Artwork: Ignat Komitov
I found myself lost in the arms of this street, whose name I did not remember.
I received him as an old friend, but young. Music found its way into the ears, but in front of this background the faces of appetite became ever more visible – grunting beneath the skin and as protean as the scents of the world.
He sculpted my face. He tied muscles to the bone. He covered me in a warm blanket when he pulled me out of the well – lifeless. The body lied, gathering sunlight as he sent into me the first beats of the heart.
Not a fallen angel, but a man I saw in my face, but he was still a man. A great hunger caught up with my flesh, and my soul, mouth-watering.
My arms are rivers, whose hot blood flows in living beds. My palms are wells, whose underground waters split into golden streams.
Soon the darkness consumed this ugly scene – the birth of a misunderstood, false prophet.
They saw him drawing with a finger in the lake.
They heard the lament of the ego, butchered at the altar of art.
One night the rain consumed him.
In the morning they found his wings in the bed of a human’s daughter.