All the houses I've lived in form a separate village, in a parallel world, the lights always
on.
Sometimes they're not whole houses, but rooms, refrigerator parts, pieces of furniture, strips
of hallways, tables chopped in half.
We're all still living there, only we're turned off, nobody's looking at us.
It's full of things that couldn't move with me, a book not good enough, the cup without
a handle that you'd given me, then I broke it, left it behind.
Even there, if you don't pay the light bill, they'll eventually cut it off.
Everything has already happened, everything has stopped rotting at some point.
There's also that hospital they haven't finished building.
They keep hiring new nurses who then plunge into the darkness.
I remember the nose of the first dead person I've seen.
I looked like a tunnel, his mustache turned gray in no time.
I don't know who still uses big razor blades, cuts their skin, then dries it with toilet
paper.
The clothes you left, they sent them far away, they flew, they smelled like closet.
When the last phone booth will be eradicated, we'll have a small party and play broken
telephone.
And at the end, someone will understand how to spell your name.
All consonants, an important name, with only consonants.
You're lost, you're lost and now they've closed the road.
You keep going, you'll fall into the dark, and they'll all forget about you.
Your family will find your things, but they won't know whose photos those are anymore.
They'll call the police.
The chief has brought his memories here, we don't want them.
Just want to go home.
Then last booth in the world, you'll pay with polo-gandies.
you'll pay with polo-gandies, you'll pay with polo-gandies, you'll pay with polo-gandies.
You'll pay with polo-gandies, you'll pay with polo-gandies, you'll pay with polo-gandies.
