(…back to the usual dull drool, sissy wimp?. of topple-tumbling lumps of hopes to squash the poor weakling against the anvil of his own heart which happened petrified, safe and proper, and in good time too?.
…be a man, buddy, and seek solace in simple truths, whose simplicity makes them so peerlessly unrivaled in their inevitable surety… and the truth is that no busting your balls at construction sites, no sunburns or frostbites will remove or postpone the pending next time, where she won’t say, “Let’s don’t,” and start instead to catch the trick of having it in the environs of the GAZ-24 interior…
…or else this one for your consideration, undisputed because of its simplicity: the most vivid recollections of the delights past can’t fetch the joy back, yet just a speck of mopish memory flits by and – bang! the pain, suppressed, ditched, gone ages ago, pops up afresh to bite you meanly… it makes you wince even here, by the unknown river running through the middle of nowhere, thousands of kilometers away from the crumpled bedroom, after millions of instances of passing the ubiquitous relay baton of “I” from one I on to the next one…
…I tell you what, my dear I… heal yourself with the same dog’s hair… got bitten by a simple truth, eh?. peen it with as simple a tool!. bust the bugger with the wedging edge of a wider grammatical approach, proceed from “I” to “we”… who are we after all?. some shaved and powdered or greasy, bristly, shaggy (whichever is dictated by current fashion trend) cartload of shifty primates… each jumping member must abide by the group’s rules and no trick will ever get you off the hook… ignorance of a law serves no excuse, nor gives a chance to dodge its application to you, right?. now then, comfort yourself with this simple truth, wipe up your mawkish slobber and wait if it’ll dissolve that nasty clutch on your balls core, maybe…
…oh, shut up, man!. such stuff is not for female tender ears… hmm… seems, like, I’d better give it a start over…)
Though our brief live meeting did not bring you to calling me “Dad”, I can’t help being sentimental addressing you…
The day before yesterday in the late afternoon, executing the plan shared in my latest email, I climbed the heights in the neighborhood of the ghost village of Skhtorashen to pay a call on the local immortal—two-thousand-year-old Plane tree, the oldest denizen of the Mountainous Karabakh.
The walk along the scorched ruts in a desolate dirt road winding up the slope would be a pleasure but for the oppressive August heat and my eyes kept unwarranted scanning the steep ahead to pick out the signs of the water-spring asserted by all who had ever visited the place.