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At last

It is morning and it is cold; nothing out of normal.

Everything looks the same; everything it's the same, or so they say in the radio, but I can breath something in the air, something thick and rare. 

It smells, like it smells when bad things are about to happen, somehow I know it, even when it's truly strange and unfamiliar.

I get out of bed and when my bare feet touch the floor, a cold shudder goes up and down my spine, but it isn't exactly the cold that causes it but the feeling that this is a bad day to get out of bed. I try to remember which day is this; if it is first in the month or if it is twenty-something or whatever, but I realize I don't remember the month itself, nor the year.

I take a look around the room and everything it's different; the color of the walls donesn't match he colors of the night before, the titles of the books on the shelves are strange and I don't remember myself reading them before, but I know what they say and I know the authors' favorite and most used words.

I walk around looking at everything with new eyes, or better say, looking everything that's new with an odd knowledge of them.

I found a stack of photos in a desk that isn't mine, I don't remember taking those pictures but my hearts flutters when I see the woman in them, the one I know the way she kiss, even when I don't know her. I flipper around smiles I smiled and places that somehow  I enjoyed.

Everything it's strange and scarry and somehow right and somehow wrong.

I go to the window and I try to look at it but everything ta I can see it's something like white foam blocking the view, I go to the next room and I try to do the same. It's impossible, I'm trapped. And everything it's so, so different. I still go to the next room, that was a bathroom but it is no more. It's empty.

I turn around. Everything it's once again different, the hallway it's put in a newly rare way and even the doors along the walls are in different colors, even diferent shapes.

My back finds the wall and slips along it until I'm sitting on the floor. I close my eyes and there's nothing I can do but to wait here.

I wait and I wait. And I keep waiting here. Waiting for something to make sense.

And as I do I'm quoting the phrases and the dialogues and every word of the books I've never read, or at least I don't remember reading.

Finally, finally, it all takes form and all falls into place... and the walls disappear

...and there's only white foam.

I start to remmeber the day before and how I remebered the day before that, and how I remembered.

It's all getting back and I'm seeing everything as it is, this is not my house, and the wall in which my back it's supporting it's not concrete made, but it's white and it's not soft really, but no hard either.

And finally, again, I lay down on the floor ad I mourn for my sanity and I go to sleep knowing that everithing will be different tomorrow.

I close m eyes knowing that tomorror will be happening the same thing; it will be cold and the walls aren't going to be quite right, the books are going to be others and everithing I'll know will be new, a thing of mine but more a thing of the day... a thing of what's wrong with me.

At last I go into blackness knowing, sure, that tomorrow won't be a good day to get out of bed.