The Next Chapter
You ask me what I own? You’re asking about my wealth, my earthly goods? You, Olanda, are asking about my assets? Except for the dog, who is really just half a dog, and the old house, which is crumbling down around my head, this divine head of mine, which has exposed itself to so many thousands of galaxies, well, I still have Old Man Kalina. Old Man Kalina says that he belongs to me. He lives beyond Świerszczyk’s place, who lives like a hermit in a hovel with holes covered over in tar-paper. Old Man Kalina’s house is bigger than mine. It’s also post-German. His table is bigger than mine. It’s a round, post-German table. When he’s in his cups he starts bitching and moaning to me:
’My dear boy. I’m yours. I’m yours because my wife doesn’t want a smelly cripple, my children
