We were doing silly things, Drinking the remnants of wisdom with tea.

What was happening between us was not love. Animal passion, the desire to subjugate and rule. Forced attachment of one lonely person to another even more lonely. An attempt to survive and find support in a shaky reality. “…but you know, I love that about you. And what I also love about you is that you don’t idealize me or flatter me. Funny, right? I literally love you because you don't love me. Even if you don't love me, I will love you for both of us. And you can love music.”

This collection with a self-explanatory title, “To feel,” is aimed at reducing dialogue and increasing descriptions. It does not contain names, surnames, or cities. The essence of the work is the emphasis not on characters, but on feelings, emotions, atmosphere. Happy reading.

“In the margins of a notebook” is a collection of carefully chosen poems which were sorted into three cycles: I. Something about unrequited love II. Who will I become? II. Oh, these people Is forever “ongoing” and will be updated and changed as new poems are written.

I throw away my pen and lean back in my chair. Some kind of nonsense creeps into my head. I sigh and begin to massage my eyes, lightly pressing on the eyelid. Brilliant fireworks scatter in the darkness, bright to the point of pain and clouding of reason. Finally, after a couple of minutes, I pull myself together, sigh again and bend over to the sheet, crossing out the last line.