Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

Night

night. the wind is slamming the doors like a mad cat. somebody opens the drawers

and closes them again. night, sharp as a heresy. water is dripping with slag down the body a thread of earth the mirror, a heresy of the night. like in a Chagall painting the black rooster is running away with time in his claws. he bumps into windows, bones, tibias, he cuts himself on the tin roof and screams. inside there is silence. those are not fighting anymore they’ve stopped hitting themselves with the basin on the head, only Georgeta is still making love with a plastic hairdryer. then somebody closes the drawers. then nothing can be measured further: night. a shaggy feathery wizard the black rooster is running away with time in his claws.

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