Цветов не надо. Но сам я умираю, как...

No flowers needed. But I myself am dying like a flower. I drop my head on my chest. The glasses are slipping. I correct them with the back of my hand. That's all. I don't remember anymore. I'm already dead. Drunk dead ... A short introduction to real death. Teachings. I'm absent for a minute. I stick a sign on myself: “Gone. I'll be back at one in the morning. HBH ". Like this. I leave myself on the sidelines like a car with a running engine. Smoke is coming out of the exhaust pipe, there is a light on the dashboard, the stove is on. But no one is driving. The brain thinks by itself, like a running motor. I wonder what he thinks there. What is he up to without me. Most likely, he conducts simple rescue operations: drives away hops and saves convolutions so that they do not drown. If the body is a warmed-up car, set at speed, with a hand brake, then I am a soul, flying about my business around the city. And over the city. As long as I am free from the body. Bye ... Bye, blood and skin! Bye, nails and nose! No pants, no umbilical cord, no belt - I hobble along the cosmic corridor in the darkness above the city with a small shiny oxygen tank behind my back, a toothless soul rumble on the warm whale backs of street lamps, I tumble over Reykjavik in slow motion, I lie in an airless space, on anchor, in front of the bell tower of the Church of Hallgrim, the radio channels scratch my back with four different drum beats, and the TV channels tear me apart, decompose into soulatoms, scatter, stratify me over the whole city. I am in all places at the same time, in small doses, and yet the whole thing, like seconds that tick away in all corners of the globe, and yet belong to the same time. I am in me, and I am in everything, and everything is in me, and I am in the watch of Adalstein Gilvy Magnusson, asleep on West Street, on the night table next to the university directory. I am a fly between the double frames in the bedroom window on Bergtorugata Street, lying there on my back, helplessly turning my paws, watching my mother and Lolla chat under the covers. And I am rust in a drainpipe at 18 Leugaveg, and I climb up the chin of a lonely woman in Aurbire, dozing on a couch under a bird's tail, and I crawl in my father's beard and grab a hair as he shakes his head on the news but a radio in a taxi on Hetlisheidy, and he has half a bar of the Ark in his blood. And I am near the Western People's Islands, and I am - along with a crumpled piece of paper with a Canadian phone number in the right trouser pocket of a Romanian girl, which lie on the floor in Breidholt, worn and dirty. And I am on the tap in the dark kitchen in Keplavik, in the house of the musician Runar Juliusson, and I am under the seats of an unlit airplane that is on the airfield in Leifsstadir, dark and cold. And I am between the paint and the wall, and I am between the file and the screen, and I am between the fused teeth. I am everywhere and nowhere, in one and in everything, the territorial waters of my soul extend for two hundred miles from the fingers and toes, and would extend further ... if I had remained dead a little longer.

"101 Reykjavik"
Hallgrimur Helgason