Well, yes, the shack is cracked, it needs repair, well, yes, the thing was stolen, now it cannot be returned, well, yes, I want delicacies, and in the shops there are preservatives, surrogates, semi-finished products. Well, yes: the stitches are torn and the old wound is bleeding. Skin (outer shell), fatty deposits for memory, connective tissue with a dangling half of the liver and part of the spine. Not enough for broth, you see, today you are theirs, and tomorrow they eat you. It’s not a bad strategy: a person suffers not so much from what is happening as from how he evaluates what is happening, and the world is terrible but as beautiful as ash.

When I woke up, I could feel my dagger gripped in my hand, coated thick with a black gloss whose origin I couldn’t name – petrochemical, or swamp, or the dark lifeblood of some beast whose musk hung heavy in the air. A sheath of smooth silicon had grown into the flesh of my arm, twisting my sinews with an unnameable urge — I reached for my lamp. Its pale blue glow illuminated the scene before my eyes: portals to the north, to the east and to the south. How did I get here? I turned out my pockets and found these clues: the crushed jaw of a fish, a SIM card, the husk of a bee, a pendant in the shape of the sun. On a rolled-up scrap of paper I found these words:


The nacreous mist surrounded me. Apparitions rose and dispersed – one figure stood out clearly, a worm with 500 wings and 7 heads, upon each head was 3 crowns and on each crown a name was written. After a struggle it went away, crossing itself. It disappeared into the dancing glyphs that converged and split again like flames. In the inky fire of my eyes a circle inscribed my gaze, in a circle it will touch the serpent, touch the stone, the devil’s trumpet streaming in every colour and bleeding into the leaves. 


We know, we know everything about these signals: heavy boots, to stand on the sidewalks and in the hallway; to the wireless pulses, drying our eyes, taking our breath; to the short dashes from hand to mouth; to the intimate honing of body heat; to constantly clicking static discharges; to the polar night, and then to the blinding sun; to the bottomless pale sky; to buzzing fluorescent lamps; to the viscous stench of diesel exhausts; to the frost; to the absence of white light. This light is for us: the dance of the shadowy elements under the rocks, beneath the paving-stones and even the shore. Here we see the shape of things to come, strength, and here is life already swelling in the darkness of iron and soot. 


At the bottom of their tombs, I think the dead will be listening for a long time, listening to hear if their hearts will start beating again.