Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Chapter I. 1007


Although it is transparent, instable and fragile, I definitely can feel the texture of this paper. It is just as real as your cover under my bare feet while I am sitting on your bed. I am holding this paper now with complicated feelings and thoughts. It has a message on it. A number I don’t understand. 1007 it says. That was your style, you had always said less but meant ten times as much when you spoke, and there is no difference with your messages either. This was the last one you wrote to me before you completely disappeared. Every time I woke up in the middle of the night to the strange sound of the typewriter-noises. Even after six years of waiting in my room, every time I hoped that I would receive good signs through those messages. That you are somewhere peaceful, or that you are behind my curtains. I have always checked you behind the curtains and under the bed too. But there was nothing. Nothing but words, short sentences like: ‘you have to take all the blame’, ‘do you remember me?’, ‘guilt’, ‘shame’, ‘I miss u’, ‘silence splits the small hours’ and the list goes on and on. Until this last piece of thin paper with blurred ink on it: 1007. This time you really crossed the line. I just cannot solve this trick, this little fake jigsaw you are playing with me. -What does it mean, what are you trying to say with it? There was plenty of time when I couldn’t solve your puzzles and pushed you on the path of disappearance. I pushed too far. This rollercoaster interference between us was just like having different kinds of hearing damages in the left and right ears. A lack of equivalence in the good and bad days. But now, now I have plenty of time. In fact, there is no time in here, no space either. Just this transparent, instable, fragile but somehow real room where I can feel everything. Where I can feel you, but know nothing. Somewhere between departure and arrival. There are no thoughts, no logical consequences here, just the pure vibrations and tiny sounds of the presence of your absence.

Chapter II. Objects


It is frightening, how this room reminds me of a particular place. Of course it is your room where we lived so much joy and suffering but still, it reminds me of another place. Another place from the other side, exactly, it reminds me of my home. The atmosphere, the sounds, the smells, and this indescribable transparency of objects here is just the same as it was during those years at home. Every home is weird, but the weirdest was my flat where I spent most of my time alone. How did I get here, I ask myself. I can hardly remember, but I close my eyes and reverse all the unreal and strange things that happened to me in the last few – I don’t know – weeks I guess, but who cares. Time does not really matter here anymore.

I remember that strange, rainy December night. Just somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. I woke up to the sound of the typewriter again. Six years, nearly every night was the same, so I wasn’t scared at all. I tried to switch the lights on but they didn’t work. ‘Sign of a dream’ I thought so, I quickly lit a candle and sat in front of the typewriter. Surprisingly, there was nothing written on it. Just the blank, white paper where I was able to see the scene of the crime. The scene of your murder, the kill, the moment you left me, the moment I shut you out. There was the act of your sudden and pure disappearance floating on that pale surface. Then, the machine slowly started writing. Every letter that appeared on the paper, every hit was wide, loud and painful. Letter after letter, it wrote slowly, but it didn’t stop. I could hardly read the – this time – long and specific message. Maybe, because there was no ink in the typewriter; maybe, because it was written in a foreign language. Polish I wondered. After a few weeks of trying to figure out those little signs, I went back to sleep. I was happy to have you next to me, until I realized it was the cover next to me that was breathing slowly and constantly. I looked around the room, and while I was doing that, I looked around inside of you. I got every little piece in here from you and suddenly, everything started to scream. The noises of nails scraping my windows were just like those little sounds of you, hugging your knees and weeping. All your cries and laughter, all the frequencies of scissors cutting your hair was there in that moment. All the clocks and glasses, all the tables and curtains moved and circled around my dream, until a sudden moment they finally succeeded in stealing it. The objects stole my dream, so I no longer felt you next to me.

Nothing remained the morning after, but the crumpled paper in my hand with ‘1007’ on it and the message on the paper in the typewriter which I have found after waking up, saying: ‘objects hold me, furniture speak, scream my absence, a careless treat’. Nothing remained the morning after, just the smell of the rain.

Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Chapter III. Rain Smell Departure


Departure is an extremely bipolar phenomenon. It’s like with everything; our feelings shape it into a demon or into an angel. In this case, it was the devil with angel wings. A cheerful goodbye from the room of your objects, but a frightening first step into the unknown. I hadn’t been out of my flat in the past six years, so it was like stepping on solid ground after weeks of floating on the sea. I parked my car on the other side of the town, just to make sure nobody is wondering about whether I was at home or not. I opened my window wide and headed my way there. Nothing remained the morning after, just the smell of the rain. The streets were terribly empty. No souls at all, just the midwinter glassy mist with a temperature that reminded me of a sunny April day. But it was December and it was grey. Everything, even the colorful houses, trees, all the branches were monochrome, everything around me had a shade of grey. So calm, so cheerful, I thought, and during my way to my car I stopped in the middle of the empty street to check my backpack. The street was empty of souls, but there were some cars left behind in inordinate rows. All the things I might need in the future were with me in my bag. The messages, the typewriter, a vinyl and a couple of photographs of unknown people, with shapeless faces of pasts I didn’t take part in. I continued my way to my car, but all of a sudden it started to rain again. I was glad because the pre-rain atmosphere, with its high atmospheric pressure always made my lungs small. With heavy breathing and shortness of sight I always prayed for the rain to finally come down. The tiny paths the water made on my face and the drops from my clothes led my way on. Everything was so clear, so empty, a no past, no future state in the calmness of midwinter in the age of the global warming. Only the mud could rule the landscape, but since we only had concrete everywhere, that wasn’t an issue anymore. I enjoyed that moment, but as I always craved for anything but the present tense, I missed the gentle lights of sunset and the arrival of birds. It’s a pity that they have already gone forever. I had kept my heart in a briefcase since you left it on my doorstep when you vanished. Now it’s in my backpack too, safe and sound. There was a huge, black tree next to the place where I parked my car. I hate the lights coming from the ceiling; I also hate chandeliers, so I tore the lightbulbs from the walls with their wires. Then, I took them from my backpack and hung them on that mighty, black tree. I made a swing for lost souls. They might somehow meet again. And they will… The sound of separation is just a low and peaceful vibration, because every particle, every little specter, every soul reaches each other if you observe them from a distance far enough. Let this be the reason and the purpose of this rain smell departure.

Chapter IV. Jackals of a Sorrowful Life


The rain didn’t seem to stop. It was just like sitting in the carwash for hours now. A carwash that has a corridor you drive through, but in this case it was infinitely long. I always loved watching through the windscreen. It reminded me of a neutralizing TV show you usually watch around 3 a.m. if you can’t sleep. Only the swing of the windshield wiper broke this whole illusion. I was lucky to have this endless and useless dance against the rain, stopping me from falling asleep. The accelerating space and then the constant passing of the landscape switch something on in the brain. For me, usually the memories. It opens a door in my head that I have locked before, and just gently pushes me into that room of old photographs, snapshots of forgotten times. Or rather times I wanted to forget. But that time I refused to resist. I took a deep breath and stepped into that old, stuffy room with the torn wallpapers you left there. I left the backpack in the car, just brought a lighter with me, and a glass of water if I would change my mind. While looking at the photographs I realized that some significant part of the past was missing from those pictures. Routine. It’s strange how rarely we take photos of the everyday activities that fill almost all our time. You and me should have paid more attention to those substances, because actually they lead us to the moments worth taking a photograph of. Or moments not worth at all.

Smiles, regrets, joy and pain. Looking at those pictures was just like looking in a mirror that shows everything. Not just the face but also what is hidden inside. Maybe I am lost to you as much as you’re lost to me. We are all lost. I was incredibly lost sitting in that room, watching the walls and the photographs that were angry with me. Or I was angry with them. One can never really know. I can never really know. Anger is a whip-saw. All of a sudden, I wanted to burn everything. I wanted to burn all my thoughts. I wanted to burn all my memories. And I started. I have burned my childhood. I have burned my loves. I have burned my hatred and I have burned even the marriage of my parents. Why did I even have a picture of it in my room of memories? Strange but whatever. They burned, beautifully. The unburdening I felt was unexplainable.

Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Chapter V. Narrow Lungs


As I was watching the flames eating all the heavy thoughts and cragged paths I was carrying for so long, I suddenly spotted a piece of paper written 1007 on it. The entire burden seemed coming back to me just in a flicker of a second. I poured the glass of water on that segment of my brain I had spent the last couple of hours in, but it was too late. Everything turned into black, and while I was looking for pieces in the tufty smoke, I realized that nothing remained. Then I had no memories just their weight on me.

I was in the car again. The rain stopped, just the smell of it and that evil high pressure remained. I was not well. I felt something was coming. Something unexplainable but malicious and hateful. I started to miss something I didn’t have a memory of anymore. The photographs were like a mirror, so I hoped it worked in reverse too. I stared into the review mirror to regain my former life, but the reflections refused to help and pulled faces on me. I turned my sight back to the windshield as fast as I could, but the whole landscape turned into a surreal entity I was incredibly afraid of. All the things I thought I had left at home or had burned in my room of memories were now there, wide awake. They controlled everything: my thoughts, the space around me, and the seemingly never-ending acceleration of the car. The seats tied me down, and the repulsive painting was now the whole world.

Torpidity and buzzing is an otherworldly feeling. The atmosphere has grown needles like the limbs of a centipede. At first, it just hurt my mouth in a thousand stabs per second, but as the car accelerated to higher and higher levels it enwrapped my whole body. This entire inside scene reminded me of the stories I played inside the empty box of a fridge when I was a young kid. ‘It works’ I thought… I finally start to remember again. If only I could put a haircloth or a filter in front of wherever they come back from. I just want the nice ones back. And my wish came true. All of my good memories were burned on the tiny shatters of my windshield. They separated the most beautiful way I could ever imagine. Windscreen smashes in slow motion. Suddenly I didn’t care about the shatters anymore. I stared at something more grandiose. As the windscreen did, the painting opened up, it revealed the best one I could imagine. It was a sunset. A sunset with flock of birds arriving home. This was built up from memories too. And I knew they were all my own. They must be. Because I see you and me holding hands under the orange sun.

Chapter VI. I Draw


I remember old arguments. You had a little textbook where you filed and preserved all the good and bad parts of our relationship. You made a little timeline to them or a sort of line diagram on the last page which I couldn’t understand. The precision of those lines was incredible. The puncture and conscious path of those lines reminded me of a documentation of some unbreakable physical phenomenon. If they were our arguments and bad times you made a note of them, I can totally understand your disappearance. But I was just wondering. I didn’t understand them, especially because I had never read this book at all. The filter failed and some strange and awful flashbacks remained. I remember a particular one now, which you definitely made a note of. I bought a beautiful vinyl for you with previously recorded sounds of your favorite ones. But because of unknown reasons, there was nothing on that LP but silence. It’s not surprising that you gave it back with your short messages holding entire dimensions behind. It really did hurt. I know it hurt you, but it hurt me as well. If only I could know what had happened to it. Why did it stay empty? This is a significant part because this argument must be the last note in your textbook since this was the last time I saw you. Sitting in this room with your remains on this tiny vinyl, I spend most of my time examining this piece of plastic. Why didn’t it record anything at all? Maybe I didn’t know your favorite sounds. Maybe I didn’t record anything at all, just thought I did? Who knows, but this LP is next to me as I sit on your bed in this transparent atmosphere. It is in its empty state as I left it here. Again with high hopes, I put it on the record player. But nothing. Nothing but that typical sputter sound. As tiny particles are trying to make a fire. As wind sweeps typewriter keys away.

Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Chapter VII. Dystopian Segments


The wreckage was beautiful. Are you familiar with that particular feeling of being awake and being asleep at the same time? Just that exciting little flicker of a moment after waking up and before opening your eyes. So what can I say… I stayed in that state forever. The wreckage was beautiful. I could read all the regrets and blame from the typewriter keys as they shaped exact words and sentences on the bitumen. I was angry with you. I was angry with myself because, to be honest, nobody but I caused this state to stay. As I stood up and looked around, I could notice scenes and places around me. I was surrounded by doors and passes, paths and ways to travel through space and time. Wherever I wanted to. I remember being inside the wreckage. You don’t notice time there, or the passing of it. I don’t know how many hours, days or weeks I spent there but there’s one thing I remember. Silence. It really splits the small hours. That complete, deafening silence. I just couldn’t stand it. I don’t know how long, but it took some time to move even my fingers. As I took back the control over my spirit, I finally came out of the wreckage. I know that there were lots of important things inside the crash, but I refused to go back and get them.

As I was standing there, next to all these, I started to recover all the things that happened to me. As I saw the objects in their brilliantly inordinate position, I felt tremendously guilty. Every little piece, every tiny particle, every shatter had its own disturbing story, its own painful past, its own way of getting finally there, and then stopping forever. Holding these thoughts close to me and remaining still, the silence suddenly broke. Not in a scaring, loud way but gently and peacefully. I started to hear whispers from the doors and paths around me. They began to call me. I saw the most beautiful places behind those passes, but none of them held your voice, so I closed my eyes. As I did so, I started to search for nothing but your voice in the dark. I don’t know how many doors I came through in that darkness, seeking your hardly audible presence, but finally I started to hear something familiar. Your tiny voice mixed with the sound of raindrops, hitting a dusty way. As I opened my eyes I could hear you even louder. Every step on that path made your whispers louder and louder, but I couldn’t understand anything. Arguments with no solutions. Speaking with no meaning. Screaming with no sign of help coming. There was just me in that foggy midwinter atmosphere with the rain I couldn’t feel on my skin. I stepped closer and closer to the unknown, towards your anger, hoping I could finally fix this. I could finally fix you and fix us once and for all. I stepped into the depth of your anger. I stepped into the darkness.

Chapter VIII. (forever)


As I took the vinyl away from the record player, I noticed something. There was a little leather-covered textbook in the dust. I felt terribly excited as I opened it. On the front page there was a tiny hand-written line: ‘forever’ in parenthesis. I knew about this textbook, I knew the diagrams on the last page you made, but I had never read the other parts of the book. With a pumping heart that attacked my chest so hard, I slowly opened the rest of the pages, but there was nothing on them. Nothing but this little story about the disappearance.

As I stepped towards the darkness and depth of your anger I started to wake up again. Waking up into the dream I had dreamed for so long. The storm was the most noxious one I had ever seen. The gentle touch of your hair on my face, like those lonely raindrops, reminded me of all the things I couldn’t tell you. Because I didn’t know how to, because I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t want the truth to hurt. The storm waves, your voice, your anger, all those foggy mixture of darkness slowly started to let me go. I felt like it came to an end. It reminded me of all our fights. A heavy and significant war which came from insignificant blinks and pieces, and that lasted for as long as possible, but ended with no solution. And nothing remained after the storm just that blank white surface of questions that couldn’t have been answered. I am afraid of you. I have always been. I love you. I have always done. We are afraid of death, we are afraid of and love all of the unknown things, and that fear and love lead us through the heavy parts of life. And that fear and love have led me to make you happy. An unfulfilled will I have strong regrets and guilt towards. As these slowly fade away and that familiar, orange sun and the sky appears; your room appears to be visible too. With a great hope in my soul, I slowly stepped into it, believing I would find you there. But I didn’t. Seems like you have disappeared forever. Forever.

Although it is transparent, instable and fragile, I definitely can feel the texture of this paper. It is just as real as your cover under my bare feet while I am sitting on your bed. I am holding this paper now with complicated feelings and thoughts. It has a message on it. A number I don’t understand. 1007 it says. I hold your little text book in my left hand, and that 1007 message in my right. As time and rational thoughts don’t matter here anymore, I start to do something pretty weird. As I am scooping in my pockets, I suddenly find my favorite memory burnt into a particular shatter from my windshield. Let me’ see. Your little textbook holds nothing inside just this story and that strange but very long and puncture diagram. For whatever reason, I take that incredibly significant vinyl out off my backpack and start to copy those lines you drew in your book on that vinyl. Puncture, slow and wise movements follow each other as I concentrate on not missing a tiny dot when scraping this piece onto that empty disk. Time doesn’t matter here. I am done. I am undone here, but I am done, I have finished this bizarre artwork and now I put the disk on the record player.

What I hear now can’t be described with words. I hear words. I hear words from your mouth, from my mouth. Our voices come out of the speakers. Words. Every word says ‘I love you’. Every ‘I love you’ we have said to each other is now on that record. Every particular ‘I love you’. I am in tears now. As I listen to this record for the hundredth time, I start to count those words.

1007. I have counted 1007 phrases. We have said I love you to each other 1007 times.

Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Artwork: Hanga Fazekas

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Chapter IX. How to Arrive Home


As the vinyl starts to slow down, the pitch of our voices also come to a deeper and even louder, scratchy tune. The shadows on the staircase grow higher and alien ghosts attack the room. Everything is even more transparent.

How do you describe emptiness? If I gave you a piece of pale, white paper, how would you draw the void on it? I think I would draw myself on the paper. With all the reality I had to face before I started this journey. Everything is built up by desires. Everything is built up by dreams. The whole world we live in is hidden inside the feathers of a bird in a sky over no surfaces. The surface has fallen. You are the next bird in the row flying far from the one in which this exists. There are two lost dreams trying to catch each other. And that is the most beautiful thing I could ever imagine. I can’t see yours and you can’t see mine. The two birds could never meet, the two dreams could never be one because they would lose their meaning. In skies above no surfaces. In skies below no moons. Objectless, pale and frail little flickers in the ether we try to catch each other. We are dancing.

Nothing remains on the vinyl. Not even that scratchy noise which was there for so long. I try to read your empty textbook too. Nothing. No diagrams, no letters, no words, just that measureless sky wrapped inside the papers. I walk to the mirror and stare in it. I can see your room in its beauty. The light of the after-rain sun paints it with inexpressible colors. I can see you in me. You are everywhere. You fill up those little timeless walls. You are dreaming this. We are all the same. We are dancing. We do not exist.

All this starts to collapse and I am slowly waking up to the typewriter-noises in a time before I got to know you.