In the embrace on the corner you will recognize someone’s going away somewhere. It’s always so. I live between two truths like a neon light trembling in an empty hall. My heart collects more and more people, since they’re not here anymore. It’s always so. One fourth of our waking hours is spent in blinking. We forget things even before we lose them – the calligraphy notebook, for instance. Nothing’s ever new. The bus seat is always warm. Last words are carried over like oblique buckets to an ordinary summer fire. The same will happen all over again tomorrow— the face, before it vanishes from the photo, will lose the wrinkles. When someone goes away everything that’s been done comes back.
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