And it's good that you are here

"Do you want me to tell you that again?"

"Yes, but more honestly, not like hers, speak about it more literally and without poetry."

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I'm leaving. Because sometimes there's simply no other way. I have to go out to look at myself from a different perspective, to look at myself from the sidelines. The first words, like the beginning of a road to fame, still clumsy and awkward, line up in a row, as if torn from their dream. They rub their eyes in astonishment. And nothing is more tiring than clumsiness.

I know one truly good and noteworthy poet. He's huge. He's about 190 centimeters tall and weighs 80 less. A well-built guy. He doesn't rush, he just strolls, doesn't give orders, just asks politely, doesn't criticize, just makes it clear. It attracts. Just like his intellect, for that matter. It repels one thing. This guy has absolutely no capacity for joy in small, petty, everyday things.

It's too early. The streetlamps are asleep, gathering strength before they begin to illuminate further sections of the road. So, too, I awoke from my slumber only today. Without imagining that I had to stand on the edge and jump, without imagining that I had to get to know someone and listen to their guilt, and then their unfinished pleas, their requests for forgiveness, I imagined that people should get to know me, to follow me.

Because I, and this poet, whom you already know a little, need pomp, glitter, and an entourage, a cordon of idolaters who will believe they have before them a single idol. And yet, flattery can no longer even spoil, but destroy, a person. What do you think?

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"Where have you been for the last five years?" asked the girl I'd seen for the second time. I was stunned, and indeed, I must not have differed much from this simple structure. Do you know that I've been dredging you up in my memory when things were really bad for me, when I was down and out, arguing with my husband? And where were you then?

- Well, how was I supposed to know you might need me?

- I'll tell you. Several times I almost caused an accident while driving and saw you standing at the bus stop, because you were and are my last hope, a candle in the spotlight, and the color of your eyes is soothing and offers some hope.

- No, my love, I'm sorry, I couldn't have known that. That's just your point of view.

We're like volcanoes. There's incredible energy within us, dormant, waiting. One jolt, at the right time, and we explode!

And I'm telling you, it wasn't easy to control this otherwise beautiful girl and get her on the right track, oh no. Her mind was like a drunken train driver who'd long ago lost his maps.

And so I pass you, you pass me, we pass each other, trying to stick our unwanted finger between the open door and someone else's private business.

The burden of the day can be unbearably heavy, best felt by watching the dawn itself. Do you often watch the dawn clinging to your window, leering at you with its gloomy eye? I tell you, they romp along with the night, and when the courtesan leaves, the foppish one is often dissatisfied. And it doesn't matter at all whether you get up on your left or right foot, or whether you hide your left or right hand, dipped in the chamberpot. This day sucks, hard, and unfriendly. Be glad you're alive; you have to make the bed, scratch your disheveled hair, go to the store, grit your teeth, eat dinner, check on Togo, turn on the TV, feed the cat, go out to the balcony, water the oleander, and fall back asleep.

Unnoticed, unappreciated, small, everyday pleasures that allow you to expend some energy. Don't waste it, and if for a brief moment, just for a single moment, you sit down and reflect on the fact that someone else has to work for this, and you get it for free, like a fan of money unfurled at the most inopportune time, just because you exist. That's fucking good, and it's good that you exist!