MAGDA
Jaromír went further today than he had ever gone before. Quietly, he disappeared from his home street, made up of six identical houses on each side. The pea-green stucco, which clung to the thick surface of the panels like a frog, distinguished it from the neighbouring streets, where the identical walls dripped a reddish-grey colour, as if the houses were bleeding through their c****s. Jaromír ran through the foreign, inimical courtyards of houses of different hues, all of which would pale completely, growing similar to one another, when that twelve-year-old boy would become a grown man rushing, day after day, through the colourless morning to the bus, and it would never occur to him that once these houses had their own tones of colour.
There will remain only shades, fixed, precise
