If we’d come here in May, at three
thrushbird’s song would’ve woken us up and then
blackbird’s at quarter to four. Sooner or later it will get colder. The wind

is racing from the mountain pass, trees are running amok, bending
and creaking like planks, ready-for-use planks, but
all this is happening above our heads. Yesterday I did not go

to the “Excelsior,” today I cannot be bothered, it is
too late anyway. All that is left now (I finished “Marina”)
is the multiplicity of ways of watching an empty

passageway. Acceleration cannot be helped; does
our ability to see lines and spots prove some principle
of a visible binary order? We are told

that there are more spots than lines, the eye has been trained in this way, yes,
white spots and black lines, equally numerous are black
strokes; there are also straight balconies, the era of the 1930s and

if the story about Caesar and the map were
to come to fruition, it would have to be now, for an instant,
with us as cartographers. And a lot

of other components as well. Also, we have never
been so meticulous before. Since the summer there have been changes, wood
is now covered with plaster which shows Greece, fake

columns, Venus de Milo, black-figure
runners, except that further away it is vodka, except
that further away the extreme degree of the most cruel is the syndrome

of underheated places. Earlier I had set out
for the spring: brine, gas, and crude, “pure fire”
freezes inside them, so does robust body and

the spirit. Had it not been for this
name, the “Blatherer’s Place,” I would not have remembered
the details: shampoo, a ballpoint pen, the newspapers.

Which turned out to be unavailable, whose delivery
was not reliable, therefore no one is liable, including
myself. In the Tatras they began to add up all the antelopes,

a crocodile census is being conducted in Zambia,
while here “those who go to Jędrek’s Place are all shits,
scumbags, and cocksuckers.” So I will not change

my habits, no one is moving in my direction either,
however, it is easy to modulate the measures, lower
the tone, bask in the warmth of such fantastic speculations,

all of them somewhat silly, out of scale, beyond the current
precipice, beyond the grid of roads and trees, beyond the retina.
And yet, I would have loved to move into “The Eaglet,”

except that the preventorium had already been given, had
become a given, in the same way as pain, an affliction at
which the weapon is aimed, but the hand delays all

that is apparent and visible because, in essence,
we are always here together and no one expects
Paradise, the summer, Greece, or to be awakened by a bird,

also when the past creeps in and in defiance
of everything freezes, when everything moves above our heads, the wind
from the mountain pass bypasses the lungs, the faces, and the hands, it places

emphasis on the hum and the creak, on a different scheme of things, it is now
possible to hear that which the preventorium cannot prevent
as well as the rhythm and the “method” and the map, no relief

will come from a cascade of encores and disparities, the shell
will stay empty. Prepare your ear for a scoreless
performance with no players, it can be heard

already, everywhere and always,
and even our coming here in May
would not have changed anything