like a gentle nothingness
The sky above the city hangs low, heavy and droopy, like a damp towel forgotten under the radiator. The city's arteries are clogged with a slowly moving, smoking mass of metal. The gaze glides over faded facades, over the flashing, half-burnt cross of the pharmacy,
The clouds hung low over the industrial district like tired, heavy pieces of gray felt. In the distance, the chimneys of a cogeneration plant coughed muffledly, spewing thick steam into the sky. The light fell at an angle, slowly crossing the crumbling frame of the balcony, crawling through the dust
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,…
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. …
