Dance, dead leaves

Just like with every second day in the week that I spend purposeless in my living room in fear of the wind or people’s faces, I stay in bed until almost noon. Only scared of obesity which could develop in a sudden day rush, I slip out the sheets into what feels like a second skin.
No one came to visit, no one called, no voice except for the man on the news this morning.
I couldn’t bear a female voice in my head today. 
Early afternoon I began to write half a dozen Easter cards, with envelopes in a faded yellow. This time I put my address on them too.

Almost every single card goes to a person I haven’t seen for a while. Isn’t that like sending love letters to the underworld? Romanticism, happens to all of us. Only I happen to be Orpheus.
Usually time passes quicker.
When I remove my glasses to rest my eyes, I flick through my telephone contacts and went too far down, where several Skype contacts put their pictures of happily kissing couples in an odd angle, as if to hide their faces in shame, or build a cocoon against anyone who might intrude their world of illusions. 
– Side note: I have started to think of the concept of monogamy again. It seems to be an estranged way of living in the middle between celibacy and polygamy. If only until the rest of life, and not beyond, man restrains desires and heart, and thus intends to prove perfection exists? –
I don’t want to but zoom in on one of the pictures, then the screen turns black and I let the whole idea drop on a fleece blanket.
When I turn the gas fire on for the second time today, I only do so because I think gas smells sweeter than my underwear. Lavender and patchouli bring back memories, but cannot cover the presence. 
Like scented napkins, they never work. 
Good marketing can sell anything. This smell makes me remember a girl from school. We must have been eleven or even younger when I walked through her place’s door, in the next village – a three kilometers walk my grandmother always used to walk to school when she was a child. The scent of womanhood penetrates basically everyone and everything.
At that age, I thought it was cat piss.
Now, it is of a softer aroma. 
By the way, even female dogs bleed.
With much relief the still dead leaves dance by my window, butterflies or bird shadows.

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