“You read, for example, some texts. And you see that one author’s thoughts in the text wander like columns of prisoners of war through the burnt-out capital of an empire. Another’s text is like a tribunal meeting somewhere near Padua, in the year, say, 1567. Everything is very disciplined, but with such a sparkle. the third - the hedgehogs are running after the little bunnies. The fourth has one thought, but he is chasing it so hard with a mop around the basement that you can’t keep track of the shabby one. The fifth is doing chemicals, mixing one thing or another, and the green assistant is dragging it along the tiles by the legs of the previous taster. The sixth trains screeching thoughts in a cage. The seventh conducts a protocol of interrogation of a whole camp of gypsies in the night, singing along with the motley tents to the most successful formulations. Who has it, in short. And I have a tent on a deserted shore, I beat the drum, not very tactfully pressing it to my belt With my free hand I touch the grimy malvina, the cold sandy wind from the hills tears the ribbons and balls.”