Rope

< Tim Skorenko



I walk on the grass, on the ground, in concrete, in a huge city, between the cars, on the withered leaves, sediments bottom, is over the precipice in the millet, wheat and rye, I get on the tram, climb on the bus, call a taxi, walk into plane and look at the clock on the sextant and compass unreliable in the hope that the compass does not lie; I was again in the cinema, to the last series, I used to try and get there, knowing that once again going on a rope, and my balance is broken, have forever.

We meet at a local subway annually. You look at me from the wall ads, you're dressed spectacularly, slightly old-fashioned, behind you - a fire under you - a broom, you look like a fresco in the Etruscan tombs, on the Tower of Hanoi, on the torrential rain, you say in English (-German, - French), although, in general, do you remember what your mother; you go under me, even though you did above, you - someone else's capital, a foreign country, and I feel (however, see and hear) how you fingers stroking my smooth rope

. I tear, fall, be sure to - tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, it does not matter, but I fall, come, tender, a little more excitement, like a gymnast through the area goes to the star, and I - just stupid, aimless, mediocre, balance, if only to stay stand and grow old, and repeat: I am not old, not old, and on a finger to wind the white strand. Hence, it is necessary to break until it's too late, and in the street - a festive sunny May and go on somewhere to the stars. But first catch me. Just catch.

Your text to link ...