Experimental texts, Horizonti Publishing House, 2007

i have several friends some of them are strange one even writes letters and sends them to me every day whereas i stay in my room in the french-window house and watch them pile up but instead of the box getting fuller and fuller it grows larger and larger and the days on which a letter is likely to arrive from my friend become more visible and i can just smell the odd scent of the autumn of letters and spring thrusted in the envelope this friend of mine is tousled sort of and seems so remote i stretch a hand to him from the french window today is the day of the twenty-eighth letter my friend’s hand is cool he is a little absent-minded and i can see that as he walks with his hands spread out as the feathers on his letters invisible to anyone else coming with the morning mail they gather quietly and i can feel their rustling as if wind and dry sand were scratching against the glass my friend is weird and has never noticed that when he writes letters the skin of his left hand becomes grey then it fills with the mellowness of a fruit which ripens slowly many days pass like this every time i stretch my hand then for a long time i stare at my fingers and all things around they are invisible due to the french window but i shouldn’t speak so much about this friend of mine let’s see how his letters pile up in front of the door and i watch them through the window it’s friday the day of the most important letter i extend my hand and he takes it and nods this is a sign i cannot yet describe precisely it is probably related to the ripening of those things to the air which swirls and becomes wind to the mellowness as it penetrates likely to be left over from his mild aversion while sealing all envelopes with the letters he wrote or he is probably thinking about the moment when i will open some of his letters anyway i dare not ask him and i only stretch my hand to him and i ask how things were going there in the previous letter or that other one the letter of his life! which ripens between the palms of his hands and the sand of the awakening of the wind pale and tousled today must be friday he behaves as usual i get lots of letters should anyone want to check please lean against my window there is nothing easier he believes i have a name and i confirm this as it is vital to receive letters from my friend this is an indication that things are more remote than the anticipation itself but where needed they become visible and flow if i dare to believe for the moment if i dare see them the wind is blowing through the window and silently sifting through his palms his finger changes colour for a while i like it to be that way the effort of reading is linked to the perception of the days on this threshold of the house the letters should actually not be received and i don’t read them because everything my friend wants to tell me is all which i want to be days and weeks in this way fingers sand wayward weather strange friends /one of them even writes me letters/ i look at my hands slightly benumbed with the strain of holding so many so distanced it is slightly boring with this friend of mine i will tell him tomorrow to write this most estranged letter which