***

And I have gray nails, mehndi on my hands, my hands are up to my elbows in the summer - neither sandpaper nor vodka can scrub them off.

It’s already snowing, but my temples are no longer freezing, and my diary is still at the bottom of my bag as before.

“Everything has turned upside down... please give me back my heart”... the very thing where you knock and you can’t hear the ringing,

because he missed. Beautiful forgotten acquaintances, friends, partners, colleagues -

all these “meet, get drunk and fall in love” are now just bytes on hard drives.

And others like them - with antiseptics, Zurbagans, hysterics, antidepressants, failures, recovery, failures again.

The calculated rhythm is four-by-four - along the vein, let it be a pocket kilohertz instead.

I’m like a planet—I can’t stop spinning without an apocalypse on the agenda.

I have an infinite amount of me at my disposal, and I am not an architect if I do not build a new world from the details.

And there will be day and there will be a feast, and there will be night, dawn, and another night. I’ll see it and say: Let it be, since it’s so good.