#impossiblecool
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
#баловство
There is a singing fountain in Gorky Park, a small monument to the change in city administration that happened back in 2011. At night, its many water-spewing nozzles are joined by colorful projectors and powerful speakers that play deafeningly loud Soviet music, creating a spectacle for the late crowd. During the day, however, its curved streams of slowly-falling foamy water look exactly like cogs of a great underground mechanism, silently grinding at eternity, pulling invisible strings that drag the occasional midday idler along the park's paths. I got hooked too, a sleepy reptile on heated pavement, catatonic without caffeine, victim to a moonlight vigil in a stuffy bedroom the previous night. I pulled in vain at the buzzing cord that was now my connection to the city's own beat, and changed again, giving up on my original form for fear that it would ruin the newfound rhythm. I let myself shatter, falling onto the ground a spattering of raindrops that in turn exploded into a thin haze, admitting that I was to live between two worlds from that moment on. A part of me was forever left to the mercy of fickle winds that dance right above the city's streets, borne this way and that way like a formless cloud, visible only to those who squint at the light. The closer I drift to the fountain, the less human is left of me: I am an apparition that would burn deep into your retinas like a lingering memory of a stressful, but eventful day. Walk between the flowerbeds and feel me embrace you, a cool mist in the middle of a smoldering afternoon. Watch me drift away southward, gathering myself into a coherent figure that can't resist the perpetual pull of the city's heart. Hear my footsteps on the sidewalks as I run back to the rhythm's origin, as I blur away my integrity for a chance to resonate again and again, until the wind changes direction.
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
#баловство
There is a singing fountain in Gorky Park, a small monument to the change in city administration that happened back in 2011. At night, its many water-spewing nozzles are joined by colorful projectors and powerful speakers that play deafeningly loud Soviet music, creating a spectacle for the late crowd. During the day, however, its curved streams of slowly-falling foamy water look exactly like cogs of a great underground mechanism, silently grinding at eternity, pulling invisible strings that drag the occasional midday idler along the park's paths. I got hooked too, a sleepy reptile on heated pavement, catatonic without caffeine, victim to a moonlight vigil in a stuffy bedroom the previous night. I pulled in vain at the buzzing cord that was now my connection to the city's own beat, and changed again, giving up on my original form for fear that it would ruin the newfound rhythm. I let myself shatter, falling onto the ground a spattering of raindrops that in turn exploded into a thin haze, admitting that I was to live between two worlds from that moment on. A part of me was forever left to the mercy of fickle winds that dance right above the city's streets, borne this way and that way like a formless cloud, visible only to those who squint at the light. The closer I drift to the fountain, the less human is left of me: I am an apparition that would burn deep into your retinas like a lingering memory of a stressful, but eventful day. Walk between the flowerbeds and feel me embrace you, a cool mist in the middle of a smoldering afternoon. Watch me drift away southward, gathering myself into a coherent figure that can't resist the perpetual pull of the city's heart. Hear my footsteps on the sidewalks as I run back to the rhythm's origin, as I blur away my integrity for a chance to resonate again and again, until the wind changes direction.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
