most of the things we name
have lives of their own


It was a sunny day
on Letna, near Stromovka park
I was in that building
where they make future artists
more precisely
I was walking down the corridor
on the second floor

I said hello
and we had a little chat
something like a small talk

I was friends with her daughter
and she was one of the main
theoreticians in the building

Somehow I burped:
It seems to me that
just like celestial bodies move accross the sky

Art has moved
and it's no longer where we aim at