Tunnel by Zita Izso

One reason for our being unable to become intimate might be that we are scared of warmth; that we're afraid former confessions would emerge, like text fingered into the moisture when someone breathes against the windowpane. We might succeed if someone built a tunnel under our houses; one so long that after days of wandering we couldn't tell days and nights apart, wouldn't know when to wake up or do our routine tasks; when to eat, drink or quarrel; when to start being frightened. Now we are like those dead who are resurrected in the night. They do the same as any decent person would: they desperately try to get back to sleep. Zita Izso (Translated by Agnes Marton)