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Psalm Peycho Kanev

W PAGE 19 ∙ Year I ∙ Issue #1

The Universe with all of its atomic tidiness is a bit incomprehensible. Metaphysics too. But I like physics more than the physicists. The world is full of geniuses and some others. The world is strange, like a movie shot in Technicolor, but there is too much red in it. Imagine the Crusades, imagine the Inquisition, imagine all of it until now. What if, like the fiction writers like to say, time starts to flow in the other direction? Imagine Galileo working with hexa-core processor, Henry VIII on Viagra, Einstein sweating in a Chinese fireworks factory. That’s why I keep myself close to the agnosticism. This world was screwed up before time was time, even before emptiness gave any hints of vacuum. That’s why I like the simple things. For example, in a gas station in Arizona, in some foreign language the American Indian at the counter tried to explain to me how to pay for the gasoline. I asked him in perfect Bulgarian whether he had read about the life of Ambroise Vollard. At the end we understood each other perfectly well in universal slang, and I continued west. Like I said, I like the simple things. Now, I think about the grass outside. About each leaf thirsty for a few drops of water in this dried world, painted in blood. I think of the world as an accordion, but I don’t know how to dance tarantella or polka. I think about all this pain for which there is no vaccine. I have been in Silver City, New Mexico. The city still scratches the memories of a gold rush. I’ve been in the ghettos of New York. That’s why I say that if we didn’t die we wouldn’t care about the time. That’s why I love words. Everything is simple with words. But is there anything worse than a creature who lives only to write poetry? Where are Ovid, Boileau, Dante? Is it still alive, Gilgamesh’s aspiration to achieve immortality? Listen, we live and die. Listen, into the light of this cigarette you can find more life than the whole universe. That is enough.

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