A Boy with a Fly Agaric in his Hand
Not necessarily in the fall, outside in the woods, in the path. Not necessarily a flasher, wacky and angry. Watching a couple of sunsets going on. Alone as the blood running in his hands, bright, sharp and irreversible, the color of the poisonous thing. The other a global one. Almost invisible, because near him there are repeating messages saying that everything is recovering, and they are suppressing him. He is colorless. Like panoramas in their endless alternations, mingling into each other (like two equally deep puddles of mud).
The boy is observing the alternations of his fixed states. Not necessarily from increased anxiety, an always similar hunger and even greater desire to be explained. It is only now that he recognizes all earlier knowledge as unapproachable (even though it was inside him, in his left hand). Only after he attained the real sunset did the other (which was also going on, somewhere in the west) gain the real meaning of "something finishing". Only after expelling it out from himself, did the boy with a fly agaric in his hand disappear. Not necessarily with a fly agaric, not necessarily for ever, not necessarily a boy.
Translated by Aleksandra Fomina and Kerry Shawn Keys