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  • Milko Valent

Valent's Valentine

Milko Valent’s writing has always been, and that means for forty years now, surrounded by issues of political incorrectness, censorship, and controversy. It remains the case today. “When writing, I’m getting rid of myself and I’m trying to explore the human being in all its emanations, even when I do not like the people I’m describing,” says Valent who often talks about his opus as an anthropological exploration of the time he lives in. He likes to emphasize that the role of literature is not to confirm our political or other views, but to enhance our critical nerve as readers, which means that texts have to provoke in order to challenge us in the quest towards freedom. Part of this involves resisting different social pressures and forms of compartmentalization, while remaining sensitive to the lived experiences of all, including how that sensitivity and awareness, or lack thereof, is expressed.

Milko Valent wrote the following two pieces, “Subject: Intercontinental Quivering (A short e-mail story)” and “A Poem about Her Anus”, sixteen years ago as an homage to Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita” while visiting Cleveland, Ohio where he was working at the city’s public library. Milko submitted them to ZiN Daily as a Valentine’s Day card, "for all those who live love every day of the year," love in all its ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ shapes and forms.

The texts have been previously published in their original Croatian and are presented here for the first time in English, the prose part translated by Marina Orlovic.

Performance Phototrend, London, 2014

Milko Valent (b. 1948 in Zagreb) is a writer (prose-writer, playwright, poet, novelist, essayist, polemicist, and theater critic) who has published some 30 books and 20 plays. He graduated in Philosophy and Comparative Literature from the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Zagreb. Valent has contributed to about a hundred reviews, magazines and newspapers, as well as a number of radio programs and internet portals. He performs all over the country and abroad with recitals, lectures, performances and provocative talks. He is included in numerous anthologies. His work has been translated into Slovenian, Hungarian, Macedonian, Slovak, Ruthenian, Russian, Bulgarian, Italian, Esperanto, Polish, French, German and English. He was awarded the first Marin Držić Prize for the play Ground Zero Aleksandra in 2002. and won the prestigious Vladimir Nazor Prize for the novel Artificial Tears in 2014. For the same novel, a 1400 pages long exploration of our “epoch of banality”, as Valent describes times we live in, he was awarded the Literary Prize HAZU (Croatian Academy of Sciences and Arts) in 2016.



By Milko Valent

<no subject>

hello, baby,

sorry I’m being so familiar, it’s stronger than me, just can’t help it. sorry also if this letter is all mixed up. that would be only natural, considering that just moments ago I peaked thinking of you and remembering your voice. I know that you’re swamped - in fact, overflowing, ha, ha – with work, especially of the erotic kind, over there (I read the interview you gave before leaving, in which you pointed out that you would be exploring models of sexual behavior of Americans, among other things), but Katarina told me you probably wouldn’t mind if I wrote to you and that you’re rather cool and she gave me your e-mail address there, not the Hotmail one (I like that name, it makes me think of what I hope will be our hot mail). and when I told her in more detail what my idea was, she thought it was great and said you might grow hot on it too. she also boasted – don’t be mad at her – how you had her, or kept having her, in the hall of the students’ dorm on Flower campus (I had said: ”he had you in bloom”) only a day before the FAL (Festival of Alternative Literature)! so this was in Gjuro on 26 October 2000, where Katarina had introduced us before you left. she told me that she and you sometimes go out and invited me over to the FAL-festival of alternative literature (she also boasts that you had her over for a party for two at your place.) Katarina and I sat in the front row. you were on the stage testing the microphone and asked us if the sound was okay. we said it was, and I instantly had this feeling down there, like when you need to pee. then you approached us. you were glad to hear that I’m a student of Croatian literature. you looked at my mini skirt and said that I had good legs. I was so proud I could have died - like, you know, coming from a man of experience, who’s seen it all, as it were. then you said I had the “scent of a woman”, that you were not an “under-achiever” like Al Pacino, who had never “smelled the scent of a girl like that from so close” and that one day you would “take me down to the river”…then you disappeared in the crowd, in grand form. I could hardly wait for you to go up on stage and I daydreamed about rivers and valleys…

sorry, I got carried way away. try to understand – today I peaked, through self-gratification. by the way, I split with my boyfriend. (he studies machinery and knows as much about girls as I do about the Internet.) if you’re interested in my case, let me know and I’ll tell you what my idea is.

Ljubica, the girl in the black mini skirt at the FAL (hope you remember me)

Subject: Winter tale, snowflakes and mouthfuls

Hello dear Ljubica!

of course I remember you and your black mini skirt. how could I forget the best legs I saw during the hot month of October 2000? I’ve been thinking about them and how they might spread poetically, my darling. I even thought of them once as I was coming into Katarina, before my trip. she was panting and shouting: “homeland’s got to be fucked and fucked and fucked…”

as I’m writing to you, I glance occasionally through the window to where I can see the silvery-blue ice of lake Erie and white snowflakes falling down slowly. the morning silence is occasionally interrupted by the wailing of the heavy firefighter trucks leaving the nearby station, and by the sexually frustrated seagulls circling over the lake, in a frenzied flight which sometimes extends to my balcony. in the meantime, my dear young neighbor Jessica – I call her Jerry Springer girl – a lively and passionate fan of American football, a pretty dark black girl from Alabama, is kneeling under the table, doing that which the pizza delivery-girl, Monica, did to Bill in the Oval Office: with oval movements of her tongue, she’s giving me head, and she’s already announced that she was going to “smoke, but not inhale”. well, the so-called American simplicity! oh, sancta simplicitas! our Jessie’s main goal in life is to marry the dandy black rapper who cleans fat gentlemen’s shoes in the Tower downtown, talking constantly; and her secondary goal – which she’s been working on, in fact, for the past two days – is to try a white guy from Europe. so we met, united by the same desire, in the building basement, where - it so happened she had not gone to work due to a cold - we were both having a “laundry day”. workdays are best, there’s nobody down there, you put your laundry in, swipe the card and wait for 34 minutes (it doesn’t wash off the main traces very well, if you know what I mean), and meanwhile, leaning against one of the big machines, you generate slime with Jessie all over the place. but let me get back to the present tense: “only smoke, not inhale”. wait a sec, now: you don’t tell me we dudes from Maksimir are such assholes that we don’t dig the technique. keep dreaming, I tell the dear girl looking at her mouth the shape of Tina Turner’s. how can she know when the going gets tough, I think joyfully, brightened up by your dear letter. besides, how can sperm be inhaled? some education. I tell her to go back to school, but she says she has no money. now I’ll stop her for a while so I can write a few meaningful sentences in reply to you. okay, Jessie, stop it for a while, please… will you! just keep it in your mouth while I finish the letter to my darling in Zagreb. turn the tongue off. when you hear “start”, turn the tongue on again.

so, dear Ljubica, I do hope you’re not in some kind of old-fashioned mode. if indeed you aren’t, then you’ll understand my answers to you: 1) don’t send me mail with “no subject” anymore – this could be an indication of a lack of imagination or else of a lack of subject, which is not a great recommendation for an erotically ambitious student of literature, especially if she’s keen on keeping my company, be it only virtual; 2) tell Katarina that I didn’t “have” her nor did I “keep having her”, but fucked her while the girls were going to the bathroom carrying their towels. by the way, didn’t she tell you that later she fucked me in her room while Maria, or whatever her name is, was studying for her exam?; 3) do you have a program on your computer for chatting, you know the “chat” thing? if not, it’s okay, we can stick with alternate current, it takes longer, but creates more tension; 4) tell me about your idea. I’m interested.

Milky, the man known as ’’a lover and a fucker from Ohio’’, or short: man-plus.

Subject: Man, I want you!

my dear lover,

1) sorry I omitted the subject. I was so excited by my masturbation and my idea that I could hardly muster up the courage to write. after all, you’re a someone and I’m just a student. besides, you’re thirty years older than me. I will not omit the subject anymore, I promise. and when you come back, if you do, you’ll see for yourself what the scope of my imagination is – or my name is not blazing Ljubica.

2) it’s not Katarina who said you “had” her, she said - I can barely bring myself to write it – she said “screwed”, not “had”, that was my term, because I come from a pious catholic family, brought up strictly and in chastity, while burning inside…

3) the idea is a simple one, but…oh Milky, during your stint at the FAL, I got so excited… especially during your powerful reading of The Poem for Her Anus*. after your performance I headed straight for the restroom to satisfy myself. I lifted my left leg on the toilet bowl and sank my hand deep inside and I masturbated like that thinking of you and your voice. when I went back to the room, Katarina said I looked awful. afterwards I read that poem of yours in a magazine and played with myself every single day. when I read in the interview that you were leaving to go overseas, I thought that you might be able, in spite of being busy there, to write a couple of sentences for me to play to when I’m feeling restless. this has nothing to do with the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend, this only has to do with you. you turn me on, my dear man. you know I quiver a lot when I’m doing it and I’m hoping maybe you’d quiver a little too when you think about what’s hidden under that black mini skirt. we could also spend an hour or two on this wet net and to that end exchange a couple of letters, two at least, please. I would like yours to be very rude, I just can’t let myself go.

4) no, I don’t have a chat program, but as you said, there’s more tension this way.

that’s that for now. I pray to God that your answer be positive because I’m neglecting my studies in the meantime, masturbating day and night like mad St. Theresa on Jesus and can think of nothing but your organ.

Ljubica, the girl known as “ the prude from Tresnjevka” (Katarina mocks me, calling me “the scent of a woman”)

p.s. when are you returning to good old Europe? can’t wait.

Password: Monica Blues

Subject: Intercontinental Quivering

my dear prude!

do you know anything at all about the sexual appetites of a prude? never mind, god bless you, Monica Blues! I’m heading back in a month, two at the most. my dear scent of a woman, beautiful soul, as soon as I’m back, I’ll be chewing your clit until it becomes as blue as the aristocracy at the time of cholera. though your mail is rather mixed up, you virtuous girl, I’ve got a clear idea of what you want. you would like for the two of us to have a session, auto-erotic and on-line at the same time, and to jerk by the computer reading our sentences on the screen, picturing each other in all kinds of positions full of slime. okay, some ill-minded people might say it’s easy to brag when you’re an ocean away. I’ll see you in Zagreb when I show up there as adept and sprightly as the entire Eastern basketball Division, if not the Conference with Alan Iverson at the helm. I’ll pitch it into you as soon as I land – still covered in celestial dust, as it were – thrice in a row. here’s what we’ll do: tomorrow, Sunday, around noon my time, which will be 6 p.m. for you, send me an e-mail and we’ll get some intercontinental quivering going; or, to be more precise, a wanking to remember. long live FAL, the festival of alternative lust. just tell me what it is exactly that you like and fantasize about and it’s all going to be all right.

Milky, the man with a smile on his face as he’s descending into the unknown

p.s. keep fingers crossed! I’m going to Mass tomorrow, “service”, in the nearby Presbyterian church. I do like to explore erotic processes in the midst of religious institutions. I might run across a buxom Lolita with the Lord in her eyes. me too, by the way, I quiver when I jerk, when I fuck and even, lord forgive me, when I just think about it.

Subject: re: Intercontinental Quivering / in the slimy net

my dear man,

I have left the first part of your “subject” and added “in the slimy net”. that is how I feel: slimy. I’d like you to tell me about the Mass (as an introduction or – oh shame on me – a foreplay), and then I’d like you to describe to me in detail how you would do all the things I most want. (luckily my folks at home don’t know how to use the computer, because they spy on me and Mom would kill me…) and what I most want, my dear Milky, is for you to strip these stupid clothes off me and take me, sorry, have me, penetrating into my sex which is covered with dense black hair and later, after I rest a little, I’d like you – just like in your poem - to enter into my anal orifice (I’ve never tried that, though I am not quite a virgin) through which I do the number two. (you might laugh at me, but I enjoy that too. have you ever tried defecating and masturbating at the same time?) I’d like you to go into that orifice and – oh shame on me – to, well, thrust your member inside me while gently massaging my sinful clitoris with your fingers. I’m wet all over, just thinking of it. Mom says that college girls who stray are big sinners.

in Zagreb it is already night. my folks are watching the stupid TV. I have my sweat-suit on and no underwear. I am using one hand to type and with the other I am caressing my nether parts, my… (I cannot write down, let alone say, the real word, I am such an idiot). I have the sweat suit on in case Mom comes in while I’m playing with my swollen little horny thing, and I’d much rather be doing it naked and with legs WIDE apart.

your Ljubica,

the girl who’s getting ever braver – thank you for that, Milky.

Subject: the first wanking in the new Millennium…

I mean my first wanking

my endlessly dear girl, my Ljubica!

I just came back from the church and here I am in the inbox. it is precisely seven minutes after twelve and your dear e-mail is beaming proudly from the screen; but I should rather say, it is proudly cock-full and cunt-full, just like the merciless capitalism that surrounds me (though it is not nearly so HEAVENLY wet). and now a light foreplay, the report from the Presbyterian church.

so I am in front of the church at ten sharp, but there is nobody there. snow is falling softly; the wooden board clearly says: Service at 10:00 Every Sunday. I go round to a side entrance and wave through the glass to a gentleman inside. he opens the door and I tell him there are no footprints in the snow outside the church. but of course, everybody drove up in their cars which are parked in the courtyard. in this country, pedestrian is one of the seven wonders of the world. the kind, upright grandpa takes me inside the church. I put away my jacket, the grandpa shows me the book in which - and why not – I write my real name and surname, then brings me into the nave, where the Mass has already begun. at this point the part of the service known as GLORIA PATRI and partly performed in our liturgy as well, is about to begin, but here all the faithful stand up and hold hands, forming an elliptical line in the centre of the nave, winding between the seats. (Please move to the center aisle to hold hands with your neighbors.)

My Ljubica, it was by god’s providence and grace that my left hand happened to be held by a shapely Protestant girl – if not a Lolita – a robust sixteen year old, while I left my other hand to rest limply with some old asshole to my right. so we’re all holding hands and solemnly saying the Lord’s Prayer: Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. the hand of my friend in God is warm, dry, it is snowing outside. I have to act swiftly, for I know from experience that beauty in public places does not last. as I’m new and inexperienced, all the natives, the faithful, can see it’s my first time; I’m holding her hand, and - indifferently but boldly, “clumsily” - I spread her fingers so our fingers would interlace, which, to be honest, is not devised by the service in the first place. the girl doesn’t seem to be upset, on the contrary. I press my palm and fingers into our interlaced fingers several times, whenever it is repeated “as it was in the beginning”. hey, Ljubica, the girl gently squeezes my hand in return! I take a furtive look and she’s gazing at the ceiling – the lustful little “new puritan” – with her innocent honey eyes, oh lord who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, and so it went, my darling, till the end of the prayer – endless moments of yearning which lasted for about a minute in all (because we sang along a little as well) – long enough for the “Amen” to give me an erection as solid as those granite profiles of American presidents, somewhere in Dakota I think. then we split, everyone goes to their seats; mine is next to a nice, limping old lady who assisted me throughout the Mass, sharing with me the heavy volume of notes and texts that we were singing to.

the next “number” was THE CHILDREN’S MESSAGE in which my innocent honey girl took part. Susanne, the Minister (an ex-psychologist from the vicinity of Munich, as I found out in the course of our amiable conversation later on) sat on top of the stairs at the bottom of the nave - where the altar would be in our churches – and the children arranged themselves around her. yes – the children, who had had their oatmeal for breakfast and then frigged frantically so they could remain cool in the church. man – big and ripe for breeding all of them, between sixteen and eighteen years old; all but one, still a little girl of about ten, a true blonde and freckled little American angel, who pronounced the word “cool” so irresistibly that I included her in my sinful prayer as well. standing there with a lustful heavy erection all along, I watched my partner in prayer, trying to imagine her breasts, her little cunt “and so on” , as old Henry said somewhere – I mean Miller, of course, the connoisseur of flesh. after the Mass or the service, the lady Minister asked me into the Foster Hall – it is a big hall inside the church – where I had some insipid, watery coffee with her and the old lady; I told them how I had come all the way from Croatia in order to find – imagine that – god’s presence there among them. they found this quite acceptable – as if you couldn’t find god at the corner of Frankopanska and Ilica in Zagreb, for instance.

to cut the story short, I hurried home, and - dazed by my hard erection and the warm touch of the young bitch – was barely past the door as I jerked the Sunday joy onto the carpet, standing up. I felt as if I had just had my first communion; and now, looking at the screen, I’m thinking of all the things I’d be doing to you if we were together, all according to the wishes you expressed in your dear letter.

Ljubica, first I’d play a little with the hood of your stupid sweat suit. then I’d take off your clothes and watch, bewildered, your naked body with no knickers, for a few eternal seconds; then I would humbly lower my head and with my tongue, part the wiry hairs and curls, the decorative adornments of sex. then I’d slowly lick your cunt - for about seven minutes, until the grapes of your climax spill their juice over my face. after that, I’d gently plunge my cock into your cunt and with ellipsoid movements (remember the church and my Sunday love ), squeezing both halves of your bottom, I’d be drawing your swirling pelvis back and forth, left and right, for at least an hour, with our tongues entangled and spreading copious slime over our rosy cheeks. your final orgasm in this part of the Mass (this really is true religion), would be followed by mine, which would fill you with sperm all the way up to the potential gall-stones. thereafter, I’d gently turn you over and start licking your anus – through which you normally shit and release death and its components – and your bottom, and your waist, and your quivering hips and all of you, for about fifteen minutes, and then I’d be slowly (for about eleven minutes) thrusting my cock into your aperture, anus, rectum, whatever the name of that heavenly place, I’d be thrusting it, I said, to the balls and then I’d be fucking you regally, as an ancient Greek pedagogue would the tender bums of his gymnasium student. simultaneously I’d be teasing your clitoris with my fingers, taking it to heaven, and I’d fuck you and fuck you and fuck you, Ljubica, till we both collapse - saturated with the so called permanently burning orgasm – into embrace, to talk about life, love, death, alternative literature, the two Croatian spellings, the poor sexual life of a literary critic – about everything, honey, until the morning breaks, all the while drinking champagne and eating nuts, dates, peanuts and sunflower seeds. then we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms and by lunchtime be ready, again, for everything wet, the snow and red salsa.

I love you, Ljubica! good night.

Your Milky,

the man who is now going to wank again and daydream about the springtime encounter in Zagreb of two people who have shared a good intercontinental quivering.

Subject: My first real frigging in the new Millennium

honey, I can’t take it anymore. Milky, thank you, man, I was frigging (there, I even said and wrote the word!) I was frigging so much I hurt all over. before I go to bed, tell me, can we repeat all this, but so that this time I’m the one who’s let loose and using rude words.

I can’t go on, my hands hurt. I think I could love you. please be back by spring. don’t be a cunt, Milky! (Mom would kill me if she heard this.) be a cock, a cock, cock, cock…

good night.

love, your Ljubica

Subject: love knows no boundaries, tomato is good

Ljubica, honey, light of my fire, fire of my loins, blood of my milk, fat of my kidney… of course we can repeat it, but not until Sunday… my tasks here are multidimensional, to say the least. one thing is for sure, Eros is my everyday fascination; Cioran would have a hard time understanding that.

I love you. I love your spring cunt. good night, Ljubica.

Your Milky, the man who’d fuck even a dead whore at the far end of philosophy and civilization, let alone a student of Croatian Lit at the Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb.

Translated by Marina Orlovic

Photos by Aurora, Cleveland, December 31st, 2000.


*A Poem about Her Anus

(A little rhapsody in blue dedicated to the spring goddess)

by Milko Valent

Polyphonic bastard 23, opus 9 (jazz in prose)

the atmosphere is sunny. morning. birds are cheerfully discussing the night. dim distant seagulls in your eyes. chirping. spring. the screams of children from the neighborhood. all over town mothers are merciless. your tits are gently swaying in the rhythm of the moves that mean life. we are lying on the blue sheet, naked and silver with sweat. you’ve spread your legs. philosophers would say spreadability as such. it is a letter V. V means victory. while in my mind I am talking to Cioran and techno freaks, my dick circles gently. like a tourist, indolently, it explores the wet petals. your pink orchid smacks contentedly and loudly at the erective flesh of life. on the blue sheet your body is as white as Tadijanović’s most beautiful line, “my mother weaves the linens white.” I whisper in your ear, “I love your orchid.” you laugh and reply simply, “Milko, this is not an orchid, this is a pussy.” “oh, sorry,” I say, “I love your pussy.” you laugh again and say, “that’s better,” and continue making those circles that lead dritto into space and bring the stars down to jovial sparrows in our eyes. soon a thousand sparrows fly into our breaths. you say, “fucking great!” I reply, “great fucking!” you laugh and say, “you know that Ines and Jura can’t fucking talk when they’re fucking.” I say, “fuck it, they’re not intellectuals.” then I turn you on your stomach, very gently, so that I don’t spoil the politeness of the morning union. now I fuck you from behind. light morning fucking. I fuck you on the blue sheet and I cheer for the sun. I occasionally take it out of your pussy. I transport the juice onto your anus and, as the saying goes, as slowly as death I smear it all over. so slowly that you wouldn’t believe it. I feel I have the ocean in my eyes. you say, “you’re the guy with the ocean in your eyes.” “thank you,” I say. “what matters is that you’re good and that you had nothing against Tito like that girl walking by the river.” we laugh at the politics and are dying with pleasure. then I get down and with my tongue red with shame lick your ass, and then I try to penetrate your anus. but my tongue is too weak for such an adventure. I go back in your pussy for a moment. the tongue works much better there. I feel like Indiana Jones. the quest for diamonds, and the like. I take the juice again and put it on your anus. you say you feel good. I say that’s natural, no matter what we think about it. then I take my stubborn dick with my left hand and carefully begin the morning penetration of your anus, my love. the angels on the top of a microchip applaud. they live in virtual reality, but they dig the return to nature. the sparrows laugh. they think we are fucking around. in their bird brains they don’t get that this is for real. with my right hand I turn on Radio 101 to hear the phone box. I enter slowly, inch by inch. the moment you moan, I stop and wait for matter and mind to open. along the way I tell you that long joke about a swimming pool and the biggest hooker in Venice. you take all this beauty more easily this way. when after half an hour it gets in you all the way, I mean, only the balls are still out, I fuck you gently just as gently as the Croatian intellectuals from the Academy of Science and Art fuck with our minds. at the same time I tease your clitoris with my fingers. five times you say you feel really nice. as time moves by you start whispering. you whisper quietly. you mention sparrows. you talk about the birds just like St. Francis used to. I understand. it’s your first time so you’re kind of religious. after a great number of anal circles and unarticulated poems that came along, I quietly take my dick out ready to put it back into your birth hole. you scream, “no, you idiot! it’s not hygienic. wash it first.” I let you have it your way and go to the bathroom, wash it and put it back in your pussy, my love. god laughs from the bookshelves with the books on cognition. as I come back into your pussy, I am myself again. I tell you happily, “I get it, you come from a nice family. until now I’ve only fucked poor girls from the projects on the edges of different metropolises. they could care less for microbiological nuances.” you laugh and say, “Milko, not everything is in sex.” I reply, “you’re right, my dear, sex is in everything.” later on we walk the streets of legendary Zagreb nostalgic for the morning blue sheets with a lot of brown. I ask you how you’re doing and you say, “great! my ass hurts a bit, but that’s okay. I’ve lost my virginity today and I feel free. trust me, it’s hard to be a virgin.” we conclude that it is hard to stay modern and indulge in discovering old-fashioned customs. we walk. the sky turns platinum. the unfortunate youth uncritically fall for commercials and publicly masturbate with their eyes. the sun is far. then we broke up. new loves came along. I washed the blue sheet, but the brown of your shit is still very visible. I call it the blue sheet with brown applications. It reminds me of that old song, Your Navy Blue Shirt, and its unforgettable lines:

your navy blue shirt it reminds me smells for me navy blue shirt now breathes instead of you. now that you’re gone let it sleep right next to me the only thing that you left me your favorite navy blue shirt.

the whole world applauds to me, celebrates my decisiveness for love between the two. in one of our phone calls you told me that back then you couldn’t shit right for three days. I answered that obstipation was a normal thing among sensible girls. it is triggered by the fear of conception. you replied that it was hard to be careful when loneliness flew through your veins, and the condoms were paradoxically unsafe anyhow. one in a million breaks. yes, my spring goddess, the blue sheet brings nostalgia. today I cover my computer with it before I go to sleep. I fuck on different sheets now. I loved you so much, my love, that I’ll never fuck anybody else on that blue sheet. I’ll cover my Macintosh with it, those sad screens and virtual reality. yes, the blue sheet, it holds the vital essence of death. yes, the blue sheet… “c’mon, stop writing those things already,” says my jealous Marijana. she is from my present film. I tell her to stop bugging me while I’m creating a story for my performance today and better turn on the PlayStation, take the joystick in her hand and finish that little game of ours from the day before. and so it is. the sunset is catching on our young eyelids as we quiet our love breaths and the television. Marijana smiles impishly and, alluding to my performance today, tells me to be back by tomorrow morning, and not like last time after four days. I tell her that I’m a wonder in the world and that my wanderings into the unknown are pure zen-buddhism sparkled with petals. I sit back at my computer. now I will print the story, turn the computer off, and cover it with the blue sheet. anal circles always happen on the sky surface of pleasure. the ocean gladly produces white foam and the essence of death in which it is warm. long live life! I pity those who will jerk off again, immersed in the fragile desktop. I will love the colorful sheets again without virtual tension in my hands. because the sun is far, very far away if you are close to mental illness.


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