Nomad treads the rooms successively, pursuing the spirit of craps. The life had gone through this place long long time ago and left traces behind, sometimes unexpectedly generously. Here and there slightly, just coatings, robes- used socks, shirts, even legs. Moreover, linen and gloves, owner of which would always come back. It happens that somebody leaves the smell of burning. Generally, a lot of smells. Furthermore, all the richness of genetics: hair, nails, sperm, blood, skin, vomit with faeces. So much life, so much life. That is deafened by plastic bags, labels, synthetic textiles, leaflets, millions of leaflets, tones of coated paper, ghastly heaviness of a not-useful-for-anybody content; oh, how it hurts to think: cel- lu- lose. Tea not drunk up, unfinished water. Unachieved fertilization. Untouched bed. Unspent money, cards, tickets, cross-words, molded cheeses. All the prodigality and debauchery of endeavoring. They should be chained to the floor and lick up all the kilos of crumbles, cookies, pies and fruits and everything.

Last stop before climbing up the volcano that has been sleeping since some hundreds of years. She chews, biting the dried apple, all the thoughts for which she couldn't find any time during the last five days. All the spongeness and sweetness is perfectly concerned in the tacky particles of air, mixed with the dust and the sweat of all possible souls wandering around. In a moment she
will be making a slow, constant effort of lifting all her world up to the top.

The way turns out to be much easier than it seemed to. Clouds, settled on the top of the buildings, don't let discern where the land is ending or where the sea does begin. But it is sufficient just to leave your legs lifted in the air and you'll have the whole Eden under your twenty-three-centimetres long feet.

She dreams about strange things, that she does not need in fact. From time to time the same nightmare returns, the same poor desire, that cannot or isn't willed to be renounced by anybody. That's why she's climbing higher and higher mountains, believing that the ideal, made of the luxurious self- sufficiency, will be elucidated by itself. After a few days of fluttering, panicked
heart starts to beat in a certain rythm.

It would do simply to believe oneself, and the truth would fit the life.

The glance keeps away from her for the third time.

In a moment the ears will be filled with the sand. The spirit of scraps will ascend over the matter and, eventually, will recede into the safe distance. And again, the ground will crawl under the feet, this time very low, extremely low, in the exact third bottom of suspected depth. You will tread the clouds, my dear, thinking that it might be the greater extent of reign, but it is only height, only another ten thousand of kilometers, while the foot is still only a foot and as long as you walk, you own only your twenty three centimetres on the right and on the left side.


I'm not due to anything else.

Nomad turns the head. Your eyes on the verge of exhaustion ache me, your lips, trembling for every particle of dust that has to, unfortunately has to extinct, they hurt me. I severely feel your fear when you stubbornly don't say what is endavouring your head. The pane that does not exist forbids the breaths and the liquids to penetrate, the words are barely heard, though, very close, fortunately they are not twisted by the wind. You'll never make out the reason for which one death is better than the other, never getting to know whether it is better to hurt yourself or the whole rest.
Turns the head, to let not the eyelashes scratch deeper. Nomad cannot do much more. You know that tale- this is the way one dies again. Not with a bang but a whimper.

It is worth considering that the sort of energy one spreads out of the cuticle cannot always be identified with the one she or he receives as a response. It happens that peace implicates fury. Like very fragile tissue, the words clothe a vague thought which is springing up in yet unknown direction, and what an arogance, to be so unobvious and unclear. It would be easier with a hammer. But Nobody said it was easy, sometimes the diffrent manner is impossible. In an instant the way will start to roll along the pane. The half of the country will shift under the train, and the head, still quiescent, will register every picture, reeling, frame after frame, a long motion picture about the next vanishing. And later on, about the next one, and the next one. To begin with fruits: there will be about the sadness caused by the strawberries that are ending as for that year.

You' re still here. You don't realize how we are rotten. It's nothing original, anyhow. The fact that we visit one another in our more or less subtle dreams is not even an oddity. We' ve just moored mutually in our brains and even if you state there's no me, I' ll suddenly emerge in your head's street, naked, and before you know I'll have tasted you. There's no remedy for it. We are too weak and corroded to renounce this shred of debauchery. Neither the priorities, nor wives or poetries will work, no even a holy conviction that everything goes on just as it should. My presence will invaryingly introduce confusion, no matter how hard you try to roughen your voice to play brusque, and turn away your glance, you' d rather run away than dare to, I know it, I see that indecent sparkle behind the screen of your words. You want to be very straight but you fail to. Still we cannot forget this touch. You may even give up smoking or drinking (although I know you won't), you may not listen to these or those songs. Sooner or later we' ll meet again. And I know, how your eyes will look like.

Producing at once some virtual guts is a challenge for oneself. Nomad comes to a standstill to look into the leviatan's throat and dive into the dephts of its tenacious saliva. He's not tired, not at all. There are thousands of kilometers left behind him and the million ahead. Or maybe he has forgotten already how a kilometer tastes. How a kilometer tastes. It's rather obvious that every stretch of road has its own image, taste and smell. It is projected on feet, confusing the epidermal ridges, cries with other whisper, but only a whisper (as what is an everydays whisper towards a cosmic yell). The road is never enough. Nomad endeavours not to stop for a longer time, anywhere. Only from time to time he would visit the leviathan, to look into its jaw. More than about its strength he is anxious to lose his sandals. Without them and without the leviathan hardly he can think about the next phase of his way. He considers putting his nut to a throat as a reflection of his weakness, yet an inevitable necessity at the same time, as it was a sort of purification, though the monster's throat is far far diffrent from the sources of Ganges. Nevertheless he practices that, with a pecular sense of duty. The last strap and I go my straight ahead.

It's hot. It's so hot that one does not even know if it's better to walk or to stand still, and is it better fall asleep or to just try to think, though. It's a long way to the mountains. For this time you can sit down for a while and the nightmares will come just as they wish, unwelcome. They arrive, sore and cut, secreting smells and liquids, web- eyed, with hair in stunning colors. They prick ears with scenic hiss, making the body bending into the manneristic ideogram. and invariably there appears irritating ratter with its typical, priggish and everlasting aim of gnawing the aorta. And what a dullness, anyway. Expected assault of so predictable demons. But somehow the visit of these particular guests does not remain without impact on a poor nomad's head. He wakes up with the straps untangled, with his head aching and nose bleeding. He says himself Move your ass and moves it, trying not to sit down for the next twelve hours. There is always an explanation for this penalty, nothing happens without reason, eventually. What a misfortune, and that it had to happen just today. On the other hand, what a picturesque dream, attractive massacre. Oh, to burst, having forget that the damp on both sides of cuticle scarcely is the beginninig's rudiment.