1.30p.m. kávét

I feel like a submarine peering over their shoulders. Peeking, picking the crumbs on their window-sills, on their bare shoulders, whilst they give me comfort and patience - nyugadt.
Nostalgia is not a movement anymore. Writing, I feel like loosing the security, the freedom of this peep-culture. At a loss of image but construction still is not there.
Pictures are repeated attempts to an architecture of emptiness in this space, within those lines. This line you repeat, I repeat in a space so well known. A space probably rehearsed in dreams.
Can I escape their welcome? I'm there, and not in those later words. There is no judge in the hot air, just the smell of fruit and sweet, very sweet coffee.
No camera, just a tea-spoon swimming in a soup of words, the song of the 1.30p.m. kávét.