This is an exercise in writing sentences.
Whatever follows is an interpretation of certain events
and a poorly researched one at that.
Having said that - I believe the sentences hold truth.
Some more, some less.
I would not be sharing them otherwise.

My last fifteen minute break is at ten o' clock in the evening.
When I step outside into the underground parking lot it's deserted.
Nothing, but a mental echo of three hundred people stepping in and out each day.
A third of them come here more often, three to five times per day to light one up.
I am one of them.
This is my fifth time.

I walk over to the nearest garbage can.
By now it's stuffed and topped with cigarette butts, cartons and paper coffee cups.
The can is fixed to a wall, where markings of ash swirl in and out of the can's head.
Every day, butt by butt, cup by cup company employees offer their neurotic deposit,
in a cooperative molding of a corporate waste masterpiece.
And every time I step outside this late, I'm amazed at how good they've gotten at it.

You wouldn't dare think more of it than that - a byproduct of business culture.
A disgraceful, punny, sickening display of mindless greed or ignorance.
But there is beauty in it, albeit ironic.
A beauty I still can't decide whether it is calculated, natural or accidental.
(Isn't that how the greatest artists trick us, in the end?)
Suppose we deem a sculpture (or a human being for that matter) pleasing to the eye,
because we're drawn to perfect form.
Disregard for now, concepts such as symmetry or proportion.
Pretend, that the eye sees only the basic of dimensions - height and width and length.
And if the three of them are right, you get perfect volume.

One hundred fifty employees come in and out of the building per day on average.
Seventy-five percent of them smoke or drink coffee, which leaves us with 113.
Each one of those, steps out of the building an average of four times per day.
All combined leave an average of 452 cigarette butts in the garbage can.
10mL is the volume of a cigarette butt, without any tobacco on it.
Given that this is a very busy environment in question, we'll extend the average volume to 12mL.
Which gives us a total of 5424mL of cigarette buts deposited into the trash can on an average day.
The volume of the trashcan is 6 liters.
Which means it has just enough space left for the average amount of coffee cups and cartons deposited into the trashcan daily.

It is beautiful - I kid you not.

I'm waking up in a forced embrace.
Only our arms entwined.
Every other part is segregated.
Our eyes don't meet,
our mouths don't share,
our hearts burn alone.
It has been so for a long time.

She's getting up with a deep exhale.
In an unraveling of our personal taijitu,
There is no longer room for possibility,
That I'm a part of her or she's the whole of me.

Yet she presses on,
past the polished bedroom mirror,
warm feet against the cold of shining bathroom tiles.
Closing the door with calculated precision.
Such that it is not too loud to be mistaken for discomfort.
Nor too quiet to suggest oppression.
Both of which are more than obvious for the both of us.

When I say more than obvious,
I do not mean it as a figure of speech,
but as an embodiment of inaction so deliberate,
it could only be executed with premeditated forethought.

As if every day had a singular purpose -
to live it so tediously,
that it would not be better or worse
than the last or the next.

Because in doing so we remove ourselves from the equation.
Which means we can't get angry at each other.
We can't love more, or less.
We can't blame, be thankful to, apologise or provide to one another.
And we can't regret.

In the immediacy of our privacy there is a trail, carefully constructed.
Plateaus of artificial sympathy,
like a line of lilies across a pond of immeasurable depth.
Every day we get up on one side of it and bounce across the steps like frogs.

Thank god frogs can't look down.
Because the deeper the water,
the clearer the reflection.

nesužinosiu, ką reiškia būti
vandeniu ar ugnimi,
galiu tik imituoti - užsidegti,
bet vistiek aš būsiu savimi
kiauriai peršlapti galiu,
bet galų gale išdžiūsiu,
galiu į žemę kojas smeigęs audroje stovėti,
kad ir kiek aš linksiu, nesulūšiu.

nesužinosu aš, ką reiškia būti
tavimi. galiu tik paspėlioti,
ką tu galvoji, ką jauti.
teoriją sukurti, kaip tu gyveni,
kokias spalvas skiri,
bet niekada nesužinosiu,
ar tavo varnų plunksnos juodos,
ar tavo debesys tikrai balti.

nesužinosi tu, ką reiškia būti
manimi. galiu tik padainuoti,
apie pasaulį kokį aš žinau
bet negaliu tavęs užburti,
kad matytum tai ką aš matau.

If on a tenebrous autumn eve,
I were to find your portrait on a fallen leaf,
I'd hang it back from whence it fell,
To ease the pain of all those souls in hell,
by dragging you away from them just a little more.

I know eventually you'd weigh down the tree,
A long time after I'd be buried,
But fear not, my only one, for I have stole,
and burned, and killed for thee,
So we could meet again,
in the backyard of the place where we have married.

how is it that the world still stands?

when the sky keeps breaking into clouds
the clouds then shatter into rain
endless oceans vanish in a single crashing wave

how are we supposed to hold ourselves?

when the perfect present moment burns away
cast upon the shore from where we wave for help
leaving memories for ashes
we are trying to construct a self

how do you remain so pure?

when I stain you with my faults
and the taint spreads swallowing you whole
yet when time comes to a halt
the world begins anew from a single dust speck of your soul

Mums atneš, delnuose:
gaisro miškams,
žiurkių upeliams,
balną ir virvę laukiniams žirgams,
blizgančių varžtų mūsų paukščių narveliams.

Į sodą, 
kur sulygiuoti narcizai kryžiais pražydę,
bespalvius stiklus sustatys.
Į juodžemį gimusių žiedlapių atspindį,
kulkos, žvaigždės ir snaigės įsmigs.


Mūsų drobei tik žirkles,
Plaktukus - pianino klavišams.
O męs į debesis barbendami pirštais,
Jų vartus į amžiną atilsį pienių grandinėm aprišim.