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STEVEN DUPLIJ _________________
A PAGE OF THE WEST _____________
A PAGE OF THE WEST The window looks into the same mirror. A row of indistinguishable houses—tales. Flowers in the courtyard, and inside, on low, symbolic only, fences. In the morning, an old woman across the street casts a cold glance at me, unable to see. Who is she waiting for? Her past? There are many. Short cropped, only in pants, dignified, well-groomed. The street of prosperity is smooth and clean. This is the facade. The streetcars come with pinpoint accuracy. The schedule is on every stop. It is convenient. Disgusting. You can get used to it. They speak loudly, trying to draw attention to themselves. Their faces are hard and alien. By our standards, they have everything. By theirs, so-so. Overstuffed stores, inexplicably snapped up by who? Old-fashioned advertising. Whatever you want, you get it quickly. For your money. Why doesn’t all of this make them happier? Same problems, same worries, same perpetual dissatisfaction. There’s still something to dissatisfy them with, but they are polite. They are calm. They are confident. Tomorrow, everything will happen again. They will fuck us. They always do. She’s dressed plain. No make-up. Why? She’s pretty as she is. She’s reading a colorful advertisement. Usually, such pieces of paper, put in newspapers or scattered in mailboxes, find their places in the trash. Today, I haven’t had time. I’ll have to read it. What the hell else can I buy? Thursday. After two weekends, everyone goes to the stores and buys for the week. Tradition. So, you don’t have to think. So, you don’t have to wear a hundred grams every day. Not because it will disappear. There’s no such thing here. What is not in place, you can order, but it’s rare. You gotta be kidding me. It is. Ironed. Perfumed. He adores himself. Reads car magazines. What kind of car would he choose? What should I do with mine? My son already has one. All right. To hell with it. Oh, yeah. Stocks? What’s gonna happen to mine? What bank? What interest? Who, where, and in how many seconds runs? Why? It. Knees by the nose. Feet on the seat. Wearing headphones that exude loudly idiotic sounds. On the nose and cheek implanted jewelry. Shiny. A sign of fashion. Half of her head is bald. The other is green. A sign of coolness. A lifeline drawn and paid for by parents. What to do? Boring! It’s like this every day. Every month. Every year. They don’t feel miserable, but they don’t feel any different. How do you overcome the dwindling capacity for desire? A set of
right rules. A measured life—no life. It feels so good here. I want to
go home.
Страничка запада Окно смотрится в такое же зеркало. Ряд неотличимых домов-сказок. Цветы во дворе и внутри, на невысоких, символических лишь, оградах. По утрам старушка напротив обливает меня остывающим взглядом, не видя... Кого она ждет? Прошлое свое? Много их. Подстриженных коротко, только в брюках, достойных, ухоженных. Улица достатка ровная и чистая. Это — фасад. Трамваи приходят с точностью до минуты: расписание на каждой остановке. Удобно. До противности. Так ведь можно и привыкнуть. Говорят громко, пытаясь обратить на себя внимание. Лица твердые и чужие. По нашим меркам у них есть все. По их — так себе.
Она.
Одета просто. Налету. Не накрашена. Зачем? И так хороша. Читает
красочную рекламку. Обычно, такие листики, вкладываемые в газеты или
разбрасываемые по почтовым ящикам, сразу находят себе место в урне.
Сегодня вот, не успела. Придется читать. Чего бы-блинннн купить еще?
Четверг. Он.
Выглажен. Надушен. Себя обожает. Читает автожурнал. Какую бы машину
выбрать? А со своей что делать? У сына уже есть. Ладно . Черт с ней. Ах,
да. Акции? Что же будет с моими? В каком банке, какие проценты? Кто,
куда и за сколько секунд пробежал? Зачем?… Здесь — будто так хорошо. Хочу домой...
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