What remains must be the truth
I was leaving a bar, one of those festive evenings when everything is beautiful, even the drizzle of March on the pavement of the city center. I was a bit drunken, and believed to see in every puddle where the yellow glow of old lampposts was reflected, magnificent daffodils. Standing up after failing, once again, to pick them, swearing at those mindless flowers which didn't want my company, I bumped into something. Or rather someone, who helped me not fall. He looked ludicrous, with his glasses blurred because of the rain. He asked me how I was, if I needed help to get home. I should have said no (a stranger, in my condition, at my house, was highly reckless), but as freaky as it could seem, he looked really kind. So I accepted, he put his brown coat on my shoulders, and took my hand.
Actually, I never got home. And if I should tell what really happened, no one would believe me worse, I will seem mad. And yet, nothing is more real now than these memories of another life. All I can say, is that I ran a lot. And I lived the most beautiful period of my life with this man (who, once his glasses removed, had pretty eyes, but terribly sad). I'd like to stay beside him, but I believe nobody can.
Now, I'm living in a lovely, small and isolated house, surrounded by yellow and white daffodils, which seem to be sea waves from elsewhere when the wind blows. And when it's raining, and they reflected in puddles, I hope to see him reappear. Just to tell me that, after all this time, he hasn't forgotten me, he's fine, and someone else holds is hand. Because me, I've never forgot, and never will be able to. And sometimes, when I fall asleep, I believe to hear his sonic screwdriver again, in the night.