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Rooftop hot in the June sun. Shouts of boys from the yard, cooing pigeons. The wind rinses the linen in the blue sky, dispersing the clouds. There was a time we could lie on the roof all day with books and dreams. There was a lot of time, it was thick, like happiness. We lie down and look at the sky. It is huge, bottomless. Wires have drawn it with meridians and parallels, like a strange map, birds mark depths, islands of clouds gather into archipelagos and continents. They pile on top of each other, flow and mix, creating more and more new characters.
For whom is this grandiose performance played out, who else will appreciate its scope and depth?
Linen inflates like sails, flapping in the wind. And it seems that our house will now break the wires, which are already barely holding it back, and soar into the sky ...