Soundtrack n° 4.
It's a crystal clear November night, there's a smell of frozen sap, of cold slime. We've been sitting in the car for over an hour, I can't wait any longer. I know he's wanted this for a long time. Frédéric turns to look at me, you have the skin of a girl he tells me. The image falters. I rest my temple on the headrest, I look into his eyes, he thinks it's desire but instead it's haste. His bitter smell stirs everything inside me, I bury my face in his sweater, after that there will be nothing else, better to burn out than fade away.
I get lost, I can't connect anymore. Dead snails on the soggy straw - no, it's wool, yellow wool - the rain takes it down the drain. The thought crumbles I want to be yours I want to be you, the winches of the mind pull the inert arms as in certain sick half-sleeps, the walls of the mind expand in a short circuit of light in an interminable fall into the void in a sweet orgasm in a silent scream.
Dark.
Cold.
Silence.