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, ...

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...