Świetlicki: "the end of the world is a moveable feast"

there is always something final about it; something irrevocable and definitive.
some weight which, as it seems, nothing can possibly exceed.
a seal, a lock in the door, and so it has come.

but the streetcars keep on running. the moustached man begins yet another day with a cigarette.
you have to go to see the doctor, to the post office and the project schedule needs to be planned.
life draws itself up in three-dimensional sketches without anybody asking you for permission.

then, in the dead of winter, there's vodka, firework display and the last number in the date rolls over with a bump.

the end of the world fades away, gets outdated and obsolete.

finally, you take it to the garbage can, along with old newspapers and shoes that aren't worth fixing any more.

bitterness goes flat.
again
you're nothing but foolish
anticipation.