Neman

The bus, the lights, the seats, the people, me. Me, me, me. We stand there, all staring into the darkness, at one spot brighter in this darkness than the others, at one spot screaming for even the slightest attention. The shadow appears suddenly, and suddenly everyone is so eager, so helpful, so kind, and everything is now, right now, oh. It's not like that. The driver must have sniffed something out because he locks all the vents and takes away our last escape route. The driver probably already knows this will be our end, that disaster is inevitable, that we'll die here. We'll starve because we're just ordinary carnivores, we don't eat lettuce and cauliflower for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or anything in between. I don't like cauliflower. Cauliflower is evil in itself, cauliflower in a roux is carcinogenic, cauliflower in my head is soft and overcooked.

At the traffic light, it lies there, not moving, not to the right, not anywhere. He just froze there, and that's it. He doesn't move, period. Yes. They're saying something to him, shouting something, waving their arms, gesticulating. He probably did it to spite them; it's his fault, it's not theirs, it's his responsibility. But he didn't mean to, really. He was simply there, it just happened then, and that's it. Everything scattered in all directions. Only these people remained, surrounding him in a circle, watching. An extraordinary phenomenon, because there was someone lying on the zebra crossing. And there he was, lying there, and that was it. Unthinkable, really. The phenomenon is incredibly phenomenal. The circle narrows and tightens. And suddenly they all start singing Christmas carols because they can't remember anything else, everything has slipped their minds, as if at the beck and call of a stick, their mouths filled with sand. So they hum as much as they can, because it's nicer, safer, more pleasant. It's so much nicer in this world without compassion, without feeling. And the unspoken tragedies continue.

And he died. Just like that, and that's it. He didn't tell anyone he didn't like Christmas carols, and he died to himself. Suddenly, by candlelight, by a plate of pasta, by rice soup, and a fork in a spoon. By a woman. He died at a traffic light. To spite them all. He blocked traffic for a bit. But he could have done it somewhere out of the way, at home, in the bathtub, with music. Wouldn't it be nicer, more interesting, or not. But he didn't. He blocked it; that was his goal, his intention, his attack on everyday life. We're going home, we're rushing home, and then there's the ass. The ass is gone, everything's gone, not even the ass. Only he's still lying there, and they're all around him. And then the policeman and the black limousine stopped. Ministers are coming out, monks are coming out from the monastery gates, mustaches are coming out, beards are coming out. And it all stings them immensely, stings them at night, and drives them into a corner by day.

Tell us, was this really meant to be, was it meant to be like this...