If the wind blows against a mountain long enough, the mountain will disappear.
Motorways, cities buried underneath them and brittle secrets of the heart disappear. The earth disappears in the vortex of the sun and the atoms of the body first form a riverside meadow and then a paperclip, which disappear in the same order – first goes the meadow and then the paperclip. At breakfast a plateful of porridge smashes against a wall and the culprit disappears.
First we avoid glances and then we disappear. Scent and anticipation disappear (same with the dandruff on the pillowcase), and the door code and familiar strides in the stairwell disappear. A sigh disappears in morning crust and the joy of solitude disappears. Cytostatic treatments end and yard games disappear. That one guy you always accidentally bump into on the street disappears.
Continents, ticklers, clogged arteries, crossing footprints, shades of blue, savings, Raahe, cliches and so on disappear. Interest disappears in the blink of an eye. Youth disappears, old age disappears, courage disappears, tomorrow night and being pissed off disappears and the persistent unbearable feeling of being homesick for a place you have never been to, disappears.
Antti Kytömäki, 1979, Oulu
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