It snows with dust a lot in my room.
I love to swallow it. And knitting needles.
And threads. And beads from the old toys. And toys.
Where did the dust from
the book by Dostoevsky disappear?
It is in my nostrils. And in my stomach. And in my heart. And on the eyelashes.
hush.. Old birds don't like the noise.
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They try to say something.
Out of me.
My own thready beady dusty orchestra.
It mustn't be listened to. It must be inhaled.
Suicidal birds constantly ram into my windows.
Tuesday. Morning. At dawn I was trying to catch the local birds
and I was tearing off their wings
so that all of them might not pierce into my windows.
Grate the sparrows.