When you leave, I go to the movies.
I drink down the mental content of the main character
just like a can of beer. So here we go: there is the gloomy house
with the cannibal tenants and two boys on the roof;
the butcher and his daughter are also there. Something
should happen soon. For it is too void when you leave.
The shop assistant at the hair dresser’s,
she sweeps cut hair into ugly small piles
with absent-minded broom swings.
Some opposites are attracting each other
in the incomprehensible analogy
between cinema and hair salon.
Actually, it is all about inertia:
the hair that continues to grow after you leave;
the nails, beard and mustaches —nothing else
but a mere transcendence all the way from
point (0,X) to point (0,Y). That’s the time
assigned to the main character to undertake something,
to kill the cannibal-butcher and marry his daughter.
And then the movie stops.
The film runs out. Nothing more to be told.
The corpse is being washed, shaved, and
taken away from the home.
The End.
When you leave, I kick empty beer cans
down the street. And it is so void.

(Sasha Skenderija – When You Leave I Go to the Movies)

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