Elian´s room

Covered in blood, I crawl across the floor, the two walls, and the ceiling of this room. I've already made one turn.

I change the line. I continue with the message.

I'm sure the trail I leave means something, in some language, dead or alive. Or half-dead or semimortuus, like me.

There are many systems for measuring height, depth, and length, but what about time?

Time lasts more or less depending on the pleasure or pain.

Fleeing with or without time, celebrating another day of life, a week, a month, a year... until now.

Understanding the situations I've experienced led me to make decisions that, as a young man, made me look reckless, and as an adult, like a father insensitive to the cries of the people in my care.

Line change. Change of subject.

My blood sigils are drying up.

If I have a tombstone, I hope neither my legal name nor any of my false names are carved into the stone.