Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Quiet Flows the Una

agility of a wild man. He sat on a branch, clasped his knees to his chest and stared absently into the fibre of my being. His long black hair covered his forehead. The leaves on Gargano’s tree changed colour like a chameleon wanting to merge with its new environment in fear of serpentine predators. When the leaves began to bleed and the tree started to sob and shake uncontrollably, I closed my wound by passing my hand over it without touching it. I had to go out for a walk to break my own stagnation. I had to tear myself away from Gargano and his contagious thoughts. It’s an awful thing to feel as if someone is tattooing you on the inside, on the walls of your internal organs. That’s why I cried as I walked briskly through the empty evening streets.

room of death, second class. But it’s quite conceivable that both you and I are nothing but creations of a coincidental illusion.

These are just a few of Gargano’s random thoughts that I caught in shorthand because he told them to me like this. Then he shot up a tree in two or three hops, with the

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