Beginning, as always, lies at the very end of the story that was never told—simply because the optional possibility of becoming a wave turned out to be too naive. Precisely for this reason, constantly stumbling upon traces left by violet moss, the gray stone cannot move as swiftly as its good friend—the golden circle. It’s not frightening. All of this is merely a shadow cast by hundreds of drafts, drafts that make your skin prickle with goosebumps and stir a longing to put on something beige. Taking yet another step in the direction toward which everything flows—doesn’t it seem to you that the relative airiness of the fleeting spring has finally acquired the shimmer of the northern wind? Perhaps it truly is so, for failing to recognize it would be tantamount to shattering into countless fragments. Of course, those fragments could be gathered, even reshaped into something new—but their color would no longer be the same. So it’s better to brew them into mother-of-pearl tea, just like someone else’s porridge, only inverted.
In truth, all one can manage now, while addressing the seductive void, is simply to fill oneself with juice and flee into transparent mountains, so no one notices your trembling back. They’ll surely find you eventually and assign a verb to you—or even if they take away the relative calm of the raging sea, twice as many warm pastries will return in time. So it’s wiser to take shelter in warm dreams of chestnut-blue encounters, which appear as suddenly as they return the lost ring with a pink heart.
It’s pleasant to ponder all this while gazing at lilac flowers sprouting straight from long, strange serpents coiling around a window filled with blue. Once, winged little locks even settled upon it—their keys appearing only many years later. And it doesn’t matter what the scale-covered oddity says; it possesses many other virtues, among them pleated shyness. The likelihood that one day it might reveal the slipping ribbons of velvet darkness is quite high—this is indicated by the multidimensional, slightly powdered goblet.
Immediately, one recalls the rough, perpendicular sheath of an insignificant cause—though, in truth, it’s not so unimportant, depending on which side you blow upon it. Sometimes one longs to drown in the embrace of a distant yet intimately familiar horizon, so much so that the disassembling of carelessness becomes evident even to summer as it sleeps. Startled by a loud, absurd blotch on a dirty wall, one begins to grasp the wretchedness of that gazing grayness. In essence, it’s nothing but a meaningless, hollow-headed specimen of a dust storm.
Once, a foul-smelling layer of hope dreamed of a boiling sky vanishing into the unknown—and only then did the extolled height reveal its flat side. Yet if you turn the other way, a new lacework becomes evident—delicately approaching, intricately woven thoughts that can only be heard by peering into the very heart of a lost gift. Gifts are an inseparable part of feverish magic, whose purpose is to wrap crimson berries—picked at sunset—in careless dreams. From these berries, one can easily prepare a multitude of spontaneously emerging ideas and toss them at a passing stranger whose name is perfectly known.
The plans are certainly grand—but one must remember: all this is merely a screen concealing the true sea that has flooded everything and saturated every dream, leaving not the slightest chance to release one’s hand.
Standing beside a fountain in the center of a lifeless desert, you understand that the water within is calm and mirrors the one gazing into it. Yes, that quiet flame revealed what lies hidden behind the veil of events—and the one who chose noon believed in the existence of a blazing call whose purpose is a mad dance.
Again and again repeating the words inscribed on the wall of an abandoned house, you ache to draw closer to the riverbed whose water holds a tender pink hue. How can all this be turned into truth? How to find, within stardust, the place where a minute is born—a minute in which everything has already happened, already poured from a kettle that’s just boiled and now invites you to thicken everyday life?
That same even and pleasant twilight once evoked the feeling of a rain that had just passed. You want to remember the residue left by a somber wave—as if someone had weighed and counted it.
Awakening at sunset, you hear weeping streetlights—never noticed, which is exactly why they feel calm and content. In truth, the gray sun doesn’t deserve that bronze cry, which so piercingly begged to be washed by a tear. What is beautiful in the morning isn’t always suited for a midday carnival—that’s precisely why you long to be astonished.
Right now, as the knocking on a stranger’s door has ceased, a flock of red swans is ready to perish—but only on the condition that the raspberry bushes planted near their home bear blueberries. Of course, this sounds absurd—yet no stranger than a musical instrument whose sound resembles wood shavings. After all, trees are people, too—only made of glass. They’ll never manage to catch a fish from within their own glass. And it’s not because fishnet stockings have long gone out of fashion. It’s simply that sometimes one longs to awaken.
Instead of wandering through others’ thoughts, a desire arose to weave baskets from one’s own eyes. They aren’t as weary yet as they were at the start of autumn, but they already resemble fragments of useless memories.
The interest stirred by these unfinished plush clouds is, in fact, made of garbage that a gray-haired almanac failed to discard in time. Such clouds were once often assembled to capture the sudden graces of the soul’s movements. Now it’s irrelevant—everything has shifted toward a beaver who built platinum in the most inconvenient spot. All this is done so that the wanderer arriving from the south may finally behold the miracle created amid a crowd that doesn’t illusorily exist.
And they keep coming, and coming—and always pass by. Though—no, one old flycatcher did stop. But only after being overtaken by terry sorrow. There’s no salvation from it. Appearing clearly on the northern side, its tentacles immediately begin collecting all the sweets scattered around. And, by the way, it was a crocodile who scattered them—the one who once visited Africa. The mistress of the house wouldn’t approve. All her attention is always fixed on the box of golden rings, half of which are wedding bands. The gold used to craft these ornaments is no less worthy than the adequate behavior expected when one is delighted.
But what of tenderness? Where dwells this tiny mischief? Someday it will reveal itself, waving farewell to the departing caravan. Yet sudden cries from a prickly sweater have awakened the remnants of a carbonated world. Bubbles, in great numbers, rush to defend their mother—who always cherished others’ leftovers. It’s always more than the vessel containing it.
Finding a dress in your size becomes a difficult task, for that cut is sewn only by a fleeting glance. Still, one must try to release a bit of ether. Perhaps only then will an eclipse occur. But for now—hurry up? Or slow down? Who knows what speed is needed to reach the password?
The Mistress of the Copper Mountain was once a stone in a raging sea—but now she sparkles. It’s unwise to press last year’s ivy to your chest; it won’t affect the concert’s outcome. Of course, it’s held once a month—but that’s not enough. It must be every day. No—what’s a day? Every instant! So there’s no room left for the soul. Why give it tight shoes? Let it walk barefoot—along a sandy voice, searching for a fool.
Still, one must walk on foot. It no longer matters what becomes of the plump one. The same thing always happens: someone keeps knocking, knocking at the door. Most intriguingly, the voice emanating from the depths of the day sounds strikingly like winds blowing in different directions. Somewhere, they surely converge at a single point—but to avoid disturbing sweet silence, countless final decisions remain unnoticed by the hollow-headed eagle. The only problem lies in the flight trajectory. Once you’ve removed stockings in the wrong place, it’s hard to properly assess the intricacy of a phrase. The spectacle of incoherent grimaces doesn’t dignify the state of war.
Sooner or later, you’ll have to seriously pay attention to whoever is beside you. This surprise might turn out to be a debt—repayable in snow currency. Not water, but snowflakes. The pattern of each will echo homesickness—for a home that never existed. Though this, too, has already happened. Then, turning the other way, a ball suddenly enters your field of vision. It’s already in your hands, and it’s unclear what game has begun.
Suddenly, the letter you read makes you uneasy—its letters impossible to decipher, yet its meaning clear. It spoke of a frantic fool meticulously sorting through bones. The beads he wears to the celebration of discovered warmth are utterly worn. New ones are needed—but those moments carried a golden haze scented with lilac.
So many insistent wings whisper fables to the snow, mocking frosty sorrow and offering no peace even in empty minutes. All this circus will one day become a foreign song, sung on another shore by a nonexistent wind. It’s a pity—piercing truth gifted an entire sack of rice, and every grain must be counted, or else you’ll have to answer with a poem.
Long ago, the lake in the misty forest knew how to wrap laughter in a rustling wrapper and always asked for help for everyone who dreamed of it. That rustle was unique—it tickled elbows and gave earrings.
How did it happen that a small, modest cause scattered everything created at the point where the sea’s beginning was absent? The moon, concealing all this chaos, prepared several beige excuses—then dissolved upon hearing winter’s frosty call to sail home.
Loneliness frightens only inarticulate hermits pretending to be sages—beneath their robes, they guard a carefully protected Tuesday. It may seem that rushing ahead harms the dissolution of a nonexistent floor—but in fact, there was never even such a question. It turns out it’s just a child—clever, yet old nonetheless. So what to do with all this now? Divide it among everyone present in the opulent golden hall—they won’t object.
The little slipper, which cleverly deceived the entire coastline, will no longer speak of lost unknowability. And the juniper’s fluffy scent—resembling suitcases packed tightly with books—isn’t intentional. Its resemblance to mother-of-pearl is no coincidence; you can only detect its presence by leaping over a perfectly round lake in a dream.
Old paper, hidden beneath the pillow of a silver-haired instant, still stubbornly lingers in an illusion left behind by someone as a lesson for sick dogs. If you follow the rules and recommendations, the long-awaited feeling of absence will inevitably appear. And in place of the gaping void, the sky will emerge from time’s incision—its hue, of course, markedly different from what’s displayed in the museum. Still, a shade of red suits the stirring of innocent foam far better.
It’s strange to witness the closing of the depth of imagined snow when warming heralds sweet, velvety fruit. And yet it remains utterly unclear where the train is heading. The road is shown by a hand worn thin from distributing seals.
The golden coins tossed into the abyss to bribe winter will never return. Cold water will eventually flood the sky, and the pearl beads stitched into clouds will scatter like children wandering in search of worlds.
The ban on the relentless cry of a lost trinket manifests as a haughty ignoramus’s stuttering gait. Here is the glass screen, concealing an unattractive mouth, painted in Chinese style. Countless fish in shameless scales could escort any dear little bear on a hopeless journey—but they prefer to emit sounds resembling the creak of a door.
Another step—yet another in the endless chase after a dusty horizon. Only now, as the shade of morning coffee shifts, can you see the true soul-wearing image of bats. Trifles. The hopeless outline of a simple song will deliver yet another decayed gift—tied with a silver ribbon inscribed in a nonexistent language meaning “To Spring.”
The completely groundless rupture of connection has given rise to a brighter, yet sadder landscape. Why does this happen? Dancers arranged in a circle suddenly begin singing in a tongue that echoes someone’s anxiety. And reproaches about hope’s constant absence conceal nothing more than an ordinary craving for a tasty lunch.
Stumbling yet again over your own blindness, the streets empty once more. It’s impossible to meet a passerby in a city lit by green light.
What holds this entire cosmos back from taking that one step toward the love of solitude? Perhaps the celebration of an empty letter will herald an unwavering sorrow. Not an expected letter—but one ready for dispatch—lies in the shadow of a vanishing horizon and will never be read by the northern wind, who already knows its contents.
Still, something remains in the dark room. Perhaps it’s one of two sunsets. They used to take turns tossing a ball woven from the tiniest particles of impossibility. Now, however, the high pressure of hovering foolishness has concluded the process of beginnings.
All this is quite difficult to digest. When you suddenly find yourself in the hands of hopeless absurdity, all hopes regarding the red pattern are scattered by those who never mattered to you.
And yet—the dreary season spilled across the floor will one day turn to dust—and at that very moment, one speck will tell the vanishing sun something that will never be heard. Perhaps that’s the whole point: simply order yourself a few new shades of violet, arrange them together in a special way so they form a light breeze—fresh, like the one that blows through the window each morning from the house standing on the riverbank. Or perhaps it’s by the sea—but colored like the painting in the home of an old woman slightly sinking in mud. That color isn’t a color at all, but the gentle touch of a satin ribbon woven into the braids of a girl running to meet the mist.
When was that? Long ago? It’s happening now—you run, and the horizon recedes. The mist strives to vanish, having seduced countless seashells.
So what is that color? It’s receding—hiding from the chatter of a crowd of sleepless infants. Someone might say, “So what? It’s just the traces of a stranger.” And indeed, it is—merely a trace, an imprint of something impossible to see.