Trafika Europe 5 - Slovenian Interlude

Here is just one of the entrances

Here is just one of the entrances. During stolen hours and on rainy days, darkness covers me in a humming. A flame, which ends what began, cools my cheek. I’m only a gathering of thoughts, a trembling of tiny wings, a fleeting attempt to attach a body to the windy crossroads. Here is just one of the exits. Here is where I break a stick off of silence, prod the beehive. Nature knows that the color of pain is green. It doesn’t know the concept of consolation and it buds from dry stumps and cracks in the asphalt, from rotten leaves in the gutter and the contact of the ground. Three bears frozen mid-fall on a canvas by Walton Ford. Three bears chased up a tree by farmers, who lit a fire below. Three bear cubs. The first calls me a hunter. The second calls me a fall. The third calls me a brother. On the canvas they are frozen mid-fall. It is I who plummet in front of the canvas. A biting stick, pushed between the patient’s teeth during a surgery without anesthesia. I write one night to expunge everything in the next one until it hurts. My teeth are getting looser. Why does the stick rest? Where do the letters fall out? And anyway, who are you?

In an unfortunately lost note for the report from the Siberian expedition in 1829, Alexander von Humboldt


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