Templates
The first warm degrees. Morning. The murmur of early birds. Movements of arms, legs. Drops of sweat in a measured breath and a few exhalations. A walk inside the alleys, neatly trimmed, enveloped the turquoise fountain with rare crimson leaves. The smell of morning innocence. The velvet of the spring dawn. Freshness from the awakening of greenery. A shower chilling with vigor. The silence of early bakeries, cozy with their silence to madness. Colombian smells, enchanting smells. The crunch of a croissant crust, indulging with the magic of the taste of unmelted butter, adding the taste of parmesan, ham, greens. There are no superfluous ones. No one cares. The old ones are asleep. The roles were played, everything necessary was exchanged in a moment of hunger, mixing emotions. The future ones were not even laid down yet, braiding slender ones around their necks with a degree. Disheveled. They sparkle with delight and casual stupid jokes. They melt the stiffness. Compressed conciseness. Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sinking into the tenderness of feathers, snoozing comfortably and in moments snoozing. And what about the day? Full of new characters. With rudeness, sarcasm, outbursts, in order to cover the vulnerable inside with your palms. And after? Letting him in. Meeting. A handful of words. Crushing the last tube more often in an attempt to squeeze out a bit of happiness. As if wound up, repeating about peace inside, shuddering at every rustle, screech of the brakes of the past. Afraid to cross paths with the dark side of their own, losing a possible future in the moment. They turn away, paying one-time fees, there is no time for treatment, and doctors no longer give guarantees for a cure. Broken, and the repair is protracted, you get a little tired of constant donation. Let’s leaf through the next lace ones. In fact, they replace the templates of their predecessors, already tired, with birdhouses built in a hurry. Flirting with opposites, discovering the facets of carelessness. Rich. It smells of love. From the screen, on a walk, carbon copy words, actions are licked with similarities. Rarely by honesty, more and more often by seconds of mood. We are confident in slogans that have not been confirmed in practice. Walking the inner characters of different content, masking what was said earlier with unconsciousness. It would be funny to look at the conveyor, template stamping, diversifying only the color of the skin, hair, complicating the language, dots on the ball for placement. Changing in a whisper, fearing, they recognize, walking in the twilight their own inhabitants. The rules of the games are often similar. Falling in love was necessary in the early, without understanding the true rope weaves rotten by cynicism, which set the gears in motion. Outlining goals, creating similar ones in the future, more, but spreading their hands in confusion from their worthlessness. It turned out the way it happened, not being responsible for the quality. Nobody teaches education. Watering, weeding, only when there is free, At the moment, they lost the threads that bind, giving the reins of influence to the outsiders, when they settled their own soft ones. Uttered disappointments: “Excuse me” – are noisy by millions.
Slammed. “Count. Difficult. Did you miss me? Yes, everything here is mine. Announced. Pore. I’m flying to the next one. Do you not judge? It’s funny, your opinion is also important. Lack of necessary attention. Salty remnant of the ocean on the lips, aftertaste. Miss. Unbearable occasionally. More often surround you with the fuss of suitcases, lips, emotions, tickets with passports, in anticipation. Funny. I noticed that the higher the expectations, the deeper. They will be disappointed. After that, they will saturate the window with strained happiness in order to somehow beat it off. Duplicate. Template. The swings of my arms are uneven, I move. Changing pictures. Sleepy clouds, like a pet, faithfully follow me. One. Nothing to anyone. He is not responsible for anyone. It happens. But I want to immerse myself in you, pampering, kissing greedily, stroking, plunging my nostrils into my native smells. Kissing the stubble, whisper. Fly in. True, I missed you.”
Dusty
The violin is pitiful. The silence of the morning café. Colombian grains drive you crazy with their aroma. Porcelain thinnest containers, holding their breath with offerings. The crunch of the top crust of flour delights, and then soak up the receptors. The French notes are mixed. It’s time to be yourself. Early larks. Boredom envelops me. More than a dozen legalized joint thousands of nights. The funny thing is that no one imposed the peaks with goals, on their own. Exclusively spying on the environment with their values, life, cockroaches, to meet the level. Drawing from the lock, they climbed in their own way. Vulgar sighs on a huge walk, I get bored with my hands, lips, stereotyped movements. The boredom of cyclicity. Sometimes it was windy, stormy to the point of madness. Fattening the flesh of the inner characters, nourishing them freshly. Selfish? In any case, the boundaries of permissiveness along the way were subject to constant correction. Changing tactics, collecting cases of friends, with brainwashers. They were shattered, then reassembled and reassembled with the tips, glued. It spilled, seeped out, again silently squeezing the coral, climbing. They talked incessantly – in the hope of working, understanding, realizing, adjusting, pursing their lips into blood, yielding to circumstances. Helped? At the moment, like an ambulance, and then again with his teeth. They burned, stabbed into splinters, kicked, pouring degrees.
Paths of discontent with emotions. Shaking out their furious, predatory things, they lifted up a fluttering white cloth and surrendered to each other again, raking with torn palms. Licking streams of salty tears with the bristles of their tongues. Books are common, pages crease for the possibility of returning after. Funny. The past is in the past, but occasionally whitewashing the cells with past deeds, surfacing to the surface, we forgive the ungrateful. Madness. Gray and hard dirt is difficult to wash off. Pity? A seemingly endless routine of the same words, movements, nods and others in co-authorship. It flew by in an instant. Rules and statuses impose boundaries in words, scandals, opinions. The madness of movement is solely for the amusement of its own, ridiculous significance. Sharika will get bored – and nullify the presumptuous ones, created in moments. Silence. Unspoken misunderstandings are thrown into the inner basements. Difficult, but passed. Upbringing? Nonsense, it is almost impossible to resist the external environment that arouses interest in those who make their way through the asphalt. It attracts you to turn it over, to turn it over, to roll it up, having listened to it. We gathered, stretching out our hands, enough to the oncoming wardrobe, to sort through the colored junk. What for? Neatly arranged, hung by flowers, by the smells of memories. The night is more comfortable in different ways, tactile ones no longer attract. Imperceptibly, the paths were scattered with interests, glances, and various ways of feeding with energy. Joint projects have been completed. Every breath, more often exhalation, is thoroughly studied. Sneaking steps, whispering for other people’s rooms, entertainment, so as not to go off the rails completely. Strangers tend to calm down, they are overwhelmed with recipes, repeating what they have overheard as if they were wound up, not letting them pass through themselves in practice. not letting it deep into itself, it no longer touches you. Those who have to grow up will grow up, no worse and no better, in a similar pursuit of comfort as candy wrappers. It’s funny, the data of dozens in the passport were supposed to provide experience, but in fact they filled me with a penetrating feeling of confusion and fear. Dusty. No one knows at any stage how to do it right.
Slammed. “It’s sad. I didn’t understand everything, but I felt sad. Why? Affected. Violin motifs evoke something special. Vacuum. Apparently, I can’t find a psycho similar to me. She is indifferent to success. Age. Pedigree. The presence of the past. I love it by the ocean, scattered with a star. The surf gently massages. Infinity. Smiling at the