​There is a shadow walking ahead of me. Not behind, not beside: ahead. It always takes a step before I do, hands in its pockets and the crooked gait of one who has time to waste and no rush to heal. ​It isn’t mine, I’ve looked at it closely: it doesn’t have my shape. It is more hunched, more tired than my own name. ​No one sees it but me. It leans against things like someone who knows how conversations end before they even begin. ​At night, it sleeps beside me. It doesn’t snore, it doesn’t dream, but it is heavy. ​One day I tried to lose it. I ran for hours under the sun, but it was there, waiting for me where the sidewalk ends and that part of me begins which no longer speaks to me. ​It doesn’t wish me ill, that’s the beauty of it (and the ugliness). ​It brings me cigarettes, it closes the windows for me, it embraces me when I deserve it. ​Once I asked: "Are you following me, or am I following you?" ​It smiled: "It’s the same thing, my love."