Trafika Europe 3 - Latvian Sojourn

Sometimes Zubris heated up the nerves in the pan , and he fell at the roots of trees and begged forgiveness.

“Boys, you definitely have to make friends with the living giants of the city, that shiver their leaves against the wind and at whose feet lie bushes, topiary like stately pans !” father said at breakfast. If trees were friends, then bugs weren’t; some gad-fly had bitten father. His throat swelled. The father cut away living skin, living flesh. Blood welled up, and shriveled the desire to do doors, which led to the doctor’s cubicle. It only became worse. Many moments of divination flooded into the father’s nightmares and seizures. Blood changed its name and said: With tram bells constantly ringing at the crossroads, life left the father. Trees came with hands lowered, but with the heart of God. And said farewell. Father lay in leaves, green as grass, and the thick net of veins carried him somewhere higher. Pan Janovski was laid in a personal coffin, that had long pined away in the attic. And his old brides, seeing the elegant, silent epistle of the man, fell in love anew for good reason. “We are old, we’ve been in service to you a long time, from now on we refuse to listen to you.”

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