deleted scenes
Piano Magic writes poetry of everyday life for me. They talk about twirling me like a bottle in both hands and about murmuring bad French into my ear. They mention snow which, fortunately, I have on my side. They sing about the unwritten law of sleeping with your face turned North, about being teacher's child. There is also something about speeding up time, warming up frozen spirit. They write about coming to your party dressed as a shadow. And the saturation of lyrics with words england and france makes the solution of sentences pieced together become liquid of aural revelations.
I won't be surprised by the news in television about complete demagnetization of the poles, or by the general reversion of the seasons. I am against establishing summer in the middle of November, though. In December, let them make what they want. I am willing to expect snow falling behind closed windows during my final exams in May. Because in moments when I am too superstitious, both snow and Shakespeare turn out to be good omens.
I dreamed about a long journey in almost ancient van in colour of poppy petals. Between opened windows next to the passenger and driver seat, hot wind was billowing itself. It was a picture from old movies in which beautiful women with faces like porcelain dolls tuck their hair behind ears covered with straw hat. Rings on the right hand shone in the sunlight. Their images on the window glass looked exactly like blotches on a white sheet of paper. I was wading through windstorm blowing straight at me. And there were dancing leaves in the gale-like spiraling figures. Waves of dust ebbed and rose like they were breathing after exhausting run. And then rays of sun wound themselves around windmills on the hills. The light was somehow dimmed now. And in my dream I didn't know why those upcoming disasters ruined my perfect picture of peacefulness. Perhaps, it was only unease leaking into my mind and taking various shapes
[piano magic-speed the road, rush the lights]
I won't be surprised by the news in television about complete demagnetization of the poles, or by the general reversion of the seasons. I am against establishing summer in the middle of November, though. In December, let them make what they want. I am willing to expect snow falling behind closed windows during my final exams in May. Because in moments when I am too superstitious, both snow and Shakespeare turn out to be good omens.
I dreamed about a long journey in almost ancient van in colour of poppy petals. Between opened windows next to the passenger and driver seat, hot wind was billowing itself. It was a picture from old movies in which beautiful women with faces like porcelain dolls tuck their hair behind ears covered with straw hat. Rings on the right hand shone in the sunlight. Their images on the window glass looked exactly like blotches on a white sheet of paper. I was wading through windstorm blowing straight at me. And there were dancing leaves in the gale-like spiraling figures. Waves of dust ebbed and rose like they were breathing after exhausting run. And then rays of sun wound themselves around windmills on the hills. The light was somehow dimmed now. And in my dream I didn't know why those upcoming disasters ruined my perfect picture of peacefulness. Perhaps, it was only unease leaking into my mind and taking various shapes
[piano magic-speed the road, rush the lights]