detail from: KRK Art dizajn

AND IN THE END THE WRITER'S LOVE

I am a cube or a triangle from which an adamant man without any geometry peeks. Who am I?

And love and civilization and cities and happiness and misfortune are scratching my mirror.  But does that mirror exist?

I love only the most beautiful woman. She is more beautiful than civilization, happiness, misfortune, cities, pain, evil, good, cathedrals, rubbish on the streets. She is more beautiful than all my frauds, earthquakes, fictional interviews, poses and offers of invisible people who exist crucified in several hearts of my departures.

With that most beautiful woman, I walk on the edge of all closures, openings, songs, all unborn extremes that suck us in and spit us into the intersected views of our city. I was bored as well, as evil, like children, like things, like old people, like a summer day, like a storm, like thieves, like fires that do not know why they burn the most precious buildings, like extremes of my empty place in space.

From my mirror, which I have not yet entered, I hear the cries of victims of wars, killed, crucified, sick, limp, leprous, choleric, neglected, victims of love sown by the tyranny of sensuality and all possible presences and absences, but all of them are united by the voice of my beautiful woman who reads my as yet unwritten book on suffering.

During that time, I'm trying to get into that mirror of life. That mirror scratches my words and struggles to sell its skin of suffering and love as expensively as possible for my entry into it.

Translation Sonja Asanović Todorović

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