Edward Hopper
Summer evening

But what have I done to deserve this? It shouldn’t be so difficult to find a space to be alone.

My house is wrapped in a dense darkness. It slowly swallows that glossy grass that, as far as the eye can see, colors, by day, the dimensions of my gaze. The cold light trapped in the pergola seems to want to conquer the orbit to tremble freely. But there's nothing that allows me to remain alone.

Inside, there’s no one, and I could animate the tired walls. Those pale beams that absorb all day the involuntary violence of the summer sun. Only in the evening, when cicadas and crickets perform in the repeated daily concert, do they find time to adore that cool air emanated by the moon. Tonight, they will suffer a bit because this moon does not decide to rise. There’s not even a little wind.

I can't think. I can't find concentration. That tedious advance of questions that remain entirely unanswered. I stare into the void, impassively, hoping it understands. My arms, extended on the shelf, rebel slightly against the weight of my body so heavily placed. Even my ankles begin to pull.

It has even found a comfortable position. Occasionally it loosens the slumbering thighs, awaiting my signal to reheat the blood. And there is no inhuman force to urge it to leave me alone. A tedious hammer heightened by the relentless singing of the surrounding insects. They seem to be there cheering.

I wait for the darkness to grow more unsettling. Maybe it will induce it to run away. The only moving figure in this strange sterility of whitewashed teak and a light bulb with a few watts too many. It seems someone has made a peephole between the curtains to spy from the hostile darkness of the entrance. But I know there’s no one there. I will have to decide to fix those curtains. Maybe change them because, besides not closing properly, they aren't much. They look like cardboard. And there’s nothing to do. It doesn’t go away.

What a drag...