His friend wiped his square face, rubbed his eyes, shoved his sleepsuits out of their cozy corners, and went to the bathroom. A shiver gripped him in the bathroom, and then another; he was still shivering carelessly as he returned. He poured a quick drink, then swallowed spasmodically again as it tried to drain back out. He sat for a moment, the square window slowly transforming from painful to boring. He glanced at his watch, put it aside, and decided he wouldn't be going anywhere today. He looked around the room with relief, noticing a multitude of beautiful things; thanks to this decision, the world truly felt right. He had a lot of good books he'd try to read today, like that thick one with the slackline. It started out boring, but maybe it would pick up later. Or a stack of CDs with catchy and endearing music, he thought. Syncopation, he thought, I'll fill this evening with syncopation. There won't be a steady beat and sad songs at the end, just good, uneven syncopation with a trumpet. Thinking about this syncopation, even his stomach stopped hurting. Maybe he'd go to the rental store and borrow a movie with a twist; his friend really liked twists. Movies ended completely differently back then. Then maybe he'd even write a poem and drink a glass of good cognac, but only the bottom of the glass for humor and inspiration, and so that the rhymes weren't too good. But first, he looked around thoughtfully, first he'd put everything aside, left and right, symmetrically. And play the guitar. He picked up the guitar with inner resistance, because something inside him, some last shred of reason, knew how such guitar playing ended. And with great exhaustion, he took the same grip as always and made the same descent, up and down. The speaker asked him, "Where to? Where to?" And he already knew where. His fingers, hard and stiff, slowly gained speed and aggression, and his whole friend filled out, swelled as well. And he straightened, the wrinkles smoothed out a bit, and his friend's face needed quite a facelift. His shoulders arched back, his eyes lost their red marble, his hair darkened. And you have to admit, his friend started looking really good, just fucking great, as he played. In those pants, in that jacket, everything meticulously chosen, just a nice brunette in the evening, indecently stylish. And everyone thought it was his friend playing, but it was the echo that played. The strings were still vibrating, the slam of the door echoed in the hallway, and his friend was already at the corner, approaching the city with long strides. In fact, he was standing there, and the whole city was rushing to meet him with long strides.
"Hey, man, I thought you were holding a grudge against me for yesterday.
" "Let's not talk about that."
- I'm exceptionally okay today.
The city, due to its awfulness, was a woman.
- I'm also very okay today.
- So where are you going?
- Entliczek, loopczek...
- It's boring here and the people are strange.
"But the music was cool.
" "Snobby, you slob, pretentious. That's good for intellectuals, no offense.
" "Well, there.
" "There?
" "There.
" "It's where you always come."
And the friend runs with a deep, emotional flourish through the gate, almost tripping over the corpse of the sage and philosopher. He has a STRANGE FEELING OF DEJA VU; the glass in the house has made him a bit too susceptible to pop-culture elements like dead sages, but we'll talk about that more than once.
The virtual transvestite runs out of the house, leaving the underfed cats to the mercy of the boiling kettle.
When the somersault reaches its second limerick run, the iron on the windowsill will ignite the curtain with a bright flame, which she'll be completely indifferent to. Dying can be absorbing.
The condemned man won't come because he forgot to leave yesterday, someone covered him with oilcloth and wiped him with a cloth, then everyone will be surprised that he's always here. Seriously, he never left.
And as everyone rushes out in panic, crossing paths, bumping into each other, stealing each other's lighters and cigarettes, telling lewd jokes about God and what he did to that poor Jewish girl, during these magical excursions, the frame of reference imperceptibly shifts. Someone falls on the y-axis of the Greeks and gets up on the x-axis, someone reaches for a beer they left on the particularly poisonous coordinates. Regulars, those who have been here, know that the key to avoiding confusion is a lack of understanding. These seem like simple matters of perspective, and yet, with such a weary system, straight paths give way to paths of genius, as an Anglo-Saxon visionary probably used to say.
And people, as they were, will remain, they are simply crucial, unique. If someone ever dared to steal all the tables, take out all the chairs, close the bar, and paint everything white, I can say with a great degree of certainty that every last one of them would still be there, every last one of them foolish and drunk. All those who know each other, or claim to, who grab their knees and punch each other in the face. Those who, desperate to meet someone, constantly ask for the time and pick up everything they've dropped. And those who don't want to meet anyone, too. And that's good, because they were bad women. Okay, let's list them: Friend, virtual transvestite, lover of a sage and philosopher, somersault from Tworki, doomed to face-palming over vodka and a Chinese promotion. And the big guy sitting next to the gate in his disco-style Mordor, five złoty admission in sportswear. Lesser deities mean nothing, a prostitute, that sort of thing. Some crappy, shitty constellations, nothing interesting, but I'll be writing about them anyway.
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