022.01 TOM – Paper Walls Sep 11 at 05:00 – 12:30

Sep 11 Dawn arrives hesitantly; the streets stretch, yawn, and still remain half-asleep. The air smells of fresh pastry and the fine dust of brakes; the silence has a light, floury taste. A tram rumbles and the light of its headlight cuts the twilight into two equal parts. At that moment, the city takes a breath and for a moment everything is new, before the day wears out. Storyboard — Veronika Detail: […]

11.9.

Dawn arrives hesitantly; the streets stretch, yawn, and still remain half-asleep. The air smells of fresh pastry and the fine dust of brakes; the silence has a light, floury taste. A tram rumbles and the light of its headlight cuts the twilight into two equal parts. At that moment, the city takes a breath and for a moment everything is new, before the day wears out.

Storyboard — Veronika

Detail: a droplet splashed on a pad.

Detail: hands clutching a medal, fingers running along its edge.

Empty frame — I don't know what goes there yet.
Maybe silence.

GRINDR ORBIT (TONY LEUNG) I’m a shadow in your orbit,
A name you’ll never see, Floating in the whispers of a world That’s
not quite me. Your phone lights up, another call, But I stay
in the gray, Waiting for the moment When your world looks my
way. I’m just a step, a glance, a breath, A click away from you.

The distance burns, the silence stirs, What would you say if you
knew?

TOM

It’s five in the morning and the silence is settling inside me like concrete. The kitchen is as quiet as a fishless aquarium—only the filter pulses with a monotonous gurgle. Always the same thing. As if time had frozen here in a single moment.

Mom is sleeping. Her breath is so quiet that I sometimes have to listen to see if she's even breathing. I take her skinny wrist in my hand and start adjusting the strap so she doesn't get pressure sores. The rest of the night I paced back and forth across the apartment. My fingers are tingling and my head is thick with fog. But sleep is out of the question.

I open the fridge—not much in there. A carton of milk and instant puddings that Mom eats sometimes. So basically nothing. I write "buy" on the magnetic board and wonder where I'm actually going to get the money for it.

I downloaded Grindr again. Why, I honestly don't know. That stupid icon is sitting right next to the weather app now, like they belong together. First thunderstorms, then fucking. As if I'm proving something to myself by doing it.

In the bathroom, I dry my hair with a towel so I don't wake Mom. A blow dryer would be faster, but the noise... I try to be invisible. Moving quietly, like a shadow. I've gotten used to it.

By the sink lies a starting card. Morning warm-up at seven.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

Mom's murmur drifts out from the room. Something in her sleep. My chest tightens, like someone's squeezing my lungs. I should get another side job. Something that pays more than a few shifts at Dlážděnka. I go over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. She's so fragile. How much does she even weigh? Fifty kilos? Less?

I turn on the coffee maker, which spits coffee grounds like a rope snapping against the water's surface. Fuck. Hope she didn't wake up. I pack my bag—drink, towel, swim trunks, shower gel, deodorant. Everything mechanically, without thinking.

As I leave the apartment, I feel like I'm betraying twice over. Myself and my mom. She's staying here alone and I'm off again doing what I have to, not what I want to. But what else is left for me?