Al Quotion. The Part Of Improvisation (№ 157229)

With each passing year, with every passing day, I increasingly look back. Like something was forgotten I was there, behind, as if something is holding you back. And each new moment somehow lasts longer. Like time (over time?) slows down, turning into a viscous fluid, sticky, sweet, nauseous, heavy, from which the dizzy, then the heart stops, or honey, or blood, or viscous the revelation of the gathering head over to heaven. And I look at them... I'm bored, my friend. And time is flowing. Crawling. Creeps on the city's bloated from the rain cloud, spreading dust on the roads and sidewalks, licks at home stifling summer evening. I'm bored, my friend. I'm bored to look out those Windows, I get bored looking at those eyes, I'm bored to write these words, I'm bored frantically to grab the mouth, the air. I'm bored...