Carnival is already in town. I can see half of the biggest Ferris Wheel in the region from my kitchen as I cook. It will open its doors on Saturday evening, and kids will be lining up to try rides they have used over and over through the years. It's the time to be merry. A whole week when stores and offices will only open from 9 to 14. Then people forget about work and gather for a quick dirty lunch in the center, among the crowd, before they head toward the music, the bright lights. Everybody should be happy. I am not. Or perhaps I am, for I love watching trailers driving pink and blue bumper cars around the roundabout on the corner of our street, but not to the same extent as others. They say I have a hard time experiencing joy, that I always find the dark spot in every sunlit room; they might be right, I am not sure. All I can think about as I smoke at the open window is that there's only one more week to go before we start all over again. I think about the beginning of our summers, so full of expectation. I close my eyes and I recall the sweet ecstasy of a vacation opening its arms to greet me. Time flies. And then I open them again and it's all in the past. I cannot tell where my minutes go, what have I done with them? I simply know that there are seven days ahead, and that I will be bleeding each one of them, like a kid planting his feet on the ground when refusing to let his mother pull him forward. "I don't want to, I don't want to", says that voice inside. I do not verbalize the words, I stay put. I smoke.