The drum of the washing machine spun its silent, mechanical ritual, and I watched it as if hypnotized, sitting on the cold bathroom tiles. A world reduced to soapy water and spinning tissues. Sodden, tangled forms—like drowned hopes—beat against the glass, rising and falling in a rhythm that had no beginning and no end, only a monotonous, humming eternity. The green icons on the panel glowed like hieroglyphs from a world where everything still made sense: drilling, rinsing, softener. At least the machine knew what it was doing. She was more honest than me.

The taste of overly sweet, long-cold coffee lingered on his tongue, a failed attempt to wake something that seemed to have been asleep for a long time. It's okay, I kept telling myself. Roof over head, belly full. Everything. ok The words fell weightlessly like dry flour through fingers. They meant nothing. They didn't change anything. the weariness was deeper than muscle, deeper than bone; it had penetrated to the very core of wanting to want.

A sharp beep broke the trance.
The cycle is complete.
Silence.

Opening the door, I took out my clothes - clean, damp and heavy.
But what to do with them?

That weight. Not only in fabrics that have absorbed water, but also in my own hands, shoulders, neck. An anchor dragging you back to the twilight of the bathroom, to that hypnotic drum roll. For a moment, I wanted to just let go of the basket, let it turn on the cold tiles, and go back to bed myself and curl up in a ball that remembers nothing and waits for nothing.

But I didn't do that.

Instead, I made my way to the balcony slowly, as if carrying some fragile relic. A gust of cool night air hit my face - it brought with it the smell of wet asphalt and flowers blooming somewhere, unfamiliar to me. The city shimmered with a distant, sad light, like a giant animal unable to sleep from pain. Stranger's lives are dotted in the windows - in one place the blue light of the TV, in another the warm coziness of the kitchen.

I took the clothes one by one. I pressed the cold, rough wooden clips with my fingers, the faint resistance of the spring under my thumb the only real thing in that moment. I sewed them to the rope. How absurd, what a petty rebellion against meaninglessness - to hang clean laundry at night. Sheet. Shirt. Two lonely sock shadows. Every movement was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial.

When I lifted the last one—the white pillowcase—and the basket was empty, something inside subsided. The clothes, which had just been a heavy, shapeless mass, now swayed above the light of the street lamps.

White sails raised to the night wind.

The weight hasn't gone anywhere. But now he was carried by the wind.