The waves, which rolled dully and menacingly across the entire room, shook Friend time and again. For in these waves he heard the love songs of lonely whales in the vast blue, and something of the growl of an approaching storm from the mountains, and a truly good trumpet with a silencer was also present in these vibrations. The embittered crowd, swaying uncertainly under the bar, snatching glasses of something bitter and opalescent from each other's hands, was also beginning to sway to the rhythm of the ebb and flow. Friend felt them much better, but his hearing was also trained, his vision was precise, and his hands were agile. Such echoes of distant sounds were about to grow even more powerful, confounding everyone with their nightmarish amplitude, then bursting to the rhythm of a crashing snare drum, and finally dispersing without a punch line. A good half of the night remained until that moment, when it was best to dash home for a moment. Nevertheless, the friend, with his practiced ear, picked up these fragmentary polyphonies played in many variations and grew uneasy. He wanted to kidnap the Chinese promotion, abduct and enslave her, subdue her slender arms and bind her beautiful legs. He preferred to attack the Venus de Milo with an axe, escape from the church brandishing Jesus on a crucifix, or strike his own mother. However, he felt that, thanks to the grim absurdity of his intentions, they might prove effective. The friend had to avert his destined death at the hands of the great one, which in practice meant rejecting the cardinal laws of nature, the lunar cycle, the sequence of day and night. He intended to commit his heresy in order to break this order—only a sufficiently audacious blasphemy could prove effective. He glumly finished his portion of the bitter opalescent and felt significantly less embittered. The magical intoxication, momentarily lost through carelessness, was returning to him.
Magical intoxication, unlike other, very common and essentially gray intoxications, awakens with the blooming of a fern flower, when a sapper tugs at a green wire, a card player bets his daughter on a three-of-nine, and Lot's wife turns into a pillar of salt. Instead of looking back, the wife focuses her gaze on the tabletop, grabs a glass, half full, half empty, and dutifully drinks it. Magical intoxication unfolds before her. She is introduced to streets without signs bearing names and house numbers, and heroes without names or family names, rescuing virgins after hardships. Every magical corner is orgasmically sprayed with an array of accessible urban mythologies, between which law enforcement officers, dazzled by nectar, flit fancifully. In a magical moment, magical words are imprinted. The lover sees before him the eyes of the girl who will be his forever, and he rushes after this specter, only to painfully slam into a tram stop. The magic of pure ethanol permeates the streets, carving valleys, ravines, and corridors where barbarians, knights, and fairies from a wretched plot will fight for their sobriety, their abhorrent sobriety. In the empty squares and abandoned marketplaces, particularly bloody and furious conversations will take place, each one worthy of being sung by wandering troubadours, each lying on its back in the snow like any drunken whore. A magical intoxication sublimates pages written in shaky handwriting in a notebook, from which I don't know where they came. They burn with an exceptionally bright flame and reek of ether.
My friend sat in his intoxication, convinced he was about to do something very important, something that had momentarily escaped him but would soon be remembered. With a light, girlish trot, typical of young schoolgirls in knee-high socks, Fikołek ran up to him and sat on his lap.
"The basic characteristic of the criteria for cognitive structures," she chirped, "is their degree of complexity, or intricacy. This is how we arrive at the division of structures into abstract and concrete."
That evening, Fikołek had a light and trouble-free ride after two mugs of thin beer, which spurted onto her lips the psychological excrement available on the university publishing market.
The virtual transvestite, whom her friend noticed with some surprise beside him, didn't react. He was focused on contemplating his own sexual ambiguity. Fikołek suddenly fell silent, gurgled, and sighed, signaling the end of the ride so far and the arrival of the unknown.
"Friend, give her some vodka; she always recites haiku after vodka. She talks less then."
- Fikołek also has the right to speak, even if she wants to talk about psychology - the convict interjected - I, for example, would prefer her to talk about the price of popularity, but I'm not suggesting anything.
The lover accidentally stepped on his friend's leg. The friend tried to remember when everyone had sat down at his table.
"I prefer this psychology."
A persistent thought twisted the condemned man's forehead into a dignified "V." "
Tell me, virtual one, what's it really like for you?
" "Please?
" "You know... this...
" "I don't know.
" "With this gender... unclear..."
The virtual transvestite performed the equivalent of a sexual stretch.
"Shall we go to my place?"
The condemned man couldn't fully appreciate the sexuality of the stretch because he was still unsure of his virtual gender.
"Listen... I don't know. It depends. Maybe yes, maybe no. How it is. "
The virtual one jumped up furiously.
"You're just like all those male pigs, a drunkard and a thief."
She walked away gracefully, raising her beer and cigarettes.
Fikołek looked at him reproachfully.
"You don't know how to behave with women.
" "So it's a woman.
" "I don't know. I suppose."
The convict pondered.
"Actually, if it were a woman, I might still be able to catch up with her... But if it were a man, it would be stupid.
" "Either way, they're poor. Such ostentatious sexual diversification isn't seen everywhere.
" "If it were a chick, she'd be a pretty cool chick," the convict continued. "If it were a chick..." Flip's eyes lit up with an inner light, and he vomited out an epistemological novel .
The convict waited for the letter to his friend and went to the bathroom with it in his hands. To mention the flip and the virtual with dignity and respect translates into literature greater than mine. Both were the result of a risky marriage of pop culture and a moribund higher school of good conduct. Flip was a rather fashionable girl in her time. She fulfilled all the requirements for a society woman, drank heavily and heavily, occasionally read a book, and had a distinct interest in ambitious Scandinavian pornographic cinema. She spent her nights in the company of tall, thin composers, accompanied by groaning, plump blondes with thick braids being prodded by muscular, blue-eyed sons of Vikings. She would have been forgotten like all the others if not for her drunken trances, during which she hurled hexameters, grappled with an epic poem in the dark of night, or staggered drunk on a sentimental novel. At the end of the descent, at the dawn of pale morning, she crawled out of another hole with a middle finger crunching between her teeth, covered in literary sweat, with a vague memory of something beautiful and lost. Her time at the somersault's side was worth showing off; then she seemed to veer slightly off course.
The virtual transvestite was born, born from a terrifying freedom to choose all the components of everyday existence. Wondering once again which toothpaste flavor he really likes, whether oral sex is really cool, and whether Tolkien is better than Nietzsche, the transvestite decisively rejected his gender, which was absolutely unfashionable this season. He didn't stoop to mundane cosmetic procedures, but rather unilaterally demanded to be perceived as the opposite sex. Inevitably, all those already drunk, and those yet to be, confused the end with the beginning, what came first with what came later, and no one knew which way the transvestite transcended. Hence the frustration and aggression of the virtual transvestite, who furiously moves from room to room with a cigarette between his teeth.
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