Feathers shine while I pass by. I said, passing by they are lost, the silver wings, and weak bodies in puddles tremble. I move, accompanied by completely superfluous thoughts, which bother me out of mischief. The focal circle of tears on your sticky cheeks leaves the furrows of despondency. I carefully handed over each bundle of words as suffering. When the eyes widen before the swarm of your nonsense, the only thing left is defiance. Fighting against phantom muses. I move in a circle of cocooned fog, completely superfluous.
Life is real only in double exposure: at the bottom of the passage is a garden, cut by a gate; in the distance, there are scattered stones, and in the passage are shining feathers. Snow among the fingers is like milk leaking from the nipples of a bitch, peaking from behind the corner of the iron gate. If you look at your fingers or a bitch’s nipples – it is lost – it is not even lost because consciousness always unwinds, always backward; you can only trust your memory. It is necessary to scratch the retinas as soon as possible. I said scratch, not blink. I don’t know if you don’t hear me, or you don’t listen. Do you have a key? There are, in fact, no locks. Someone would just cut the rope. You have a broken capillary near the temple. Opening the door, you remove the stiffened snow. Maybe they are lesions or clots in the carotids.
I follow a wiry, rat’s tail up the stairs. At the bottom is a hole leading to the basement. The walls within the garden are a swollen network of funiculars and weeds. Behind each window, the curtains are crumpled into a menacing figure. They look like evil eyes to me. Above the basement is a floor with bricked-up windows. An elderly dog is stalking that rat’s tail for lunch. You hold a frozen pike in your hands. Do you have a key? The lock does not melt.
I stare at the cold garden with a wet look. A nightmarish chorus is heard from above; with pastel foreheads and cheeks, the monsters cast their shadows behind the curtains. You push the tin cellar door in vain. Your steps are futile. In this dark hour, in the whirlwind of languishing breath – aimless. Your clumsiness in life is rarely welcomed.
I can’t help any of us. I said, there is no escape because everything is already over. Can you feel us moving in a loop of oblivion? Surplus people. Together we manage to open the door. Inside, the darkness cuts across the shoulders in ragged echoes. Down the hall, you are led by a strong, strange current.
You didn’t even have to hide it. It is curled up in the shadow of the wall. When I held it in my hands for the first time, its body was convulsing, sickly, and completely alien. I said it was a beast’s child. Stop crying. We drowned his disease. Stop crying now that you’ve left him, father. It is our blind spot. It’s so tiny you didn’t have to hide it. A shallow hole will suffice until the soil thaws.