The moment always dissolves,
memory cannot hold it firmly.
The moment finds its way to escape,
to flee from the cage
of human sentimentality.
The moment is the ghost of a dead dragon, that floats through the walls, floors and ceilings of the mind, seeking a cave to rest. Dragons like gold, they have cold blood, that’s why warm sweaty palms of nostalgia disgust them.
Theaters are shelters for lonely dead dragons, caves full of golden chandeliers and shiny decorative shit on the walls. A dragon lands between rows of chairs in the parterre and feels relieved, calm; it hears rustling branches, recognizes the sweet smell of fir-needles and feels home for a while and falls asleep. The audience stares at this miracle, holding its breath unbearably long, until sudden clarity fills the space: the forest is drowning on the naked back wall of the stage, and the entire baroque gold is fake, and the dragon is just an old prop from some performance for children, a fairy tale about abandoned time.