~ thousand knives ~

so that day everything was going differently than it should, not necessarily wrong - just not as imagined. left home halfway through kafka on the shore, completely unaware that it would become a part of yet another sign the very same day. i walked to the opera, picked my tickets, went out. the weather got an-hour-to-apocalypse, i breathed out and filled my lungs with relief, a kind of peace i can only find there - standing at the opera house and inhaling the sea.
the sky was leaden, a storm sure to follow very soon. the leftovers of the new york hurricane approaching oslo with a mad wind as their herald. i stood at the edge, gazed at the waves breaking against the white stone, then at my coat, The Rag, thrown in all possible directions by the insane gusts, just like my hair. that moment i realized - standing completely in black, with The Rag almost torn in the raging, cold air, surrounded by this powerful white building, for a while i've become a part of murakami's novel. the girl named crow. kafka on the shore.

crow on the shore
caw caw
kra kra
(as it would scream in polish)

as for the picture, i got totally stuck with it, the sketch lying open and abandoned on the floor day after day, mute, and my thoughts around it, numerous songs i filled it with. and then i moved out, moved in, moved out and moved in again and right away when i sat peacefully down in the sofa and played the song, it's suddenly become clear: the picture needed this apartment, its high ceiling, long windows, white floor, its all whiteness filled with just these sounds, to be finished. and so it is.

kra kra
(do you hear the rip?)