a metropolis approaching midnight, minimal external din, closed malls, caged front gates, small coffee shops near the station, a book suitable for a late-night read, languorous jazz, empty-sounding steps on emptied pavements. she wants to write down a story about subway lovers, two persons that, either by fate or named by the stars, keep on running into each other aboard the last train. the girl is a night bird who gets drunk easily and doesn't know how to gamble, but she gets herself drunk literally, beyond the magic of the texts and the journey she always sets for herself. she loves wearing a guy's old leather jacket two sizes too big for herself. she loves wearing boots so tough that make her feel as if she can actually kick someone in the face. the man will resemble the chinese lover in l'amant: tanned skin, small eyes, clad in expensive clothes as if he is to carry the entire weight of the world... on his clothes. he loves milan kundera and henry miller, and all the time he questions the existence of god the way someone questions the possibility of a thunder's appearance in a warm sunny afternoon.
