Mirage.

by Igor Shulman · Prague, CZ

Memory plays strange games with us. You only understand this over time. You can clearly feel the warmth of his cheek, the touch of his hands. His whisper, his barely perceptible breath. You can feel the pliable softness of his lips, you want him. You feel how much you need him. You feel all his love. And seagulls, and the voice of the sea, and the wind. All this is real. Or almost everything.