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Arthur was not a person. He was a function housed in a flawless exoskeleton. His title — “Senior Partner” — was a cuirass. His measured, emotionless speech — a sealed visor. His daily commute from sterile suburb to glass office tower — greaves that kept him from straying. Deep inside that armor didn’t sit Arthur at all, but a small, frightened...
He lived in a departure lounge. Not a real one — in the one inside his head. He lived as if his real life was still on its way, as if everything happening now was a long, overextended prologue with his takeoff endlessly delayed. He sat in that lounge and stared through a foggy window at the runway where other people’s planes — bright, swift,...
Ignat didn’t work. He performed a rite. His temple was the city square, his flock the ashy little bundles of life, ordinary city pigeons. Officially, for the odd curious passer-by, he introduced himself as a “municipal ornithologist-statistician.” It sounded dignified, like a verdict. In reality he was simply Ignat, the man who counted pigeons. He...
This is your inner, pocket tyrant. A tiny mad director you yourself handed an unlimited budget and complete creative freedom. He sits in your head, legs crossed, sketching the storyboards of the future. Right here everyone else will say exactly this . And you will answer like that . Perfect lighting, measured pauses. He even picks poses for a...
Inaccessibility is a mask behind which hides a soul longing for warmth.
Victor wasn’t living. He was sterilising reality. His apartment was an operating room, and he, its chief surgeon, carved out any tumor of chaos. His balcony, tiled in flawless white, was his personal annex of sterility on the seventh floor. Deep in the basement of his skull, in a dark, reeking corner, a howling monkey sat chained. That monkey...