In the car
I spent the whole day of yesterday in the car. Thus it seems to me today. And that is unhealthy. To dead-slam shut so the time. In the car. To cut through so the area. In the car. Thus to courage-measure. Afterwards. After a sleepless night. The memory still misleads me in. It made itself broad also in the car. Rides along. Like the had an accident trucks on a snow-covered side street. Like the forgotten book in the backpack. Like the plasticcorked dry red wine in the trunk. This time I went away with Kuczok (and become, which I do not know yet, with Nahacz return). That already admitted trick (goes here not around humans, but around the work of a writer). But in the car on the way after Gorlice I did not reach only once for the book. The car does not love reading passengers. The driver loves discussions. Above all, if he is a woman. I paged through Kuczok (Opowieści przebrane - Auserlesene narrations) only in bed. He did not get me. Neither the neck. Still the ears. The eyes were assigned to me. I do not like déjà vu. Neither in thoughts. Still under the fingertips. Again impacts. Again piece of muck. Again whip. Cries. Tears. And pain. In the early mornings. And still I am in the car. In a tiny sheet metal casing. Those absolutely no colors into their inside to penetrate leaves. The heating however stands on max. all ways in the life is nummeriert. And hang like enormous green describe in the wind. Vary over the loud motorways. There is no emergency exit. Still another escape route. Neither a coincidental. Still marked. From the tunnel travel. From the Düsternis of an early November evening. Not even forward. By the night. Also the reverse gear. Does not help. And does not lead only anywhere. The day of yesterday drives car.
