a day produced scrappy impressions, as if each hour was torn off a leaf or a fiery page, burnt. the list of purchases as follows: pastes, flowers, 8 women.
today we searched for sealing-in, dried lobes between pages, recollection, classics. yellow roses against the black background. late in the evening, when the city gets tired it ignites fires which slowly float up in the snowy dusk. people speak phrases with dots in the beginning and end, phrases that fly after you, fly and never conclude, that is the main thing.
in childhood i never could understand why the process of weeping is so strangely described: in the nose, in the eyes. tears flowed frequently, as if they were always on call, it was worthwhile only to strain our cheeks - if you please, the necessary water level in the ocean. now exactly it pinches, splits. apparently with the years everything has more salt, the splinters of cockleshells, and other nonsense.
with deep night along the roads drive other automobiles. you will look, it occurred, you think. you will count to three villages. what they do make there? dying from pride, cut along uninhabited streets, right and left, pressing images. we pass into measurements and ominous blinking of headlights, dropping behind in angularity, deliberately, slowly.
a dishonorable cold occurs. parades are passed by with poor salutes in this month of slumber. lips sealed, she does not say, but runs naked; ablaze in the adjacent court, as you yell yourself. there were guests, cakes were passed, and cold simulated. you will recall sequential heights; happy and pink-cheeked, you subjugated it with a hot head, but now you lie. you drink tea with the aroma of mulled wine, as if everything in life is made.
but sounds still at night are carried, the ordered columns of grey sky sometimes appear, or the wedge of sprinkler machines. at night tales are created on the roads, like cosmetic catalogs with this slogan: “night protects your youth!”
out of ten colleagues nine drink tea, one works with the gloomy turns in three tales. the sender address is always incomprehensible and meager, the happy citizen, reddening from pride, wrote its timid "why?" and sent it with the address indicated. its entire life remained to run away from the rivers of paper which pour into the mailbox. the spring breaks in the room from yesterday. it crashes, winds percolate, raising whiskers to domestic lassitude in its colored house. soon it will go through the walls as in the past year.
birds sometimes leave the forest to create images of themselves. one sits on a separate birch, and all around already strip lights, snapping with cameras, news along the first channels. yes, and we all look as it falls asleep, like as it worked. it will fly back to its hollow, pulls its head back inside, somehow arrives flying; trees selected, no one ran headlong. all walked by and thought 'he will sleep'. the weather is thick.
the door in the entrance was placed by one of many ladies. we live upstairs with the cold, exactly from the side of the street. these mothers are sometimes such jokers. among those despised by experts are slips of the tongue in small packets with the taste of freshly cut grass: typical mint haze above the grown bald field, the brushwood of wild strawberries under the iron feet, the prickly wall of honeysuckle before the forest. milk, of course, in the can with a greenish haze: high with the thistle, small near the beds, with dense heaps on the furrows. it sprinkles every thought, picture and focus without the face. love is not an image.
fools will vulgarize what any child understands easily in the grass, the fear that nothing will ever be so stimulating as the love and hate of dreams.