I pierced a drone in my ear so it would stop moving further away. I had my doubts and was afraid, but the girl piercing my ear calmed my nerves down with a smile.
“You’ve never done this before, haven’t you?” she said.
I responded, folding my head between two light pulses coming from the drone’s horizon.
I noticed the girl’s eyes were shaped by the thinnest sand there is. They sounded like chorals floating on liquid decaying crystals from a lunar hidden lake.
“She doesn’t exist,” I thought out loud.
A subtle pressure began to build on the sides of my head. It held.
The girl kept staring at me—or at least at the part of me denying her existence—and her smile turned into the most hopeful sound ever produced.
I was alone. With my left ear pierced.
Every other thing seemed far away, scented with cypress and eucalyptus. I was confused, still hopeful. I was in love with the unreachable horizon that kept moving further away—unmutable, always changing, yet always itself.
Its essence was as pristine as the baptismal jets underneath the lunar hidden lake. I was its reflecting surface without a will, channeling time and speaking in tongues full of absence and mechanical divinity.
“I don’t exist,” I spoke inward, silently, as silent as the girl’s smile.
I was in her, and she was in me.
We were together in this—
she was a drone pierced in my ear.
