last night you asked me why i like walking in the rain and i told you i'm more afraid when the rain stops. you didn't get to answer, as we arrived there sooner than expected. we took our usual seats and i suddenly noticed that the red paint on the walls had turned into that pale, dusty yellow that always disturbed me. the dim light drew our shadows: you stood there head-turned, calm and immovable. there was a heavy, uninvited presence in the air, my left lung knew it: your words would come scarcer and fainter, then crash loudly on the floor and disensemble to dust. then i suddenly noticed that my shadow was turning blurrier and blurrier and gradually slipping, as if violently dragged out of the photograph, so i instantly grabbed a knife and cut an inch of one of my fingers, just to make sure it was still there. you didn't seem to notice. then came another and another...and i knew that by the time daylight crept in you'd have completely vanished and i'd still be there, slipping shadow, knife in hand, cutting my fingers inch by inch...you might say that's terribly thoughtless of me, but you see, i didn't have much choice - i told you i hate it when the rain stops.