My suitcase was my home He was just as attracted as I was And with an imperious hand we define: Today we are here. We are not planning for tomorrow. For every yes - yes, for every no - no.

And it’s not a matter of quantity Free time, Not in popular memory and not in line for heaven We met for the last time. The truth came to me that night, Already a well-known revelation, And only for me there was a secret: to believe At this age it is already indecent. But why did something go wrong inside? And I just can't bring it to life And if it didn't hurt there, I'd think my soul had quit Without warning me. Come on, it’s nothing personal.

if there was heat, then there would be ashes if the place were holy, it would not be empty in the darkest darkness before dawn more light than this tete-a-tete in this kitchen, in this indivisible Internet where heat is given piece by piece - with a match where they share, there is nothing else to share with by inertia they observe mutual inertia boarding - at sea, here - ambivalence here there is subordination and in the twilight there is laziness at midnight - guests, complete secrecy It's

Robert Smithson in the process of creating Spiral Dam, 1970. Reflections on time and space, an appeal to the phenomenology of perception, a unique attitude towards the use of land and the representation of art, as well as an attempt to determine the importance of its contexts - Robert Smithson and Martin Heidegger have many points of intersection, when considered, a qualitatively new understanding of their work comes.

How often are we satisfied with our lives? Just don’t try now, rolling your eyes, frantically looking for a refutation of the inexorable “almost never.” Because we are all in this. The phrase of my beloved Sergei Shnurov immediately comes to mind: “...This country of the dissatisfied by definition: People are born with a sour expression on their faces. In the summer, bitch, it’s hot, in the winter, it’s fucking cold. It’s always not the same.” So here it is.

Be careful, the doors are closing again. Let's sit on the step and smoke - and it's already heaven, Conscientiously closed doors are almost walls, Wave your hand to the smart girl and the beauty, Turn the golden key twice. Not a funny joke at all Move the hand back 12 hours, And recreate the same incident When none of the brakes worked. But I almost had time to say... Ah, empty. Alcoholic idle talk.

...what do you think of my poems? These are my attempts to tear the tops Hit the ground and bury. Unsuccessful as always. She can't stop trampling taverns, Like a fox fed by hand - At your favorite table. Pitch-black, With a mouthpiece, shod in heels, Knows the staff by name, and is on friendly terms with the bartender. Dismantles the men dining around On the components - on eyebrows, gestures, turning the head, And under the eyelids he collects that which is not here.

it's living in the surf the day goes by and the day goes the night washes away everything that was there remains an empty expanse This is the sea to shout about happiness touch the water, trembling, with your hand draw pictures in the sand giving everything as a gift to the waves is to build palaces and castles from sand and water and salt walk across the water to the horizon let all your tits go it's being carried away by the sea is to be returned by the wind suddenly open your eyes and

Why aren’t our fathers with us? they should be wise elders, but we are youths viewed from black and white ovals. why are our brothers leading us down the aisles, friends take you away from the station? but they don’t recognize gray hairs, they don’t recognize the taste of either Corvalol or Valocardine, they will not be tormented by gout. he will be remembered as huge and young. "Dad, I didn't tell you so much... Crap"…

I'm scooping up my pain pinch I warm it in my palms every night the house is always light and hungry snow on the windowsill Cold I rub my pain fingers she leaks colostrum molasses my name is not Assol my sail and don’t wait in the cold irrevocable this salt is not tears she is the sea the wave covers completely with your head when you say it's too late it's still possible it's too late when it's over and it froze

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.

replace me with an improved one to a well-trained to unbreakable smiling for sharp and sharp because this is me - out of focus independent at noon, trampled at midnight then rushing into the sky then with your head in the sand What good is this to you?

He is such that you need to close your eyes to him. Move away a little and don't make eye contact. A dark fidget would look good next to him. Whatever, he just looks good next to him. It's a little blinding because of the light and blue in it, You can't meet him when he's warm and only from sleep, On an empty stomach, a cigarette and coffee, and only then - Good morning, honey, how did you sleep? He didn't write poetry, he didn't write, he spoke. He played.

On December 15, 2016, the new Overtone space hosted a one-day group exhibition “Designed by a Cyborg,” a joint project between OS.MOS Gallery and AWG Society. Designed by a Cyborg. Overtone. Other photos from the exhibition are at the end of the material “Designed by a Cyborg” is not a single event, it is a long-term project that illustrates the enchanting and dramatic relationship of the artist with the chaotic reality in territories adjacent to the institutional environment.

Ivan Bushuev about his project nerest and what composer’s fear is and why everyone has forgotten how to listen to music, in an interview with Dmitry Mazurov. DM: Ivan, everyone knows you as an academic musician, soloist of the Moscow Ensemble of Contemporary Music . Tell us how long ago your project nerest appeared and how you came to electronic music? IB: The nerest project was originally created by me as playing music for myself and archiving events (diary/album).