Néant

For a second, when finally emerging from the building and its hell into the outside world, it feels like a dream. The bright sun in the big blue sky is blinding and the air is so breathable that it burns. And the piano is still playing, because she's always a woman, even at a time like this, somehow.

It's strange how chaos can be so eerily beautiful. There's a strange kind of beauty in those debris falling into dust all around the plaza. In the way it's almost impossible to speak, because words have lost their meanings, because they get stuck in the throat, and because only the solemnity of silence seems appropriate. There's a strange kind of beauty in finding that the sounds of life are still there, and they're loud – all those sirens, this screaming, this crying – like a heartbeat growing stronger in a time of powerlessness.

You can kill with a smile, you can wound with your eyes, and maybe love is the greatest weapon. Or the only one, really. Because it's the only thing that matters in the end.

But the dream has gone awry, and it's suddenly all too real. This mixture of heaviness and lightness, of gravity and meaninglessness, no one could have imagined it or made it up. And beauty and tragic have been twisted in the most sickening way as these people are falling all around, like flightless birds, as if they had thought that they could fly but had realized just too late that it was all a dream. No, beauty doesn't – cannot – last, and it turns into downright horror when the bodies heavily crash against the ground. They say the soul weighs 21 grams. So is it all down to body weight, all that dying? Does it mean that the soul can only ascend then? And that hell has descended onto earth? All this flying, this crashing, this climbing up, this falling down, it seems that everything and its opposite is happening.

Maybe this is it, the end of the world.

...

I know your eyes in the morning sun

The sun is still shining, almost obnoxiously, selfishly. The world doesn't care.

And the moment you wander far from me

A pair of glasses is lying there, as if carefully placed down on the floor, next to a half-torn pile of worksheets. All those numbers, all this time spent creating them, all this hard work turned to dust. Who's going to put it all back together? Who's going to clean up the mess?

All those pieces of people's lives. It's almost like a puzzle, except that even if you managed to put everything back together, it still wouldn't be complete. It's not just broken things here, something has been lost as well. Something has been taken away, maybe forever.

then you softly leave

...

Through the heat, the fire and the smoke, the countdown has begun, but no one knows the numbers. How much time left? How many breaths? What is it that keeps a heart beating at such a time, in fact more strongly that it probably ever has? Can hope survive this?

You're the light in my deepest, darkest hour

You're my savior when I fall

The noise is sudden, and it washes out all the other sounds, like a thousand waterfalls of glass, steel and concrete rushing to the ground. But in slow-motion. It's fast and slow at the same time. Just like this feeling of emptiness that's all too much to take in. Just like this feeling of being so alive, so alive that it hurts, while death is slowly creeping everywhere. Then the dust engulfs everything in its deadly embrace, and there's nothing left to be heard.

We're living in a world of fools

Breaking us down when they all should let us be

We belong to you and me.