At parking spots, on elevators, in abandoned highlights — during my studies, weeks and weeks of walking, and in the bathroom — in my far too small apartment, wearing broken pants, carrying around this stupid little pocket watch of mine, at all of these and more occasions, I think about my friend — maybe my lover, maybe I loved her.
She used to be a source, something true, something immediate. But then, at some point, it caught her. She didn’t hide well enough. I can’t explain it any other way. It caught her and stuck with her: the boring life.
— Ana, thinking about her friend