idea

Well, a long time ago, trip reports were published,
I won't say where, in accordance with the order.
And then one person said there
That he had a stunning epiphany,
Looking at a hair-thin crack in the ceiling.
That it's pointless to criticize yourself or regret anything,
Because you're a new person every day.
And sometimes these metamorphoses happen several times a day.
And from the totality of your being,
Who do you make claims to then?

Such things are difficult to understand and almost impossible to express clearly.
This is also a review, basically.

Two things are astounding here:
The ability of some Aunt Alice
to ignore this obvious fact altogether
and manage to remain somewhat herself for eighty years.
Second, this very thin crack in the ceiling—it was dark there.

In fact, it was the voice of a guilty conscience.
Perhaps the journey began with the fact that there was criticism after all.
And the man gracefully absolved himself of all his sins.
I don't know, but I've carried this alien revelation with me ever since I simply read poetry,
Without analyzing it, because I've never seen such subtle cracks in the universe.

And the word "sins" instantly attached all the cathedrals and crusades to my train of thought.
So one word can evoke a mood of religious ecstasy,
Words create moods. This, of course, is also a quotation,
But not everyone can notice a crack in the ceiling.

Strong acceleration from minimal impulse is the key to efficiency.
You don't know what that acceleration was.
I actually know, but we won't tell them.

Why does this memory suddenly give me such a sharp feeling of antiquity? Because, according to a flash of inspiration,
Someone else marinated it in a jar, like compote, and left it on the shelf.
The expiration date had probably passed.
And for some reason you suddenly opened that jar,
But you're a completely different person now.
You need a coil for iteration. It's not even that anymore.

Who's criticizing whom here? I can't understand.

I see this crack right now.
It means we need to leave the jars with memory pickles alone.
They can poison you.
There's wine in this cellar; nothing could have happened to it anyway.
You don't understand; this supply doesn't belong to you.
That flash of inspiration was most likely a delusion.
This is my cellar of supplies.
Not for a long time.
I'll at least take this herbarium and the tincture made from papers.

No, you don't know what these things are.
But I did once.
Then all the blame falls on you. It seems like this crack in the ceiling is turning into some kind of abyss.
There are no simple things where this idea comes from.
He just thought about criticism.
Really?

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