~~~

Outside, it was deserted.

All the streets, all the alleys, all the buildings, as empty as a Petr Grenzic movie.

Sila walked the streets he vaguely remembered from years ago, his eyes pointing down. It was November so there was lots of snow on the ground and to pass the time he kicked the snow nearby onto other snow, smiled, bent down, took off a glove, picked up some dirty snow from a pile of cleaner snow, shivered, dropped the snow, turned a corner, saw more snow, disliked the snow so kicked the snow and grabbed some other snow, greyish snow, and threw that snow at the actress from Milla Feeling For Snow then stopped dead in the street and tried to remember his old job.

It was only three years ago…three and a half…before the Professor, before the green knife, before the green mist demon came. Before that, what?

Shit.

Ne.

He couldn’t remember any of it, only his childhood, events before 18.

Was he a teacher?

A prostitute?

Elizabeth Medina?

Something that may have been wind ambushed him from a side alley and ripped off a flyer on a lamppost nearby. He bent down, studying it. The Cabinert of Dr Caligari. A Metelkova production.

Ah, that’s right. He was a cultural theorist.

Ne, wait

not a theorist, a cultural theory student

with one dissertation, two pamphlets and

Slovene, too,

so always in the shadow of that great big moon man Žižek

his fucking beard

permanent cold

all that Die Hard bullshit.

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