Listening to: Buckethead
I remember the tranquility.
Two chords of silence.
Very Van Gogh - fields and sky.
I was looking at the sunflowers and couldn't decide whether the artirst has used them for models or they have grown by his paintings. Sitting, thinking: "Yes, he has achieved the absolute tone. He has taken it right from their leaves. He hasn't painted the sunflowers, he lived them..." I spread the moment along the highway. The white houses flew like jazz. The road was implacable, that's exactly what I needed. It just continued. The driver pulled down the window pane. Summer entered. I was sitting there, at my place in the Universe, I wanted this painting, I wanted life. Only the seconds streamed down my body. There was no absurd, there were no humans. Only poetry... Poetry of life. Why can't we live? My grief is immense. Like an animal in a cage... Every day.
My poetry is still prose. Words frighten. They confuse me. I want to know everything. I don't know whether I'll be able to bear it...
At noon only the flies are humming. Heat floats in the air.
I am looking. I see everything. Don't want to be a part of it. I can't reach the humans. Nobody listens to me. They want me to lie to them. I lie to them.
Feels like somebody already has written 21st century. A very worthless writer. Or just the production is worthless.
I know when tears come.
Kurt Vonnegut died. I felt his death. Felt like somebody tore a page of his book. Awful sound. Very inevitable.
They tell me: "Something happens to you again". They don't want me TO BE.
I have no idea what I am doing here. I do things that I can't. Not only don't want to - I can't. Absurd is inevitable.
I used to live with one person. A few months we were looking at life together. We travelled a lot. I only pray that he'll leave the door open.
I don't know what love looks like. I can't remember. Maybe I have never seen it. Or I got confused and forgot it. Usually I have already missed the deadline. I learned to exist termlessly. I think that people don't know love either, otherwise everybody would have been dead.
I'm standing on the border between two worlds. I'm thinking how I don't belong to the first one but I'm afraid to pass over the other.
Provocation tempts me less and less. They hurt me again, anyway. There are no more duels. I am so tired...
Literature is no longer literature. Things lose their contour.
Night is too short - this is awfully unfair. I can't hack it.
Fate stuck its irony into my face in defiance of my announcement that I don't believe in it.
I see smiles. I provoke smiles. Nobody gives the gesture back.
Everybody is relating me about the pain. I know the story. I wrote the book.
I know how people leave.
Van Gogh along the highway. A fire in the night. Salvador Dali in the sky. This is what keeps me here. Nobody wants to see it. I'm walking in the gallery alone.
Forgive me, Mister Writer, I ruined everything. This is why I can't afford poetry. I don't like to write, I want to feel.