How many more untold riches can still be found in the corner of a vanishing wave? They aren’t needed at all—if only you look at them from another angle. Or better yet, from around the corner of that very house whose color imprints itself on memory instantly.
It’s deeply undesirable to seem like an abandoned kitten whose mother was a fleeting sorrow. That’s why kinship with the thistle suspended midair promises nothing good—except, perhaps, that someday someone’s abyss will be revealed.
There’s no need to describe everything, fearing missed details. After all, there’s always a way to skirt the cracks that appear along the path to serenity. These soul-squeezing circumstances cannot be coaxed into sitting down for a quiet drink. One must gather the remnants of lightness and pass them on to stubborn cowardice.
For quite some time now, a single value has resided in the shadow of green blindness. It wasn’t valuable while it remained an indistinct formation of dust—but tiny particles have a habit of vanishing the moment news arrives that there will be no more news.
Precisely at that instant, ambiguity—of a stunningly vivid hue—suddenly resembles a child’s drawing whose subject was the future.
You can only change the color of restless waves. All other whims belong exclusively to rare dreams about birds. Their plumage isn’t what one might call “astonishing”—rather “shuddering”—but shuddering with what, exactly?
What can possibly be done about the state of things in a lilac room whose mistress has forgotten the way home? These questions might have been answered—if only they’d been posed in a hoarse voice shortly before midwinter.
And yet, despite everything, something vital has drawn so near that the details of a newly formed style are already discernible. Their evasive motifs suggest, more than anything, a fragile and incoherent plea for mercy.
The hunched beginning of time unexpectedly threw itself into dance, discovering the ability to leave everything behind.
There’s neither reason nor sense in gathering fallen leaves in hopes of restoring a misty garden. Far more intriguing is the act of constantly washing one’s feet in dark water, silently smiling at one’s hidden nature.
Right now, one must clench resolve into a fist—and then let it go, as one releases a bird. Flight always smells deliciously of dreams about a green wave and the unheard-of audacity of a familiar gaze.
It’s high time to halt all possible ways ash might appear. This can be achieved with a gift, delivered precisely on time to the correct address.
All this was already described in the book with yellowed pages—but apparently, a single leap into the unknown isn’t enough. The unknown itself must become the leap—bold, without hesitation.
Only then will there be a chance to secure a front-row ticket to a performance you’re forbidden to watch—yet somehow allowed to attend.
For such an occasion, you’d want to wear something screaming—something shrieking that, at last, the collapse is coming: that final, deeply promising failure.
Outside the window, nonsense keeps singing as always—devilishly alluring, just as it was last time.
As always, hidden sorrow remains impossible to find. On certain days, it acquires a particular shade that prevents it from reflecting the pre-sunset light.
That’s the problem: distinguishing sunset from sorrow has become impossible.
And yet—it’s trivial. Simply because no one has ever seen this song.
All that’s required is to place the weary head of a creature—accidentally found at the foot of the mountains—onto your lap.
It’s always so beautiful there. The hair is beautiful. And the ribbons in it.
Though—no, ribbons in hair are vulgar. And that’s excellent.
After the storm of hushed pines, there’s no desire whatsoever to return to the very spot where the unrestrained merriment of a melancholy waffle began.
It was all due to carelessness—always the culprit behind anything describable as “a vegetable marinated far too long.”
Without hesitation, without preparation—straight into the brine. For a couple of hours. And suddenly, the marinated vegetable becomes boiled.
Can one now extract a square root from this? It won’t succumb to provocation so easily. It will demand a price—which always implies being painted violet.
And violet is merely green seen from the other side.
While everything continues in this direction, the bird’s song—though exceedingly quiet—becomes momentarily inaudible, especially against the backdrop of a beige wall.
All of this is as dull as a swampy hue.
Kicking roadside stones with new shoes always brings to mind the dust of another road—the one separating forest from a field blanketed with countless red poppies.
And that fresh breeze—where is it now?
The unopened letters lying on the table say nothing of it.
There’s less and less desire to open them.
A small watercolor sketch atop those texts would look far better—especially if its author were a modest yet furious laughter.
And yet, today, lost just days ago, common sense has finally been found.
Sense is never of a single color—one must always invent a new shade for it.
That’s why it shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow the moment light from the floor lamp beside a cozy armchair falls upon it.
Admittedly, its roughness was inherited from a greedy crowd of foreigners who appreciate fine whiskey.
But don’t roll your eyes when shame enters the room alone—its owner stuck en route in the nagging grip of daily life.
Autumn will come soon enough, and the dusty road—kissed by every wind and leading to a vanishing backwater—will shift its course toward the source of a new emptiness.
It’s the same emptiness. Yet new. As if from a picture.
More precisely, from a painting by an unknown master who managed to grab it by the tail—only for the tail to fall off!
And now it weaves itself like a satin ribbon into the braids of wide-eyed daughters, left barefoot in the doorway of a burned house.
Hunger, too, has its parent—the scent of a campfire, the nearness of flame, the veil of black smoke.
Still, a good cup of tea will restore poetry to an ordinary morning.
Even if clouds of thought continue their dance on the sidelines.
Morning is also beautiful for this: the first thing visible through the window is a misty veil hiding the beginning of the book being written at this very moment.
Perhaps it’s best to end on an A-note—but the pull emanating from the bluing horizon compels a step backward.
It was a difficult transition—from absolute despair into something fluid.
This always happens the moment you step toward a problem obvious to no one else.
So many conversations about noisy gingerbread and annoying mosquitoes—and yet all of it remained forever an essence evading its own authority.
Still, at the very start of this infinite tale, those preoccupied solely with final frontiers will no longer be able to utter the absurdity that exposes the invisible axe.
What is this inexplicable urge to flee from a fluffy falsehood clenched tightly in one’s fist?
It probably sits there, pondering how not to veer toward无偿的 extinction.
It’s always free. Always without cost.
Just take it and eat—“with a full spoon,” as they say.
The main thing is not to choke—when, amid that porridge of ground-up misunderstandings, a duck bone suddenly appears.
From it, you can craft a hairpin—not, of course, for pinning hair.
That’s the essence of it.
The moment boundless charm was unfurled, creatures resembling shrunken fools immediately settled upon it to eat.
They dwell in clouds of dust—of which, in fact, everything is made.
But don’t be fooled by the tender, sweet appearance of watercolor.
Its long claws aren’t painted to complement the color of a dress.
Perhaps it’s better to return to the subject of wolves.
They possess astonishing humor—though entirely imperceptible.
How long will this nauseating carousel—painted in the colors of hypocritical doves—continue spinning?
Meanwhile, someone else cranks a barrel organ emitting an unbearable, helpless squeak.
Enough!
Right now, one absolutely must eat something utterly simple—
say, a bagel.
And drink something impossible to buy anywhere.
It’s always in the same place—in the vanishing corner of a transparent sideboard.
This is an entirely different sound.
It seems to drift among billions of shadows densely gathered for a single purpose:
one day, simply to scatter them to the wind.