#баловство
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
There are mornings when skies rise up so high on the summer heatwave that no bird or plane can reach the firmament of gleaming white-and-blue enamel. The few clouds like wads of cotton soar under the heavens' dome, visible from great distances, seeming to push the horizon even further away, making one see beyond the planet's natural curvature, into mysterious lands unknown to any decent man. We're all decent men here in the district, so we follow well-trodden paths between residential towers, past numerous bus stops that add more decent men to our collective pilgrimage. We wedge ourselves between steel nets of construction site fences, ready to dive underground without as much as a look at the forbidden, where the clouds beckon. Welcoming the air-conditioned cool of the subway, we join great rivers of people driven by purpose or perhaps simply craving a change of scenery. I pick a seat at the end of the row, resting my elbow on the small window that faces the next car, a fish tank of glass and blue steel that holds more people, like Charon's boat charging through the Underworld. The man in the seat opposite to mine has chosen the exact same position, the two of us sitting silently and solemnly: a pair of mute Sphynxes guarding this vessel for souls in motion. I look up and see them frozen by the train's mighty leap through the tunnels: faces lost in thought, minds subdued by free Wi-Fi, bodies swaying gently to the rhythm of thumping wheels. Soon light shines upon our segmented longboat, so I gather my granite paws and dash outside, into a world of steely skies and piercing wind, wondering if a calamity has happened while I was moving through the earth. My lion body wishes that once mighty gods wouldn't be reduced by centuries to paragraphs in a school textbook. I turn my human face to the drizzling rain and pray in a dead language.
#trappedintheamberofthismoment
There are mornings when skies rise up so high on the summer heatwave that no bird or plane can reach the firmament of gleaming white-and-blue enamel. The few clouds like wads of cotton soar under the heavens' dome, visible from great distances, seeming to push the horizon even further away, making one see beyond the planet's natural curvature, into mysterious lands unknown to any decent man. We're all decent men here in the district, so we follow well-trodden paths between residential towers, past numerous bus stops that add more decent men to our collective pilgrimage. We wedge ourselves between steel nets of construction site fences, ready to dive underground without as much as a look at the forbidden, where the clouds beckon. Welcoming the air-conditioned cool of the subway, we join great rivers of people driven by purpose or perhaps simply craving a change of scenery. I pick a seat at the end of the row, resting my elbow on the small window that faces the next car, a fish tank of glass and blue steel that holds more people, like Charon's boat charging through the Underworld. The man in the seat opposite to mine has chosen the exact same position, the two of us sitting silently and solemnly: a pair of mute Sphynxes guarding this vessel for souls in motion. I look up and see them frozen by the train's mighty leap through the tunnels: faces lost in thought, minds subdued by free Wi-Fi, bodies swaying gently to the rhythm of thumping wheels. Soon light shines upon our segmented longboat, so I gather my granite paws and dash outside, into a world of steely skies and piercing wind, wondering if a calamity has happened while I was moving through the earth. My lion body wishes that once mighty gods wouldn't be reduced by centuries to paragraphs in a school textbook. I turn my human face to the drizzling rain and pray in a dead language.
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Эту запись оставил(а) на своей стене Егор Юрескул
