I speak patience when the fog listens

.........

And again

, Hmm...what?

Hmm...And again

, I look at myself, examine myself, observe...in a glass of beer. It's a friendly morning, tinged with a haze of uncertainty. And smoke drifts mournfully from the chimney of the house opposite, and I wander, so at least the others can stay warm. And behind the house, a small street, Augustowska, which is LEFT TO FATE, to the dogs and pigeons, yet built by PEOPLE FOR PEOPLE, clumsily runs from its starting point and enters the current of a larger intersection, and only from there can you see that this street actually has some significance. Beyond it, it's even worse. An abandoned hall of an old factory, haunting with its bulging windows, as if suspended by a thick, yet invisible, rope, hooked to a branch of the sky.

Beyond, the landscape, the view, blurs, only to finally be enclosed in a case called MIST. I take another sip of beer; thankfully, the house is empty...

Patience isn't a virtue, because what is a virtue? Patience is a path. I don't know how long or where it will take you, but you'll surely have to stand on it someday. And try to walk it. At the starting point, you resemble a hitchhiker or a wandering tourist. Those who started earlier and have already moved on to cars shouldn't necessarily take you. You might miss many phenomena, miss the fog, or forget to be moved on to the nestlings lying in the grass. "The path from thought to machine, my dear, the path from thought to machine.

I know that much. For now, the path of beer from glass to mouth is remarkably short. I prefer it. Bye.

And by the ponds on Mickiewicza Street, life has stopped. Individual anglers have prepared well, dressed in colors that don't distinguish them from their surroundings, silent, tensely waiting for the line to twitch and they can prove they're alive, blood flowing, and everything's fine with their reactions to external stimuli. Perhaps they'll even have to demonstrate their reflexes. Nearby, like a little girl, I stand, throwing bread to the swans. I sip a beer from my sleeve. If I were to consider the three-dimensional position of my body in relation to eternity, I would of course get lost, but by rejecting depth and taking only length and width as a measure, I can undoubtedly say that I've found myself on the trail of patience. Yes, precisely, as far as the eye can see, there's harmony and natural peace. The anglers' bodies are also not positioned by accident. I stare at them, despite the fog... I take another sip. The can is already warm, and the beer tastes worse. And yet, I can't help but marvel.

I return to square one. Because sometimes it's worth returning, because sometimes it's like returning to the embrace of God, who has been unwaveringly waiting for us. Because sometimes the joy of returning can be far stronger than the next step toward fame.

I sit down with a pen in front of the paper. I grapple with the sentences. To my left, I'm only twenty centimeters from the window, and beyond it is the world.

And what more could a young, sensitive soul need, one that, with each passing day, realizes that for the first time it is taking the path of patience, of perfecting itself and refining its view of this honorable world!

There are many personal interjections here, so please excuse me. In front of me is a glass of cold beer; in a moment I will reduce its distance from the table to my lips again. To zero. So, stay healthy. Bye.