It all starts not immediately. First of all, movement. That strange, almost effortless slipping space that forces the body to become one focus point. The body must listen to weight, knee, the slightest tilt, and this permanent,…

At noon at noon, the sun ruthlessly roasting the balcony tiles. The air is shaking from the heat.

In hand, a garbage shovel. I push it through concrete what is a perseverance monument. A chaotic bunch of dry twigs. Each of them is brought separately, with…

In the morning, the sun on the table draws a long, sharp rectangle. It lies a photo.

Yesterday, she looked like a clues like an accusation. Today is just a thing. Glossy paper, absorbed by a decade -old light. The finger slips on the surface, does not feel anything. …

At eight in the morning. Coffee in the palm of your hand is barely lukewarm. He rolls out of the corner. A small, white, dingy God, starting with his monotonous ritual. His world is perfectly simple - a floor plane that needs to be turned clean. He has no doubt. …

I stood on the overpass, leaning over the rusted railing, the black artery below me pulsing with melted car lights. Each passing car is a separate, lonely soul, sucked into the same directional movement towards some promise that...

There is a certain weariness that grows in the shoulders and neck, not from work or a sleepless night, but from constant vigilance. It is the memory of the body, the silent internal compass, the arrow of which is always not pointing north, ...