Croy Nielsen

26 May, 1922

I have a bad headache when I wake up in the noon. Alcohol remains in the body.
I drank too much last night.
Looking at the garden, her broken head is lying. I can’t see her face dazzling due to backlight.
It is beautiful.
I cut her head off last night.
Even though cut it off, she was a doll, so there was no blood and no screaming.
I was expecting it somewhere in my mind. I was waiting for it.
Will you let me hear your voice for the last time?
I could remember her appearance, texture, and gesture, but I was forgetting her voice.
I tried to remember her voice.
It’s almost a creation, because I’ve probably invented it each time I tried to remember it.
This wasn’t a drunk momentum, it was part of a careful plan.
To be honest, I was tired of living with her and thought it was enough.
I was completely sanity, but at the same time I was still drifting back in time. Only one person in this world. With a strong intention.
So living with her was a grand project for me. She was a device that made the time of that time appear
in the present. And to not to forget it.
But now I knew it will be completed at last when I lose it.