Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Solenoid

materheslashed:acrouched baby ready to be born, a giant spider, a town in the first hours of the morning, a big and fresh grapefruit, a head of a doll with eyes turned inside. What strange osmosis between my skull and the one of an old author would then occur, how weirdly our foreheads would clear up! How our foreheads would then be connected in the forehead area, like in two Siamese, how his cerebral substance would merge with mine! I was looking in his mind, reading his thoughts, I could feel his pains, his silences, his orgasms. His moments of enlightenment. I would pour my mental content over his like sea-stars digest a nest of shells. We would connect, we would mix,

Apollinaire and I, T.S. Eliot and I, Valery and I, until an unrealistic hybrid that made one’s spine shiver would be born, like a hologram, between us: the book. The madness of melting into the liquid gold tank of poetry. I would look at the lakewater reflecting the clouds and the buildings on the opposite shore until it got dark and the park got completely deserted. I wouldn’t even perceive my unhappiness any longer, just like we are not aware that we are made of billions of cells, that we are a cluster of lives. Only when the lake surface no longer mirrored anything but the stars would I get up, my bones stiff, and plunge into the alleys once more. One night I went around the lake floating half a

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