април 06, 2014


How much more you have to write?

While the shores are always predictable there is something much more definite between them. Its funny, she said, you can kill the fish and feel nothing. Try that with a bird. You'll be sick for years and why? Kill the pig. Wash it in the river, eat a raw liver, make a fire, fell nothing, try it. Saint Mary was a daughter of a fisherman and she always carried a rock in her hand not to forget the meaning of a touch. In sleep. Always.
In june 2000. she wrote a poem named Floating rock. It was bad, her sister was whispering, it was so bad to be a crater of a bad poem. It was so bad to be a sister. Than she took her children and went away. Saint Mary was a daughter of a fisherman who never saw wide water, only small muddy rivers longing for the ocean in the autumn.

-Will you ever go to see it?
-I will, I will, before I die

And nothing more. Will you ever die? Oh, life is so long, so long. Here is my will-will you take it as an insult? Nobody is believing in funerals. Even father believes in huge revolution in medicine. Never to see the ocean. Its too windy and cold and nothing more.

Here is my will:

To spite me you can be anything but you have to be a woman enjoying power and great happiness. For I am the begging and the beginning of something unusual, measuring the breasts from behind
I can get you new scale of emotions.

My boyfriend was a criminal, he was beating me and putting me to sleep under the bed. Once, life was having sense.

Now Im a fish and you can't feel anything. I have a father, he's a bird while he is sleeping.
Kill the birds.
They are predicting human movements.
They predicted this one.

Life is so long, so long, so long.

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