I knew eventually the apartment would’ve got the better of me. That it would’ve bent me to a total humiliation. At first, as in any story, things seemed to be going pretty well — no disagreements, all kindnesses and delicate detergents — but soon the relationship started taking every other person away from my life. And this, on the long run, has seen me sink into an unprecedented crisis. The last one to break up with me was the lady downstairs, who, as she heard that the virus was also attaching onto the railings, chose to let me drown in my dust until TV conteurorders.
She was the person I cared for most, the relationship that most kept alive the hope of order and cleanliness — indispensable, apparently, in all kinds of coexistence. So, after the umpteenth fight, my apartment and I broke up, and chaos took over everything. Later, I realized that ours wasn’t the only story gone wrong. And I must admit, I breathed a big sigh of relief.