Elena Sinitsyna.


Riddle me this: Why is araven like awriting desk? Lewis Carroll

Elena Sinitsyna,2017




Ihave small candles. You know, such tiny tin jars, filled with paraffin. Every evening when Iopen the cover ofmy laptop, seedy inlong journeys, Itake one ofthese candles out ofthe small box which is on the piano, set fire and with the abrupt movement put it down inahouse-lantern with holes cut through its sides. Ilike totype, drooping my head towards the flaming candle, looking from time totime at the lively fire, because it has the natural riot ofthoughts and images essence, which the pale flicker ofthe computers screen is totally deprived of. At least, this is my opinion and theres no need tobe agree with.

It has been almost the circadian since there is no Internet inour district. Just think twenty times ofsixty minutes, but Iam aching all over, tighting and curling up owing tothe impossibility toescape from this uncivilized city, virtually at least. This is an illusion but Ilike millions ofusers stretch hands for it every morning, pressing on the start-bottom ofthe comp. Iwant it, Ieager for it because Idesire toreceive, tobe with it, tobe it self what isIT?

WHAT is it? What IS it, if loosing it Idont find any place for myself, dashing between rooms and kitchen, poking bottoms ofthe TV set remote control; either rarely trying todrop off tosleep, wrapped up inarug or diving into the near-empty fridge.

Books become arid and tedious, they simple turns my stomach. When it all com


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