Suddenly I get these mental gaps from last night, the same ones that vanish when my head tells me I drank too much. I can still close my eyes and see you dancing in the middle of the dance floor; registered are the eight catwalks you made on your way to the bathroom because your body demanded cannabis to let it fly, you have the worry that no one can see your wings, and among your twenty-three manias you have the worry that no one can step on them. It's almost three o'clock and I'm still trying to reconstruct, with a little luck, your look from the scattered debris I have left from last night.
Photographers: Valentina Varas