Letter to Roman Bart

I decided to state you all the principles of my ugliness, his postulates, to attach a photo of his manifestation to the letter: I smoke against the background of sunset - blonde/brunette/red, openwork stockings or cuts of cuts, sitting next to the Hospice/Buchenwald/Raced road - who am I? - And as soon as I started, everything mixed up again. If you start from the very beginning, then our entire novel was a serious mistake, a mistake that I stepped into, deliberately and completely giving myself to his process, so that almost did not deceive you when she pretended to be a man. It began on a summer night, it ends a year later, yesterday I was to defend my own diploma and was a detached listener. I wrote “Do you like Paul Tselan?”, Then I haven’t read Celan yet, but I had to grab something that had not yet become a common place, in the end, you probably don’t know Tselan, and nobody cares, if I know him, because I know what I know about him ... if you start with my friends, since the confusion is overwhelmed, since it flows from the bottom. summer night; Perhaps their appearance can tell something about me; Although, of course, nothing can tell anything in our long correspondence; Photos - a blonde/brunette/monster - of course, do not belong to me and grabbed from space, or belong, but you will think differently; The biographies of the friends I will talk about are invented, or you will think so justified; Again, I send you a lie with only one goal-to clear up, at least somehow to clear myself in the dark; The outlines, the blanket, cuts and saws, or it seems that it cuts and saws, nothing can be said for sure, but I hope-in ​​every fiction, even if the parables, some truth will be stated ... otherwise it can not happen, not a single imagination increases the fictional entities. Or it is worth starting from childhood, which passed near the lighthouse, or rather, we often went to the lighthouse, or, I read it from Wolf or someone else, because it was hardly Wolf who sent his thoughts to the lighthouse. I don’t know if there is a difference between those who saw a lighthouse or who only dreamed of him, but most likely, the second is made literature; She had no sense in writing about him, since she knew his light, and the waves around him were that the mermaids rise from the bottom to his base ... We often went to the lighthouse. Now it’s raining outside the window, I write a letter to you and remember this lighthouse, and my memory is no different from an artistic lies, and now there is no difference whether I was once on the lighthouse, or if I only invent it, because in the display of my memory I cannot be honest. It seems that my love letters to you are so honest that each of us is so piercing in an attempt to tell something, to display something and through this reflection of ourselves to understand the truth; I do not think that we lied to each other, at least not about the main thing, but our actuality, of course, was wrong, like any other actuality. It rains; I can say “strong”, but is it true (?), Is it the internal rain or honest? We kissed Nikita in the elevator, but I was absent in a kiss, which means - was it me? -Or has it already become some kind of literary heroine who repeats after me a step in a step and fake?

My friends, about which should be written posthumously when their forms temporarily harden under the influence of pharmaceutical liquids; I wrote to you how I despise people, but at the same time I wrote to you that I was a man and, at the same time, I didn’t be too cunning, because it happened when I was born that any visible thought could become tangible, I like to argue about the methods of cognition, or any touch is illusory; I will show my son an empty sheet of paper and say “this being”; I can’t say anything about my friends, and this, as promised, will tell you more about me than everything else. In childhood, we went to the lighthouse; Perhaps it was the light of a flashlight in a pioneer camp, or in another camp, because even my age is only sharpened in canonical systems, but unclear ... How do the rest live (?), Those to whom I should extend my journalist’s diploma and who should turn to (?), Who are these creatures that are created only for me to write about them? I know and tell you - these are those happy for whom the beautiful combination of sounds is Badarayana, Descartes, Ovid, the rest, and, of course, their happiness in the indistinguishability of the Parabola graphics from hyperbola, they are not blurred with symbols, they write to their second halves - I got in the rain - who am I (?), The darkness of my eyes, and why do I address you words, borrowed from the book, borrowed from the book And why do I want to tell you that books are a set of words well -combined with each other - who am I? - Today, a lecture on the protection of prostitutes, but has nothing to do with these words - as if their clear sequence was not born by me, but was not born through me by God. I write to you at the moment of the crisis; Already mentioning that it is raining now at night, but what to understand by this is not clear to me. I hung eggs on Easter, without believing in Easter, and ate them raw as it should, and suddenly ... It was impossible to even understand what kind of kind and tribe, any gender and any hairstyle go to my voids, like Gulfic to the Queen of Savskaya ... Here you have one of the paintings: my friend, a resident of remote caves, composed a fortune and rushed for one purpose for a long time: he wanted to build blood pressure. You see, with minarets, melting furnaces, casemates and everyone else, and when he called me to coffee, I saw that he really recreated Hell, but that I saw it also understood this (?), It is unclear, but to discard unnecessary words, I will no longer use these words of ambiguity, the words of the dark, I will call myself in the city of the city ... I arrived in the city ... I arrived in the city C., as usual, they gave me a chiffon robe and a mask of a famous writer. I left the carriage in the wrinkled face of Hesse and saw that it was raining in the city of C., and, as usual, my desire for symbolism and literature suggested that this rain somehow marks my visit and events in which I would be integrated; Of course, I also had the idea that sometimes rain was rain, and I was torn between them, while I was moving along the road, spreading rain over myself and at the same time thinking that I was probably a good frame of the master under an umbrella, a little hairstyle like Hitler and with thick hips on Laggerlef, and I went to the place where my friend built hell; I want to get rid of all sarcasm, because it was a really beautiful place: a clear structure and logic, widespread signs “Everything is in vain!” And demons: of course, physically disfigured, morally unstable, with some broken fingers, in frock-coats with clits instead of buttons, everything else that is customary to call them names, they had only “everything else” and something was missing ... And I asked my friend when we sat down to drink coffee in the middle of hell “why?” And he answered me that the hell consists of this-to live, without something central, to rush to integrity and crush in many horses about integrity, in many secrets and try to reveal them from a thousand times, and each time to indulge in an increasing decomposition ... This is the engine of hell-demons are growing along the corridors in search of integrity, meaning and when they are. A sinner is found, these imperfect forms are pounced on him out of anger because they are not integral, and due to tearing it into pieces, that this victim will help them find something, and then rotate again in the darkness of the casemates, ”we drank coffee, I had heartburn, then we watched the grave devices, and it was such boredom, like to read the newly published romance, to argue about forms. in content; look into the gut of iron virgins or leaf through Leo Tolstoy, to condemn, kiss, hate, burn, discard-you only need a fraction of detachment, so as not to find the same in Karenina and her belly, in the head and thoughts of Tolstoy, in myself, so as to rush somewhere and find nothing again ... I write to you with pain, like any letter in human skin, trying and stamping, and stamps. At least somehow convey your most to you, because I imagine that I love you. But what I love, if not a taste of your name, your soul, which I try to reconstruct from colorful writing, smell, fingerprints and I love that you again slip away from my field of vision, as soon as your next letter is read (?), And I love you that I love you, as if I love you, my life is gaining value (?), Or even your presence in mine, but not your presence in mine. Does life set off my aimlessness?

The driver of the tram told me when he was asked that he had come to Moscow to leave Saratov. My mother, dad and father’s mistress decided not to spend his nerves on attempting hierarching; Mom vacuums, dad works, and Rita bakes pizza well. This is me by the feeling of defending a diploma. You know, I had to write everyone the message of the following sense in order to somehow smooth out the silence:-I came to say goodbye, and I think each of us is joyful, because we are so tired of knowing each other only partially, only by rumors and some imagination that are born from these rumors, and now each of us can forget all this heresy and forget each other as we have dreamed of all these five years to fill this to fill in it to fill it up to fill it up to fill it up to fill it up to fill it up to fill it up. Emptiness. Maybe I would like to hear in the response in what position you imagine us, against what background and, most importantly, why are you doing this, why are you eating your heart with these ideas, why do you invent the names of the streets on which kisses take place, why accessories and interior details ... This is the whole inner night in that drama that I was born on the scumbags of one of the city panopmias: ugly here; My bluish skin, my stains under my eyes, my Androgynin crotch-everything is empty and devoid of thunder and concussion, nothing is called outlandish and not a single lifestyle is evaluated by a word, the form of life is subjected to low condemnation and at the same time envy, all this is clothed in silence or word, someone kills someone, and this is one of the forms of silence, someone expands their contempt with admission to love. All forms of addictions are destroyed, blurred, I live in the middle of the dispersion, I don’t know what outlines and forget the contours, I remember how in childhood we went to the lighthouse, we are all: Fedulya with anaconda instead of the hand (or rather, this snake sophisticated to the missing brush only resembled a snake with spots and wriggling), a woman with vagina instead The nickname is Eskimo and the grandfather-fiust, from whose navel his brother and sister Grethen and Mephistopheles were underway-not as often as I wanted, but they left. What do I understand by this? I told you about the carriage about the carriage that took me to C., a wooden box or a coffin, or a room, or an apartment, or a damn sink of a huge snail - sometimes the doors of this box opened and let us out so that we saw the light of the lighthouse. After all, you know that circus actors always blind the light of the ramp, and they usually try not to look into its flashes ... But I always wanted to break out of the trap, I looked into the ramp’s eye and did not move, this was our entire circus number-the little girl was completely naked, painted with white eyes, out of the stage, looks at the bright light, and he does not look at the bright light, and he does not cry from him. can move. Spectators laugh. Faust reads poetry, fingering Gretchen and a sluggish pink head of Mephisto; Eskimo melts; The touching scene between her and the Fedules ends with strangulation; And all this time I continue to look into a bright lamp with my ten-year eyes and dream of breaking out of here, but not seeing the viewer and not seeing what is there, but dreaming about it and looking directly into the lamp, like in the portal, like in the eye of a lighthouse, dreaming, laughing, dreaming of tears, and everyone laughs with blackness, and everyone laughs. We performed in Weimar. The city where Lotta was born; Lotta sang Goethe; And T. Mann wrote “Lotta in Weimar”, but what a lot about this, if the lid of our wooden coffin opens, and I look to blindness into the glowing eye, and I don’t see Weimar, I don’t see anything behind him, and I only feel that there is some other world behind blindness, some magical world of outlines and facts, devoid of literary, drama, wiped ugliness, beauty of powder, tears and coal pencils; Some sparkling world, as blind as the door to it, where there is no need to draw the Universe with a tin knife on the knee ... Sofita go out, I am lying in the box again, and again I write to you “I have night ...”, and again my handwriting will be intermittent, epiletic, and in these roughness you will try to solve something, but most importantly-my figure in black linen in black. Hypyura, with cotton breasts, the voice of an angel, reading the poems Hippius ... But I write to you “I have a night ...”, depicting a man, depicting some facts, and my handwriting is epileptic due to shaking on the roads, and my fantasies are boredom from the darkness, quagmers, vomiting and hopes ... I will turn to you “cute”, cute, cute. I will send you with all the grotesqueness of my beauty golem on Prague streets, because a week ago I read about the golemum, because all-as a lump and centrifugal of other people's exercises, they all reach me as a center, and in turn, again read-epiderma, and something remembered-hearts; The unnecessary is divided into fragments, nothing gives a trepidation, neither temples, nor the coming noise of the bell, nor playing with his own imagination, nor a scream of sketching from strangulation, nor knowledge that the next blindness is happening in Weimar, where there was once lived - Lotta, who inspired Goethe, and one of my classmates, who defended the diploma with me, is one of those who are addressed to me. An empty message, oh the holistic darkness, to whom I am paying the same way as you are in a thousand of my correspondence, epistolary of darkness to each of you sending “love”, a boomerang returning to me with your answers, your assumptions about my epilepsy, your games with my image - men/women/bearded dogs - your cities where you have been appointed to me, where you are waiting for me. An arrow, and I am again breaking your heart, where I am an unrecognized Angel of the Androgrinat on the stage, where you paid for a ticket to dispel your pain from my inappropriate to you, where you laugh at the naked crotch of my pain, not recognizing in its forms that I imagined through the letters ... blurred in ideas, not existing, like rainbow glare, one -day bore; second-term, like Urina of the love of an unknown beauty you tell about hell; I freeze, and ahead of the night, tell the story of my ailment and amuse you with my fiction, and every word is directed at the night, and every word of my word you quote, analyze, weigh, cut down with literature and smoke in the tongue like female breasts, and you don’t see how the rain goes, how its thawing along the field begins and over the road, along which mine goes over. booth; It’s going, and I write to you, Roman Bart, to the beat of his screams or the unsmaciness of the wheels, or I don’t write to you, Roman Bart, but only invent, in the dark, entertaining myself with this imagination that I am writing to you, a fictitious lover from the coast of the Rhine ...

Still yours, but losing shape