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It’s ten days to graduation. Vika is telling me about her tutorials with S. B.:
“He loves me! He holds my hand!”
Her voice is strange: she’s boasting, of course, but she seems to be pitying me, too. It’s a particular kind of pity, the pity a specimen which has learned how to jump from tuft to tuft shows towards a fellow specimen which is forever sinking.
By night, strange, never-ending dreams from the land of unattainable hopes and sunny wintry days in the middle of summer, the cloudy eyes of the morning skies and measured steps of approaching night. And this is how we tumble into a dreamlife – or into a dream of the life we dream. Every now and then I dream of S. B. – talking, following close on my heels, walking right into my flat. I’m making the bed, I turn around to fetch the be
