I am a cloud floating in the sky, and the sky is stored inside a jar. (to be continued)

I am a cloud floating in the sky, and the sky is stored inside a jar. Each day I watch a part of me drizzle, on dirt puddles, on metallic fences and monoliths made of glass. Sometimes I knock on people’s heads, who are nailed to benches or gliding over the coiling streets. It is a damp, drizzly July, no one bothers to look up. And there I go—from pipelines, drainages and sewages—to the open sea.

The ocean, where I see the man I love gleaming in the azure of waves. Our eyes are fixed upon the edge of the horizon. What happens if we continue walking East from where we stand? Will we drown together? Will we perish in the Sun’s eternal embrace? Brooding on a piece of ancient rock, I watch him swoop down into the blanket of corals and tiny fishes, among other billions that constitute the idea of “ocean”, which is also a flat, blue rectangle when looked at from afar. Or sometimes, a sparkling pool of champagne on posters I see. The man has vanished.

Then I find myself rocking on a train that slithers in the darkest pit of the city. A man is hanging in front of me and I can smell his puffy existence, which is quite expensive, I suppose. Like other passengers, he does not have a face. It’s been 9,714 days since I have begun the journey and my eyes are growing hazy. I must do something to stay awake. I begin reading the man’s posh grey checkered shirt: cell1, cell2, cell3, cell4, cell5...

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