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.

Repetition cannot be ruled out, inevitably. Will try not to forget about that. Irresistible charm of spreading out the guts, lining face with everydays wounds and sharing, sharing, sharing, with all virtual coexistents, as far as the realm of private filth can be performed. And allowance to leave aside the leaking time, without despair. Plus struggle to elucide the gloomy verge of breath.