time flowed from the end to the beginning of life (Dictionary of the Khazars, M. Pavic)
there are only the ghosts of spiders from that corner in our balcony, that corner where we used to listen to the town’s urban dogs and cats and where we smoked our evenings out before going to sleep.
There’s only the smell of the neighbourhood’s smokehouses and of our spoken, sometimes written words; the smell of paper.
The blackness of our garden and our silence, fear digging up the ground; the earth, our roots digging themselves up amongst bunches of poppy flowers and spring onions, fresh garlic waking up its leaves with a sound so strange (like a howling), this green werewolf.
Our roots, our insectariums, our herbarium – a systematically arranged collection of dried plants.
And then a song to deeply fall asleep.