Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

the sketch in a revue, a catchphrase. I am here, not anywhere else: a glance, the ten-millionth interval of longitude between the parallels, the gap between cobblestones, the space between stretched out ribs, a broken cage (what animal was it before? you can’t tell the remains calcined from porphyry pavement cemented with tarmac). let years come and go, darkly, a quiet tide brushing the earth: we will go to the grave, we will go down the whirl well-seasoned in flavours, artificial and natural yeasts, tanned by acids and blows, carefully eviscerated and hollowed out. Do you remember every step after you, aged too and taken farther away? Not really away, always going back home, and this, my bitter spending time recants at every step and, in the end, laughs at it in the courtyards of Bologna. the end of some job interview, their colour, the aged evening, If even the cage of the meridians crumbles and they are in freefall, in this jerky, oblique movement,

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