1.str.

That's it now. Tell everyone to fuck off, destroy yourself and be alone on the street, in the rainy dawn without people, where you're sinking in the purple color of the morning, all rounded and proud by the fact that your scull is not upset cuz of the distortion of the cosmos.

That's it now. Triumph. I'm closing pages of the notebook.

Uncouth feeling that I'm untied is making an echo.

There is nothing more, everything is absorbed by the paper.

Match against muses and harpies*is obtained.

Army of ideas is no longer mauling the corpse of ganglia.

I'm empty and serene now. Tomorrow, anarchy will be here again. But now - catharsis. I walk empty down the street.

And I breath. I feel a rain and the word "now".

Cuz writing is stabbing the soul by a sharp pencil and splashing oneself on the paper, again and again.

Tomorrow, I will be overwhelmed by the need again.

But that's not the thing now.

Not in this moment. Not this call.

Ref.

2. str.

Cuz, believe it, these verses are meat. And blood.And bones.

And the best part of the soul.

And walk over the string with a chance to be knocked down

in the ugly torturous abysses where are haughty muses who hate you. That's one of those nights when you can't wring anything from your head. Not even a single word.

And sometimes that happens in an instant,

like an avalanche, it's going out of you, words and sentences... You feel the power, which you barely remember after when it's gone. Than it seems like a vision, each moment of the idea. And trip that it will never defeat you.

And than there is disgusting feeling that author without an idea is the most miserable being of the cosmos.

And that's it. You are the slave. That's raising you up and bringing you down. Without rules, without order, from the bottom to the top, and back. And end of the story is your little "finally".

That's just for a short period. But that's this, today.

3.str.

Neither about the dance with her, neither about the barman who is listening, while he is putting a plug on the complicated tunnels of the souls, neither about the whisper whose silent sound can be heard, neither about the lies which are ironed by the pain of the crowd, neither about

20 000 puffy stomachs cuz of bribes, I am not in that circle -I am totally out.

Cage in the reality. Cage in the head. But anyway, I'm shining.

And I am alive. And I will not write anything today.

Just rain. And this empty street. And six am. I am walking even if I'm broken. Non sleeping nights, cigarettes, coffees and drinks - all that for making a story. Or just two small lines. But that's me. Real me. I can't do it on the other way.

I choose this to save me. I choose this to kill me.

Tomorrow these songs will belong to everyone, but in this moment they are just mine. I am closing my eyes and flying. Voiceless.