MONDAY BEGINS ON SATURDAY

This night I'm falling ill, as the sound of rain

comes from the utter black behind the windows.

Headache, probably flu. I threw a blanket down

on the floor, beside the piles of books. Half a

dozen pages of Strugatsky brothers, but I'm

not in the mood for reading, thinking or

sleeping. I'm in the mood for the sound of

rain, falling in lightless void, beyond the

cavern the electricity carves inside. These

hours tunneling into the gray light of morning.

I exist somewhere between the headache

and the rain, defined by them.

16.09.2017