aga7

They understood each other without words. Life had taught them that words often hurt – they remained silent. They stood opposite each other, getting to know each other in silence. He wanted to tell her. She knew. She knew that the same thing that had compelled him to come here had compelled her six months ago. He was looking for friends. He had found her. Aga began to explain. Step by step, she explained to him what it was all about. She didn't fully understand it herself; only those who had passed away did. Gone forever. Where they were now was surely much better for them. What could be worse than this life? When others came, they already knew each other. They had christened him. Little. He was humble, Aga fought when they wanted to call her that, but he didn't object. He was tired – tired of life, tired of himself. The ritual of everyday life. The same, and yet, different every day. Bottles, cigarettes, joints. She looked at him. Into his eyes. He was afraid, afraid of what was about to happen. He took a drag. High. Now he's happy. She already knew she'd meet him at the wall tomorrow, too; she could see it in his face. He felt the same way she did the first time; it was light and pleasant. He'd forgotten. And he had his brothers around him—his family—the weed guy. A family like that certainly won't forget you—they'll always give you another dose of death to go. Because that's how it is in a family. Everyone supports everyone. Helps and lifts everyone's spirits. We care for each other. That's how it is in every family...