Lazyness It's still dark. I try to open my eyes, one at a time. The tips of the hair reveal to me that the cold is intense out there; the cold is intense right inside my room, outside the universe that closes under my duvet. One of the open eyes tries to stretch to the clock, to know the time; the iris complains of the cold bombing the eyeball, and the eyelid protects it again. The other eye tries; now it's your turn. It's six forty-eight, that's what can decipher the retina. Forty-eight! I make a move with my leg. A measly move. She leaves her place of comfort and goes to a cooler corner of the bed, that corner that the duvet did not warm because, until that moment, there was no leg there to be heated. The duvet is an intelligent being: it uses its heating power at specific points of the bed, precisely to protect the one who is yours. I come running back with my leg to the place of origin; this will be the last move I make with this leg. I reach out and take control of the TV. There's a documentary in German about Czechoslovakia. I leave the volume at least to not wake my beloved; she does not like Czechs or Germans, does not like documentaries invading the dawn and, like me, does not like to have to wake up on cold mornings. In the world of my beloved's dreams, she doesn't even care that there was, in some time and place, a country that was two, after having been several, and that turned into none. She doesn't need to understand German in her träumerei. Nor do I need to understand what they say: it is enough for me that my eyes move a little, that the eardrums warm up, that the brain starts to pick up. Czech streets are as cold as the outside world. The voice of the German narrator comes from that steam that comes out of our mouth on cold days; it comes thirsty and lacking a good brandy to warm it. Hitze, bitte! There's rain out there. The drops hit the window and the roof, and it looks like they'll end up running down there in my bed. I mentally feel the dripping on my clothes, on the floor, I feel imaginary chills, I feel like I need to get up and go to work soon. I feel cold and I feel that the world out there doesn't matter, whether it's here or in the old Czechoslovakia, whether it's heute, gestern or langen Zeit. Leave the rain out there in the world I imagine to be real; this is where I want to stay, with my beloved and my duvet, in my private universe. I want to stay here, hugging her, feeling the warmth of her body sleeping, feeling that I could stand there for thousands of forty-eight minutes, without getting tired. But the alarm clock wakes up. It fulfills its function, to make noise and become unbearable. It fulfills its function, of destroying with a noise all that wonderful universe of moments ago, and, at the same time, making the sound of drops seem more attractive to get out of bed. The alarm clock wakes up, like telling me: “What now? Are you going to pay attention to me or am I going to have to stay here, yelling at you?”, being that the simple fact of paying attention to anything already makes me realize that I am awake, that there is no return, that it rains out there and Czechoslovakia is in the past and what I have is today and I have to get up. He only fulfills the function for which he was created, and fulfills it well, and I cannot condemn him for it. Rise. I throw my legs, hair and eyes in the cold outside. It's not that dark anymore. I breathe deeply, I look at the bed and the beloved (who at this moment merge into a single aspiration) and I say to them, in a melancholy tone: I'm going to Czechoslovakia. At night we meet again.