There was something in her voice, somewhat delicate and rebellious at the same time, there was something in her voice that scratched against my skin, like screaming chalk over a blackboard, smoke signals into the night, something in her voice’s darkness, alluring and melancholy, a caress that unpacked forgotten memories, a longing that turned toward my heart, some stranger looked deeply into my eyes and asked: what is it you really want? Come here! Her voice whispered, so innocent, so stunning at the same beat. There was something intrusive in that voice, the sound of hail against old rust, a rain penetrating behind old paint for the soft wood; I slowly opened myself like a spring flower, under a burning sun. Then it dawned on me that that voice was mine.
