shayan-shafabakhsh

I open my eyes in a room in the middle of a city totally strange to me. I look around and it strikes me that there is no way out; only a window in front of which a thin and flaccid curtain is hanging. The bed is creaking, I get up and head towards the window. A weak and mysterious wind which is fluttering the curtain ecstatically, touches my face. A slight shiver steals into my body. No mat ter how hard I try, no recollection or familiar image of the city I am looking at through the frame of the window, comes to my mind. These dark buildings and the bodies sleeping in them are as untouchable to me as the cactus lying under the window. No mo