Wildflowers in the city

HAPPY TOGETHER

It's 5:59 AM. I find myself in some old, dilapidated building, forgotten by humanity, somewhere on the border between existence and nonexistence. I'm standing on the threshold of someone's filthy apartment, which, like this decaying concrete reservoir of life discarded by civilization, resembles one of the coffins in which a rejected love was long ago buried. Before me stands a man in a red robe, and like an executioner descending from heaven, I put a gun to his head and prepare to execute his emotions. He whispers something, but I can't quite make out what he's trying to convey. It's as if he's speaking a completely new, previously unknown language...

ALARM CLOCK 4:23:45 AM (TUESDAY, APRIL 16)

I woke up very early that day, drenched in sweat, the consequence of a torturous nightmare about a quiet life I couldn't afford. It lasted only a second, or so it seemed, because the fatigue of the previous day hadn't subsided. For a moment, I thought I hadn't actually gone to sleep at all, that I'd just closed my eyes. A dream dreamed in the blink of an eye. It seemed so real I believed it. The TV believed it, even the food in the fridge believed it—only the clock didn't.

I remember that when I got home it was midnight, but now the rebellious clock showed a completely different time. It was impossible for all of us to be wrong, and only he was right. It couldn't be, but I decided to trust him one last time.

A new day was dawning, so it was too late to try again—the morning had robbed me of my respite from reality. I decided to find something to do, and since I hadn't watched TV in ages, I also turned on the old black-and-white TV. It was then that I heard the words that, without my permission, invaded my skull and settled there permanently. These words became my justification, allowing me to continue living my life in my profession. What I heard was, "...on April 16, 1960, at one minute to three, you were with me for one minute. Because of you, I will remember this minute. From now on, we are friends. That's a fact you can't deny."

Then I realized that everyone needs another person—an accomplice, a partner, a friend. Humans cannot live alone. The need to be with another person is natural, although sometimes this feeling takes on different names and forms.

TRAM Route No. 4 Time 5:01:22

Riding a tram has always reminded me of a journey toward the inevitable. The tracks then became a road from which there was no deviating, and the tram itself transformed into me, striding along this marked path straight to my destination. The knowledge that human life is pre-planned always calmed me. Everything I did, even if I was often unhappy with it, I treated as something that had to happen.

In my opinion, the purpose of human life is clearly defined. Everything has both a beginning and an end. I've already set off on my journey. Now, when all I have left is to calmly walk towards my destination, thoughts of the approaching end increasingly haunt me. Today's destination was someone I didn't know and whom soon no one will, except her own family, if she still has any. And outside the window, it was raining. I got out. It was the end of the road.

Poles, signs, bushes, and a few trees. Two green benches and a large self-service store. A curve, concrete, and a green lawn. A few cars and another curve, rain falling, only the whisper of raindrops can be heard. The staircase, the path to the fourth floor, how beautiful the tall trees are when the flowers fade at their feet.

…On April 16, 2004, at one minute to six, you were with me for one minute. Because of you, I will remember that minute. From now on, we are partners – I shot…

The need to be with another person is natural, although sometimes this feeling takes on different names and forms. Many people make it their life's goal to find their other half—a partner, an associate, a friend. Today, my new partner and I made a fortune. It's a shame she can't see it. Sleep, dark-haired princess.

Poles, signs, bushes, and a few trees. Two green benches and blood on their hands. A curve, concrete, and a green lawn. A few cars and another rotting corpse, rain falling, only the whisper of drops heard. A tram stop, tall poles. How beautiful tall trees are when corpses decompose at their feet.

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL.

Illness took hold of me, my mind began to open. I think more efficiently, faster. As long as I'm sick, I can't stop it—I don't want to stop it. Illness eliminates all my barriers. Illness is fun. Illness kills. Illness is fun.

Sitting on a bench, writhing in pain, frozen, and seemingly vomited upon by society, I watch birds and dogs being led by their tormentors, who are, in reality, worth little more than the shit their four-legged friend has digested and excreted. Fetch! Sit! That's what I'm saying to you, self-proclaimed king of the mutt! Many more like you will beg for mercy when they find themselves at the end of my leash.

Eternal injustice. The pursuit of alien life. The struggle for someone else's breath of air. As much as possible for myself. Death to the weak, hail to the scavengers.

The people passing before my eyes slowly transform into restless, blurred shadows filled with indifference, and my soul, like cigarette smoke, begins to create strange patterns in the air somewhere on the edge of reality. Energy evaporates from my worn-out body, decaying since birth. I long for sleep. I long for eyes closed forever.

The world you walk on, God, is full of broken glass and scattered tacks. Still, trample it, crush it, destroy it. Everything and everyone except me. But you don't listen to me. You persecute me, Foot of God. You chase me along the path of my mistakes, you trip me up, you boor! I get up and run. I'm no longer angry at that malice. Sand between my teeth, like sin, tastes the best. Oh, Big Foot, chase me, let my strength fail me, let me fall sweating. I'll rise again, dirty, for I am stronger than you think. Chase me, chase me! If you stop, I'll catch you. And I won't stop chasing, because I'm not like you! I don't let go when the goal is near. Because you are not the Foot of God, but the Foot of the Devil! You are my foot, which I cut off long ago.

I woke up. A woman nudged me with her dead, pale hand. I didn't see her cadaverous face; I only remember her vibrant black hair. She vanished like an apparition, and with her, a longing for peace and security I could never afford.

IS IT REAL?

Immersed in a glass of strong alcohol, I explore the recesses of my own mind, now at a different level of consciousness. I become more sensitive, drifting away from reality, sinking and vanishing into the depths of unreality. Reality seen through the prism of a liquor-filled skull. I walk inside my own head, balancing on a tightrope suspended in the void, between my ears. I plummet straight into the high-alcohol lake where I drowned my sorrows. I wake with terrible pain—I wake up crying.

Loneliness has plagued me every night since he decided to give up on my feelings. When we were still together, I thought eternity was a place where I would live with him. But after less than a year, I was proven wrong.

This morning I sat in the park for a long time. I saw leaves falling from the trees, dogs walking and their owners. I also saw a man on a bench. He had probably been sitting there long before I arrived. He was watching people, then suddenly fell asleep. After an hour, I decided to go over and check on him. His face seemed like a kind, but very unhappy man. I nudged him gently to wake him up, and when I noticed he was slowly emerging from his nightmare, I turned and ran away.

BLACK COFFEE.

A cold stream of water suddenly, without warning, ran down her back, along her spine, and then, as if fearing for its existence, hid between her fleshy buttocks. From there, in a panic to escape the second jet of water chasing him, it raced unstoppably down the inside of her thigh, straight to her calf and foot, ending its run kneeling before its owner, begging her for just one look.

The slave's cold touch made the woman's large, dark brown nipples grow even larger and harder. The arousal she experienced set her hand in motion, and without a clear signal from her brain, it began to move, willfully and instinctively, towards her crotch—devoid of the selfish trimming of her black pubic hair.

The cold rain of the shower began to grow hotter, as if more tender, more passionate, more sensitive. As if more human.

The cabin began to transform into a tight and humid chamber, where an erotic dance of hands would soon unfold.

The first hand, clenched on a firm, large breast, challenged the second, which was ceaselessly and delicately caressing the mysterious button—the secret to orgasm. After only a moment, the first hand suddenly gave up and dropped down. The dark-haired owner of the now reconciled hands slowly slid down the wall and sat on the wet floor of the cabin. She spread her thighs wide, closed her eyes—opening her soul. The first hand, admitting defeat, gripped tightly the thigh sculpted by the creator himself. A great battle began between soul and body, as if in a slow, leisurely race, striving to catch up with orgasm.

Suddenly, aggressively, forcefully, ignoring the pain, the second hand, encouraged by the first, began a final sprint to the finish line. Only the prize mattered: a cup full of hot nectar...

The song of a nightingale echoed through the empty apartment, signaling that someone was at the door, demanding to be let in. Forgoing her erotic adventure, she donned a red robe, which immediately, like thousands of lips thirsting for tenderness, pressed firmly against her wet body. She quickly moved toward the door.

The wet footprints she left behind on the floor would soon be forgotten, dry, and disappear. But now they were looking at a figure unaware that she was opening the lid of her own coffin.

The woman stood on the threshold of her own apartment. Suddenly, as if from the depths of her mind, an image of a dark angel hurling the deadly word of God emerged before her. She whispered something to him, but the wet footprints made it impossible for them to decipher what she was trying to convey. It was as if she were speaking a completely new, previously unknown language…

The water, unturned, continued to flow from the shower, but it no longer held the former warmth that had enveloped her dark-haired princess. Now the liquid had turned icy.

Rain had descended upon the earth, intent on creating vast puddles of suffering, and gradually began to transform the dry and unfeeling urban fortress, filled with human remains, into a sea of ​​lost feelings. The sky turned black—the city was plunged into mourning.

Duvet

Sometimes all it takes is one step and there's no turning back. You move forward and nothing can stop you. You simply fall. One step and you're almost at your destination.

Everyone is going somewhere, walking, strolling, running. Life is a constant movement. One moves from one place to another in the hope that things will be better there. One walks not because it's necessary, but because one is constantly searching. Seeking happiness, peace, security, rewards, glory. As if all of this couldn't come to them on its own. Everyone is going somewhere, but me, like a madman, standing there with a smile on my face. I stand there and don't really feel like moving. Not because I'm happy here, but because where I'm standing belongs only to me. I simply want to stand here, observe, listen, and be. I know that once I start walking, I won't be able to stop, and eventually I'll reach the end of the path, where I know what awaits me.

They say that when we're born, we're like a glass of water—colorless and tasteless. Then, over time, we become more distinct—we take on color. I recently met a girl. For a second, nothing separated us but fear. That's when I felt like black coffee. I felt that way because she has black hair—black became my favorite color. Unfortunately, nothing sparked between us; maybe I wasn't trying hard enough. That day, I decided to change something in my life. I decided to take the first step.

40th Floor:

I used to really want to fly. I'd stand on my tiptoes as high as I could, hoping that when I got high enough, I'd lift myself off the ground and start flying. But now I know it's impossible. To soar above the ground, you have to move.

28th Floor:

When I was little, I was terrified of sleeping—afraid of the dark and the sounds outside the window. Then my mother would come over. She'd pat my head and cover me with the blanket. It's strange how little it takes to stop being afraid.

11th Floor:

Why do they keep walking? Don't they know what this journey means? And they keep talking. Maybe it distracts them from the signposts. Words are cruel, merciless. Words don't let us see. They don't let us perceive things as they are—words lead us straight to our destination...

2nd floor

Why do we say "I want to be free" instead of "down with words"? It's the same thing. Everyone knows that words are a barrier. So many languages, dialects, vernaculars, sciences, philosophies. All these words, sounds, are like shackles on my legs, preventing me from going where I want...

It's spilled. The black coffee is gone. Apparently, I wasn't meant to drink it. I can still smell it, but I doubt I'll ever know its taste. Despite this, everything around me remains black, or maybe that's just my hope? For me, this is the end of the journey.

4 is a tram, a shack is school, sleep is freedom. The wrong words are still being used. Instead of saying "life is beautiful," you could say "wildflowers in the city." A dog is a policeman, so why is he despised when a dog is man's best friend? I don't understand. Why is everything so complicated? That's why nothing works out for me—fear paralyzes me. And why do they say "I'm heading toward my goal" instead of "I want to die"? It doesn't matter now. I'm here. I can finally lie down and sleep. They'll finally cover me with a down comforter. Now I'm safe—somewhere far away, dreaming I'm there with her.

Dead feelings bleed tears full of dreams.