*Carlos da Silva*

Ever since he had woken up the day seemed somewhat different. It was as if everything became of an unusual interest and clarity to him. The sky, the buildings, the road, the sidewalk, the little shop in the corner. He looked carefully at people, as if he had known them for a long time and he seemed to understand each and every one of them, in their most inner selves. Their fears, their frustrations, their most profound joys, their darker sides and the best of each one. All of these things he knew and understood. He climbed the stairs and headed towards the elevator. At each one of the people who got in he threw a look of understanding and hope. Some of them stared him closely, puzzled, scared. He did not go out at the usual floor. He proceeded to the top floor, alone. He stepped out of the elevator, weightless, opened the door to the terrace and headed in large and ever so decided steps to the end. He sat on the edge of the building, the world at his feet, and looked at the sky. The tears that rolled down his face were tears of rage, for being deceived. That world was not for him. It never had been. It never would be. There was no hope. That which made everything make sense had been denied to him. Tears rolled down his face, and yet he smiled. A smile of defeat, surrender, acquiescence. He was oh so tired. He would not, he could not, fight anymore.

He got slowly up and stepped into the edge of the abyss. Clouds passed slowly by, mockingly undisturbed.

He jumped forward, and flew. He flew trough the air and laughed, and life seemed bitter, and all that had passed seemed a lie, and the world seemed cruel, hopeless and endless, and without sense, and without peace, and without love, and without freedom. His hair flew in the wind and the cold kissed his face.

"Hello" - he said, when he gazed at death in the eye - "I'm so tired…"

A sense of relief ran through his soul right before he became a mass of blood and flesh in the street.