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, ...

Inside her, the household turned into geometry. Every worry, every urgent matter is not a thought or a work, but a hard, sharp-edged crystal slowly growing somewhere in the chest. When I woke up in the morning, there were already several of them. As the day goes on,…

That sound, rhythmic and insistent like an inquisitor's interrogation, long ago became my inner metronome, beating the beat not of prayer but of decay. A drop. Silence. A drop. The faucet in the washroom at the end of the corridor, broken maybe since spring, during the dead of night...

The glass wall between me and them, or maybe everything - is thin, barely perceptible, but insurmountable as a flow of time. I sit in a stubborn waiting chair, which dermantine cracked like hardened land, and I observe…

The heavy, like cement dust, the body climbed into a two -storey bus, and every step is a separate breakthrough in pain through the knees and hips as if to rotate the rusty screws in the body joints. The upper floor, as always, stinks…

The past is an abandoned railway that has been on the outskirts of the city. The rails, two rusty scars are still here, but the trains are no longer driving them. I go to them slowly, carefully, as if to fall into time. Under the feet…