Book: Istanbul Bastard. Page 2

"It's all Poetry," said The Inept Poet; being exceptionally mediocre, he used to see poetry in everything.

... love loves power. This is why we ourselves fall mortally in love, but we never reciprocate those who are mortally in love with us.

No matter how much you talk with imaginary interlocutors, there is always something to say.

Maybe marriage is nothing more than a fleeting whim. Having succumbed to her, you begin to believe that this is forever, and then you can even laugh at how you were deceived, but only if you left first. The fact that, before dying without return, the marriage still agonizes for some time, gave a deceptive hope, until you realized that you can hope not that everything will work out, but that both will eventually suffer and disperse , each in its own way.

Perhaps things are not so hopeless. Perhaps now she will be able to go fishing and stand motionless for hours, not annoyed that she was left behind, and life rushed past like a fast-footed hare, which can be looked at from afar, but never caught.

Don't call me shit. Shit has a heart too.

This indifference had its own rhythm. It rolled and released again, and with it the mood jumped from extreme to extreme, from hot to cold, back and forth, like a pendulum.

Only three categories of people are capable of absolute indifference: hopelessly naive, hopelessly withdrawn and full of hopeless hope.

In this way the rain is like a mountain. You do your best to protect yourself, but when it turns out that your efforts are in vain, you stop counting the drops and completely surrender yourself to the stormy stream that has fallen on you.

But then, when the last drops fall to the ground, and others hang on the leaves washed from the dust, in a defenseless moment, when we are not yet sure that the rain has stopped, and the rain is also not sure of this, peace suddenly descends into the light interval. For one long minute, the sky seems to apologize for the whole mess. And we, with our hair soaked in moisture and damp cuffs, still gaze gloomily and cautiously at the clearing azure sky. We look and involuntarily smile back. We forgive the sky. Is always.