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Milorad Pejić
STOCKHOLM
You are alone, man, in this crowd, on this concrete.
Wherever you go, digital clocks are darting out with
their snakes’ tongues. On lazy staircases, eyeglasses
are clashing in the intensity of kisses. Do you still
believe in so much love - where is the soul of the city?
I love a storm. It brings agitation even to the parking
police, it scatters lottery tickets like pigeons. I delight
in a cloudburst when the scent of pines overpowers
sweat and perfumes, driving away from the squares
even the most fervents of walkers. So I amble into
the back alleys, where the soul of the city abides,
where the greyhaired dwarf, through the hole in the
glass of the hot-dog stand, explains squid with fresh
olives to a rainsoaked prostitute, an old recipe from
his native land, from frightening Sicily.