You told me if something is not used, it is meaningless, and took my temperature, which I had thought to save for a more difficult day. In the mirror, every night, the same face, a bit more threadbare, a dress worn too long. The moon was out in the cold, along but the restless, dissatisfied wind that seemed to change the location of the sycamores. I expected reproaches, because I had mentioned the word love, but you only accused me of stealing your pencil, and sadness disappeared with sense. You made a ritual of holding your head in your hands, because, you said, it could not be contained in itself.
* * *
I thought if we could just go on walking through these woods and let the pine branches brush our faces, living would still take beads of sweat on your forehead, but you wouldn’t have to worry about my exhibitionism. All you liked about trees was the way the light came through the leaves in sheets of precise parallel rays, like slant rain. This might be an incomplete explanation of our relation, but we’ve always feared the dark inside the body. You agreed there could be no seduction, if the structures of the propositions did not stand in a physical relation, so that we could get from one to the other. Even so, not every moment of happiness is to hang one’s clothes on.
* * *
I might have know that you wouldn’t speak to me. But to claim that you just didn’t want to disguise your thoughts? We’ve walked along this road before, I said. So, perhaps in heavier coats, not designed to reveal the form of the body. Later, the moon came out and threw the shadows of branches across the street, there they remained, broken.
Fevereshly you examined the tacid conventions on which conversation depends. I sighed, as one does at night, looking down into the river. I wondered if by throwing myself in I could penetrate to the essense of its character. Or, should I wait for you to stab me, as you had practiced in your dream? You said, this question, like most philosophycal problems, arose from failing to understand the tale of ‘The two youths, the two horses, and the two lillies.’
You could prove to me that the deepest rivers are, in fact, no rivers at all.
* * *
From this observation, we turned to consider passion. Looking at the glints of light on the water, you tried to make me tell you not to risk the excitement, to recommend cold baths. The lack of certainty, of direction, of duration, was its own argument, unlike going into a bar to get drunk, and, getting drunk. Your face was alternately hot and cold, as if translating one language into another gasps from the storm in your heart. The pink ribbon in your pocket. Its actual colour turned out unimportant, but its presence disclosed something essential about membranes. You said there was still time, you could still break it up, go abroad, make a movie. I said, politely, I thought, this wouldn’t help you. You’d have to kill yourself.
* * *
Tearing your shirt open, you drew my attention to three dogs in a knot. This served to show how something general can be recorded in un-pedigreed notation. You hit your chest with your fist as you said you didn’t know how you could stand being near me. I pointed to a bench by a willow, from which we could see the gas tanks across the river. Because, I thought, a bench was a simple possibility. One could sit on it. The black hawks of the tanks began sharpening in the cold dawn light. So when you leaned against the railing, I could smell your hair, which ended in a clean round line on your neck , as was the fashion that year. I had always resented how nimble your neck became whenever you met a woman, regardless of rain falling outside or other calamities. Now, at least, you hunched your shoulders against the shadow of your words.
* * *
This time of day, hesitation can mean tottering on the edge, just before the water breaks into the steep rush and spray of the fall. What could I do, but turn with the current and get choked by my inner speed? You tried to breath against the acceleration, waiting for the indignant air to consent. All the while, we both behaved as if this search for a pace was useful, like reaching for a plank, or wearing raincoats… I was afraid we would die before we could make a statement. But you said that language presupposed meaning. Which would in any case be swallowed by the roar of the waterfall. Toward morning, walking along the river, we tossed simple objects into the air, which was indifferent around us, so it moved off a little. And again, as you put your hand back in your pocket, to test the degree of hardness. Everything else remained the same. This is why, you said, there was no fiction.
Подковата ми дрънка, йееее! My horseshoe jabbers - wow!
„Кажете ми: има ли художник, дори и сред най-уравновесените, в който да не се таи нещо шизофренично?… “ (Жан Кокто за Модилиани)
). Резултатът при едни е гениален, при други - заслужаващ внимание, а при трети – посредствен. Не знам дали това се дължи на различен интензитет на импулса, ала със сигурност е замесена различна степен на талант. 
salvador dali’s 
„Смешник, много си кух, аз не съм казал че конкретно ти си рег. акаунт заради клипо, говоря за мнозинството от вас зубърите.
Скачането на бой на даскалица не е заради липса на ум, а заради наличие на смелост. А зубъро си седи и си трае дори при най-големата несправедливост. И само малоумен дебил с цайси като тебе може да дели хората на „селянин“ и „умен човек“. Нещо са ти неадекватни разсъжденията и на тебе, а после не си бил зубър хахахаха. „