Seven Windows Fronting the Courtyard of Gundulić Street

A howl, a cry, a sob, joy, death: when a certain event becomes inevitable and when it’s impossible to make out the dynamics, I just close my eyes sinking into the whirlpool of sounds, partly cacophonous, partly like cannon fire of youth and fear, they let me extract from them nothing but thanatos, but, anyway, my younger brother died like all of them, descending the empty pages of the assigned reading toward eternity that repeats itself, just for us, like a film frame or a bitter scene on the stage in the cellar of the city without people, without flower-beds, without calligraphy.