Please look up. Wait a while. There will be a bird flying by. Follow
it with your eyes and then go ahead, as usual.
Very insignificant things – to touch each other with our shoulders on
the stairs, to smile.
A body doesn't get tired of dancing. It is just the fine mechanics of
feelings that fail to work. I don't know what it is and how it
works. What machinery is that? A soul? A heart? What is beating
there? Or am I being continuously beaten and is the heart just flopping
between the ribs?
Why are tears flowing? Why am I sleeping sideways and why do I not
dare to look into the children's eyes?
I don't know anything anymore.
Yesterday I suggested to Oleg Zhukovsky that we fight a pistol duel
from two meters – to not miss in any case. I promptly forgot about
it, but he came back in a day and said that the ways of our hearts
are different and he will die some other way.
I'd like to have no sensations at least for a week. To smear
myself with olive oil and to fall asleep in the sun. In the hot and
delicious night, to discuss thoroughly the complicated form of an
asparagus harvest, a history of mosquitoes and the foul neighbours
who draw aside the water from the stream. But suddenly there is a
break. The fireflies appear at the terrace. And the heart is
beating again and the hands are sweating, and some Love will be the