Trafika Europe 5 - Slovenian Interlude

Indefinite Time of Life

Like little fish we played around the steel hooks, afternoons were tinted light sea water, red bladders of air spouted from our skin, pulled up endlessly – we were marked by all of this. This rising made an oily squint seem to disappear. Still, time gathered and scattered like fluttering leaves. The weights on the old hull failed and the boat finds no mooring – the dead are coming all the way to the shore, bickering over our newspapers, arguing about lunch. Their advice written in an unreadable palimpsest are blowing away hats, carrying off cars. Since then books have been weighted with dust, like slippery salad greens tossed with the world. How much time in the kitchen, how much of ink, when a man loses his sense of an appetite, his sense for the generations. We try to salt a barely tasted dish,


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