TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake
Hemingway, his photo on the wall at home depicting him in a rough, hunting sweater, frosty beard, the bullet still waiting for him, the one that will splatter his brains when he is sixty-two… Recovering his dignity, his equilibrium, not thinking about his own, as yet un-cast bullet, the judge gazed through the window at the steaming roofs that tumbled through the distance… Suddenly, a hum: as if a hummingbird were flapping its little wings right beside his ear (they could whip cream with a wing speed of eighty beats per second). Closing his eyes, he put his hand into his pocket and touched a rugged lizard-skin purse, knowing what he will find there, or more exactly, what he will not find. With malevolent joy he began to pull at it, like a falcon attacking his spoils… But the dough was in its place. Imposter, deceiver, “genius”, I’m sorry! We mystify the most ordinary aspects of everyday life, driven by the mirage of our errors, we see what is not and cannot be! Nevertheless… He has been robbed, he feels it in his bones, not only from his secret larder – right from under his nose. Every day, every moment. The vitamins of life. Colors, scents, salt, and pepper. By some god-damned remote means, and you won’t catch anyone by the hand here – only bees collect honey like that, so silently and blamelessly, those little (accurate!) dissemblers. Swindlers.
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