"What do you want from me? Why are you following me?" He said, in a muffled voice, "I have no idea what you're talking about" "Like hell you don't. You're stalking me.
It could’ve easily been a scrotum, / but most likely it was someone’s wallet.
Dr. Kaluđerović is an otolaryngologist—or rather he was, now he’s just a tangle of bone and fiber on a filthy bed—who operated on Milena and made her hear again several months before her death.
“What is going on here,” Anton Antonovich would say, getting annoyed. “So, who am I then, according to you?” “We don’t know,” the acquaintances would say. “Only you’re not Anton Antonovich”.
In my lifetime I’ve been given two drawings of a fever. One was body within body within body / and some exponential notation. One was lines as if light in slowed sight. Neither fever was mine.
He was happiest when gnawed on by a beast. / But that was just a trick of the light.
WRITER: I am a writer! READER: Аnd I think you’re a piece of shit!
no one wants / to talk about / how relieved // death makes us
What no one mentioned was the moment when we disbanded – how we all broke our freeze at the same time – like we had come up for air at once or had woken from the same dream together.