The city. A shapeless, festering organism, incurable of its deformity, concealing its infirmity under the black cloak of night. The shadows of concrete coffins have become a habitat for bipedal vermin, vying with each other for the status of humanity.
All this is hidden in the mind of a hunchbacked sage in a ragged black robe, who daily fills his filthy syringe with deadly nectar. Feeding his body with an intravenous injection, he bestows upon humanity another sick vision of reality, born of his imagination.
Today, the streets are filled with grim apparitions, steely caricatures of ancient beasts, and lifeless colors stripped of their former luster. All this, as if in a hurry, tries to hide from the approaching golden morning.
Modern structures, yearning to reach the sky, have become home to numerous noble spiders, dignified cockroaches, and humans intolerant of them.
Thousands of television sets, illuminating the darkness of their homes, replace the sun and moon for their owners. Each day, increasingly drained of life, they fade to black and white. Trying to protect themselves from the dichotomy, they create surrogates of reality around themselves, embellishing everyday life with lies and artificiality. But can a person living in Technicolor truly be real?
Connected to others through the surrounding high-voltage lines, telephone cables, sewage pipes, and even a shared indifference to everyday life, we form a seamless whole with the city around us.
Somewhere below, hundreds of emaciated couples, sacrificing the remnants of their lives for one last animalistic copulation, die in a romantic embrace on their cardboard floors, next to a garbage can brimming with the scents of humanity.
Meanwhile, in warm, single-family homes outside the city, happy shop mannequins share a tin wafer flavored with cinnamon.
From here, however, one can glimpse the magnificence of this place. I wonder how long it would take a person to fall from this height…
4:16 AM. Wake-up call. Once again, I was brutally ripped from sleep and deprived of rest. Outside the window, soulless blackness battles with a billion tiny lights. Not yet fully awake, I watch the raindrops fall. Single ones, somewhere in the distance, and a few much larger ones a little closer. However, they all took on various shapes, as if to reveal the inner scream hidden in their lonely flight. When I rubbed my sleepy eyes, it turned out they weren't raindrops, but a downpour of suicides.
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