The press
It’s an old book. And butterflies are drawn on the dark blue leather cover. The wing of one of them is particularly burnt with a cigarette.
Strangely enough, but the authors are known - they’re two journalists from Kyiv. Nobody knows what for was this book written, what’s its destination now and what it was expected to be at the beginning. And only God knows how many pages does this book have. Many people have looked through it to make their own conclusions about that - and each of them saw a different number.
Some of the pages are written in English, and some even are in German.
Everyone understood the content in his own way. But nobody was able to define the genre, style and the idea. Some people understood not more than nothing - and said it all was “stupid” and “mindfucking”. Yes, the content really has no meaning.
Sometimes there were tries to leave some personal signs on the pages - but they also disappeared as time passed. Separate pages were being torn out - but that didn’t make the book thinner. Whatever long a person was turning over the pages - the book didn’t come to the end. People tried to look directly at the last ones - but all of them were written illegibly. And each time their number was different.
After a few unsuccessful tries to read and understand people give up this idea. They forget about the edition, but sometimes return to it - when they have to waste some time or draw their thoughts away from sth unpleasant.
Every day the book is becoming older and more derelict. Nevertheless it still hasn’t turned into ashes. It is getting much harder to read the words.
Every morning the grayish black dust gathers on the butterflies of the covers, despite it is wiped off every evening. During all the time the dust has slightly changed the appearance of the book. Not absolutely for the worse - everyone perceives it in is own way. And up to these days people, who tried to read, dispute about if the changes have been for the better or for the worse. The content has not changed - maybe just the appearance.
Whatever hard people tried to erase some paragraphs from the pages - nothing was successful. An unknown bluish gray matter in which the words are typed or written, has caught the old paper really tightly. The torn out pages are renewing without anybody’s help. That means: there is only what there is and should be. Nobody managed to change anything.
Gradually the interest to the book is fading. Only some people - now they are mostly foreigners - show their interest to an Ukrainian edition. A few more pages in German have been recently noticed to have added. Even the authors don’t know where these pages come from, why and how the book is getting renewed. They have their own opinion on their own work…
This book will get burnt in some time. On its own. As soon as the last page comes. When it becomes the last one. Then the butterflies will at last get the freedom they had been waiting for. They will fly to the place they had been dreaming of. And even the one with a burnt wing will be able to fly - at least it would become normal…