Был бы Буковски, писал бы о Миллере, писавшем...

Would Bukowski, would write about Miller, who wrote about Dostoevsky, squinting at Gogol, admiring Pushkin. He would have gone to antiquity. To the free songs of Homer. To blindness, in order to learn how to speak, go into the basement and buy cigarettes. And spring is in the yard! April songs! Dog shit! And I want something more, slipping away, comparable to buying a bar, or opening your own art gallery. But everything is somehow shifted in time; neither inspiration, nor free time, nor sleep, nor salary coincide with the necessary phases. So life stretches. And soon, after all, summer. And winter is coming ...