I ride my bike through autumn. quiet layers of smoke and the birches will soon fade away. baked apples like every year. mother and father play cooking in the kitchen, two fifty-three-year-old children in woolen sweaters. the two of them save my life every day. the cat gallops between my feet. I would cover myself with this whole world and fall asleep. I don't have to wait to see the winter, snowberries are perfectly enough to me.
the spirit of gipsy nomads, the mood somewhere in between Bregovič and Kusturica. in the harsh narration of Květa Legátová. my favorite G. made me drunk on rowan vodka. I like the places I come from.
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