prose / poetry

Tas garsas, ritmingas ir atkaklus kaip inkvizitoriaus tardymas, seniai tapo mano vidiniu metronomu, mušančiu ne maldos, o irimo taktą. Lašas. Tyla. Lašas. Prausyklos čiaupas koridoriaus gale, sugedęs gal nuo pavasario, per kiauras naktis kalė vinį į begalybės karstą, į tą Dievo dovanotą vandenyną, kurį broliai taip atkakliai bandė sutalpinti į priekaištų ir dogmų pilną kibirą. Jie manė, kad uždarydami langus išsaugos šilumą, bet kambariuose tik kaupėsi pelėsių ir neišsipildžiusių maldų kvapas. Jų pyktis, kylantis iš anapus durų, nebuvo šventas. Tai tebuvo mūro skiedinys, skubiai tepamas ant…

Stiklinė siena tarp manęs ir jų, o gal tarp manęs ir visko – plona, vos juntama, bet neįveikiama lyg laiko tėkmė. Sėdžiu apskurusioje laukiamojo kėdėje, kurios dermantinas įtrūkęs lyg sukietėjusi žemė, ir stebiu jų nebylų, pripildytą vandens gyvenimą. Lėtas, choreografiškas šokis be garso, tik burbulai kyla aukštyn lyg neįvykusios maldos. Marškinių apykaklė, per naktį, regis, susitraukusi per centimetrą, veržia kaklą – mažytis, atkaklus priminimas apie mano paties kūno ribas. Viena, didžiausia, su perplėštu uodegos peleku, sustingsta viduryje kelio, lyg būtų prisiminusi seniai pamirštą,…

The heavy, like a cement dust -soaked body, climbed into a two -story bus, and every step is a separate breakthrough in pain through the knees and hips as if to rotate the rusty screws in the body joints. The upper floor, as always, stinks with wet wool and cheap perfume - the aroma of everyday life of England. Through the dirty, gray -tired glass of the city, the same houses slipped and their chimneys smoke into the colorless sky. I was just another foreign body in this organism, fossilized in fatigue, waiting for my stop as salvation. Suddenly a new wave of passengers invaded the bus….

The past is an abandoned railway that has been on the outskirts of the city. The rails, two rusty scars are still here, but the trains are no longer driving them. I go to them slowly, carefully, as if to fall into time. Under the feet, crushed chips, and old wooden refugees, crushed and blackened, are a squeeze between lush weeds. It is those weeds, those wild flowers that persevered through the rotten wood, and are the real memory - not the event itself, but what has overgrown it. In my head I turn one, perfectly polished memory. Summer day, so transparent that it even hurts the eyes. Your laughter bounces off the pines…

The washing machine drum turned its silent, mechanical ritual, and I watched it as if hypnotized, sitting on cold bath tiles. The world, reduced to soap and rotating fabrics. The soaked, tangled shapes - like a drowned hope - were rotting into the glass, rising and falling in a rhythm that had neither the beginning nor the end, only a monotonous, flooding eternity. The green icon on the panel shone like hieroglyphs from the world where everything was still meaningful: drilling, rinsing, emollient. At least the machine knew what he was doing. She was honest than me. On the tongue…

We do not fight for abstract concepts - justice, freedom or gods. These are just signboards that politicians, the same version of better costumes, cover a much older, dirty pulse. As I rolled, I lowered my leg on the first steps of the cement basement, and the face of the face and the moistened Earth was eternity in the face. This descent into the dungeons of an apartment building, into a common area that has never been and will not be common - is a small, domestic war. In the air, not only moisture, but also decades of accumulated, unspoken puffy - behind the neighbor's tires too widely pushed, for… for…

The heat over the square was shaking like a translucent jelly, absorbing the reflections of the buildings into itself and turning them into mirages. In the very center, like a pagan deity altar, a fountain was thirsty - its currents, as fossilized by snakes, fired into the sky and fell down thousands of needles that instantly evaporated on the heated tiles. Children were around and screaming around him - barefoot, a wet, sun -shown tribe that performs his incomprehensible summer ritual. They scream. Spotted. Collapsed. Their laughter, sharp as a glass combs, flown air, but somehow did not hurt it, but just filled with life,…

It was raining. No, it was not that calm, bumping from old books. Here the sky was bile, and wipers, like two hysterical preachers, wandered desperately in front of their eyes, trying to clean the world, but only by applying it to blurry light stains. The road that glitters like a peeled snake skin was winding in the dark, and my lights were just two cowardly fingers trying to find the way to nowhere. I ran. What a magnificent and deceptive phrase. I ran away from unanswered calls and the thick silence that reigns at home when everything is said, but nothing is resolved. I imagined myself…

The city was filled with wet asphalt monotony, and I, another erythrocyte moving in its blood vessels, sailed on a normal route - door -to -door, from one duty to another. It was not thoughts, but thick kisiel, cloudy and shapeless, offset somewhere at the back of the back. But then, at a turning point on a noisier street, I saw it - an abandoned, municipal -forgotten flowerbed, which was covered between the walls of the broken building and the sidewalk. It was not neat beauty. It was an anarchist rebellion. From the earth, the carved forehead of the old man, the wild…

Initially, he only threatened - the sky darkened to the wet asphalt color, and the air filled with wet dust and waiting for the smell. Then the first drop fell. Heavy, lonely, leaving a dark, quickly disappearing coin on a hot sidewalk. After that, the second, the third. And then the sky pierced. The rain did not raine. It fell with long, glass fingers, wandering into roofs, window sills and cars, creating thousands of different rhythms. A city, a moment before being gray and tired, turned into a giant watercolor. Traffic lights melted on wet asphalt, leaving red and green blood…

The sun, cut with the blade of the horizon, slowly bleed into a cool sea bath, and that blood painted the clouds with such a banal dramatic color that he wanted to light another, though the first had not yet been smoked. She was between the two fingers - the only warm thing in the cold, in a sandy jacket. She included smoke. Slowly, as if weighing each molecule. Her cheeks barely concave, and then released a gray, fragile soul thread directly into the body of the descending heaven. Was silent. I was silent too. The Great Fine Final Final, in which two loser actors try…

Maybe just such a day. One of those, when a city, usually gray and frustrated, is a old man who is pressed by shoes, suddenly throws for decades and feels young again for a short time. The sun, as if accidentally found a slit between the clouds-screens, poured on the sidewalk viscous, honey-like gold. And then I saw her. She did not go, but swam through that thick light, and it seemed that the air around it was shining, breaking thousands of rainbow. Hair is the river of molten copper, the eyes - the lake after the storm, which still reflects the lightning. And in my head, in an abandoned homestead, where only drafts are only wandering…