Čtení pro Tebe ,,A za ruku jsem držel astronautku Petersovou“ Kapitola dvanáct.

Čteno ve Studiu Midian


And I held astronaut Peters by the hand.

Lubomír Tomik

Chapter Twelve

So what to wait for?

At first I walk across the floor against me, but then I sudddenly change direction, walk through the closet and the window, and inadvertently embrace the tones of the accordion.
The shadow penetrates the blinds and the crowd of thorns approaches, a child’s cry can be heard.
I pick up the astonished cigarettes from the ground and then toss them again on the giggling soaked sidewalk.
Someone covers himself by an inadvertent brain transplant and falls asleep.
The fog in the distance concentrates and blinks.

I creep along the fence, the glowing spotlight is on my heels, I’m just here like a long breath, down, down, down, to those dim port lights, the silver contours of the coast disappear in the fog as Don Hamilton Balosa departs, the nun disappears in ghostly sea water and stubborn strangers are waiting for the next necessary catastrophes that must come, the young man clings to the railing, his eyes squint into the mist, mist, fog, and sees nothing but women’s breasts and flashes and hair that change color in gusts, gusts, gusts, but not only as , really.

First I go across the floor. Then everything comes back and when the dreaded inhabitants of the Nile dismantle the pyramid and drag its blocks back to the rocks – so what to wait for?

In places! Places for souvenir photography !!!

The coffin glides through the air. The four men put their hands in their pockets in quiet and uncompromising gestures.
Inside the coffin of a woman with a baby. Hint: it’s Danae.
-Ó Danaé….
Day. –

And nothing but this voice. Ten years later, the same coffin is thrown ashore. Overgrown with sea green in agony.
Nothing will happen. Instead of the wood cracking and Perseus-nic popping up.
A few hours later: a seagull appears in the sky. He descends to the coffin and cries sedentarily. When it lands on the coffin, the wood disintegrates and its dust, along with the dust of the two dead, flies off to sea.
The observed water boiled.
Make some tea, English Puritan Lord Baphomet!

I want to turn around and throw myself into heavy storm clouds, I want to grip the forks of lightning and throw them into the region below.
Don Hamilton Balosa’s ship, engulfed in a veil of fog, slowly made its way back to shore.

The audience is waiting. They are safe. Safe on shore. You and me.
So what to wait.

The gears fit together and start working with the low scream of precision mechanics.

Memory, words.

The end of the colonies. Two figures standing facing the torso of the world.
We can’t go back.
Even if we wanted to.
We can’t go back.


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