Dusan likes to lean on the breakfast nook of his apartment. He smokes a lot. Because he smokes a lot and he likes to lean on the breakfast nook, the particular corner turned off-white first. Then it went yellow, inevitably, in a noticeable speed. Finally, like a depraved amber, the wall appropriately illustrates a period of decomposition. Dusan’s lung decomposes as well, from a breathing organ, a precise part of human body, to something more like a psychologically special location, somewhere he can enjoy his own solitude and the sense of being protected by the wall without interruption. Ironically, sublimation always took place whenever there is a decomposition. He is 45 years old, he didn’t finish the college, he is still single, and he feels all right. He is optimistic in the most time of the day period, except the hour he spent next to nook of the amber wall. By then he becomes a depressive and silent piece of himself, the sharpest one among the millions of mirror fragments. He eyed himself from head to toe in the cracked mirror. What emitted from the glass exasperated his solitude again. He has been fall into a forlorn mess for quite a long while. He let down his head, staring the half-consumed cigarette and trying to start a new round of silence. That hour, instead of seeking for food or joy, thinking becomes the primary function of his brain.?
“What is the name of the girl lives next to me? Her cat seems too slim for her to play with.”
“Could uselessness of the language be shown by the weak, repetitive quotations?”
“How long have I been here? Am I still who I am? If I am who I am, now who am I? ”
Now is his turn to tremble and stop thinking about that, an expected answer, however, is unavoidable, like his fate, like his birth and death. Just smoking, the action of exhaling and inhaling replay again and again in this tiny piece of himself, just like a useless repetitive quotation. Loneliness then begins to swallow him tenderly. The room seems smaller and smaller, Dusan notices that the bed which is covered by a blue sheet gets closer to him. He can’t fight the drowsiness, a little bit struggle is anyway necessary before going to bed. Right at the same time his mother calls him with his almost-forgotten nickname beyond? his subconscious grassland. He wants to die, to live, to eat, to drink, to have sex with women, men, transgender people, transsexual people, to suffocate, to close the window, to go shopping, to marry, to play, to bag himself, to close the window, to shut the door, to kill, to pray, or to dig his mama's coffin out, clean it up and hang it on the chandelier.
Wind blows smoothly tonight, a small bubble shivers in his vanilla milkshake without making any sound.
