Part 1. Monday.

the alarm is not a sound, but a dry, needle-prick in the temple. The body itself, without the intervention of consciousness, turns off the button, turns, lowers its feet on the cold floor. Ritual. Mechanics forged through thousands of the same…

I sit in a giant glass kidney that filters people at night. Strange destinies flow through me, through a hollow body, moving according to a schedule: flights to sunny cities whose names sound like the names of medicines, and back to ...

I crawl through this shimmering landscape that can't be called a forest, it's more like a forgotten attempt by a god to sculpt land, abandoned halfway. The feet are scooping up water, the soaked boots are splashing over the ankles rhythmically and indifferently. The air has risen, filled with...

at first it only threatened, the sky darkening to the color of wet asphalt and the air filled with damp dust and the smell of anticipation. Then the first drop fell. Heavy, lonely, leaving on the heated sidewalk a dark, quickly disappearing...

the sun, cut by the blade of the horizon, slowly bled into the cool bath of the sea, and that blood painted the underbelly of the clouds with a color so banally dramatic that it made one want to light another, even though the first one had not yet been smoked. She was…

maybe just such a day. One of those when the city, usually gray and wrinkled like an old man under the pressure of boots, suddenly sheds several decades and for a moment feels young again. The sun seems to have accidentally found a gap between...