Meaningless lying on the floor in the dark room in the middle of strange Manhattan, far away from home and my roots. Meaningless lying on this mattress in the dark room, under a high ceiling, in the empty air of unknown galaxy, silent universe. If I was living in a village , surrounded by a familiar bunch of villagers, with whom I would wake up at the morning and look at the twinkering stars at evening, listening to the crickets on the little bench during the evening summer, that would be better , I think. But those things are impossible. My voice is dying inside of my mind, somewhere. In my chest. A silent transcription of my demotivated mind. It’s stuffy. The monotonous sound of the air conditioner exemplifies this weirdness and hollowness of my existence. I know, talking about existence is not in the fashion. Lying is in the fashion. And smiling. But the energy in me imploded and I am a dying one. It is so monotonous that I will die and lie in the cementery – what does it change if I say anything or nothing. And the life goes, goes with it’s whole unimportance. The politics. The carriers. The people. Especially the politics. I just can’t get excited anymore. It’s the way I am constructed. I wanted to play a flute and piano when I was a kid, but it was a long time ago. I loved many people and many things. But here, it just feels like nothing belongs to me, nothing, not even my mind. Nothing. I have lost opinion on everything. What is the point of having an opinion, anyway? Somebody will have a contrary one and will cancel yours out. And so on and so on. Everything, my whole surroundings seem so strange and boring. Cannot connect to this furniture, to this food, to anything. Sometimes only a quick hatred erupts, just to make me even more exhausted and disgusted. Days pass, and pass, and pass in irrelevant universe on Upper West Side.