Very bad English / Очень плохой English

But I'll be happy anyway
I'll be around, I'll be around…

Meeting number 3.

Big square of an ancient city
Azure silky sky;
You couldn't find a decent reason,
So you freely came by…

Although you spoke in English,
I understood you without a word,
You seemed to be very near
Coming from recent thoughts…

Big square of an ancient city,
I'm surrounded by pals
Why do I need a good reason
To send Colosseum to hell?

I quietly apologized
Came up with stupid excuses
And rushed without ending the talk,
So clumsy and so confusing…

Columns, arches, ancient city;
Fountain, steps… I see you sit…
I could find another reason
Paris could wait a little bit…

Then you smiled as we were walking
Putting sunglasses aside
Touched your hair as we were talking
And lights sparkled in your eyes…

The circle of columns and buildings…
Changed tomorrow to yesterday;
You smiled goodbye to my feelings
And, just like a dream, flew away…

Lord, I just don't understand how can she build and systematize such a gamut of human feelings!!!

Taska, I remember my promise.

Chapter 3

A Miracle…

If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine. It's lethal.

    (Paulo Coelho)

January 23, 2016.

Monday.

You know, I always envied you. Not just because of the way you feel about life and know how to color gray dull everyday life.

No. I envied your dreams…

How do you do it?

Today… You just came up and told your dream, without resorting to various tricks and metaphors, in casual words.

You only mentioned that the dream was colorful as always.

And then I saw what you dreamed…

My imagination added brightness to its colors and space to its volume.

I even felt the wind play with my hair.

And also the smell. The smell of ripe wheat…

Yes.

But in a dream, all this is absolutely obvious things. Objects that have become significant for some reason become the same height as secondary ones, those that are much higher… Those that are now in front of the eyes or lens. A twenty-story tall wheat.

I see it in every detail, as if looking at it through a magnifying glass.

I remember once Taska and I went to a plein air… Having set a sketchbook somewhere on the high river bank, she began to paint…

Sky. River bend. Steep coast…

And then for some reason she wanted to draw some buttercup in the foreground.

The yellow buttercup seemed to have the same height as the dark tree on a high slope.

The law of perspective.

Unlike wood, the buttercup was more alive…

After all, she wanted to write out every vein on his petals…

And now you told me your dream.

I don't know, maybe you already forgot about it. Maybe you saw it a little different. But my imagination, like a hungry puppy, continues to return to that situation in search of a place where the «bone» was once buried… In this case, the imagination does not let go of the picture that has appeared and is now overgrown with details.

Sounds. Different sounds.