Time, in here, in this carcass that the others call a human body, is a series of heartbeats, repetitive heartbeats that become non-repetitive once they are consumed, rendered non-repetitive by what happens in between them because what happens in between them is not repetitive, the world only spins forward. An irregularity in the heartbeat is a step closer to complete silence, called death. If only thoughts could make a sound, a sound of any kind just to keep the silence out while the body collapses within itself like a house of cards. The world is measured in heartbeats. Just a few more heartbeats and I’ll be there. With every beep I’m one step closer to you. How many heartbeats are there in an hour? This room is 45 beats long. It is big enough to host two people. This room has only one window. The light coming from the window is painful. The pain extends itself up to an infinite number of heartbeats. Even though it has to have an end, this pain is infinite, the pain that I have to endure in your absence. The pain becomes pain at the back of the skull and from there it radiates, it oozes like oil on the floor, like the echo of everything, the echo of the city as it was heard from…from…from. The word is there but I cannot take a hold of it. There was a house, and you were in it. Was it really you or was it only a myth? I wonder. Even wondering is painful. It’s like running in winter on an endless field and your lungs start to ache, and your eyes start to ache, and everything starts to ache, and your body is a sort of accumulation of pain and the promise of relief as soon as the field ends, and there you should stop for a second and maybe look back. But looking back would only remind you of that pain so you keep on going, there is more relief just behind this hill, just behind this mountain, an oasis. I stop. I know this wondering will only take me back to you, to a sort of you.