It´s only for your comfort, trust me.

Toes Humanity has walked many paths. It might walk down the path of self-destruction as these lines are being written and you, reading this. It might walk the path of ascending to a place where no civilisation has ever been before. We never know. What we do know is this: there is something always ahead of us. It’s part of us but we never acknowledge them. It’s our toes.

When do we feel them? When bumping into furniture. Or when taking socks off to feel the grass / sand / water between them. Pleasure and pain, yet again so close. Every step that we take towards doom, pleasure or, said more normative, the right or wrong way, our toes are in the forefront of everything. So why not give them more importance? We could base society more on these little fleshy things that are hidden most of the time.

For sure, the big toe is a force to be reckon with in this new society. You can already see it, in sandals for example. The big toe is parted by the others. But how do we measure who is to be the ruler, the peak of toe-performance? Toes can be ugly, cute, beautiful, sick…. All of these classifications are in the eye of the spectator. So how do we measure? Well, measure is the right way actually.

Queens and kings, nobility, that is people with long toes. In relation to their feet of course. Bear with me on this one. So, toes are at the forefront of literally, gaining ground. And people with longer toes in relation to feet size are, of course, able to gain more ground.

I myself am a peasant. It is hard to come to that realisation. So even as the creator of this new order I have fallen to the lowest position in this feudal toe-system. Perhaps it is wise to abolish these standards. Perhaps we should stop doing the same for other body parts. Perhaps, we can strive, as a civilisation, only when we stop comparing. Not just toes.

Blow dryer.

White noise is a random signal that is equally powerful across different frequencies, giving it constant power spectral density.

Wow, let’s unpack this. Like the fireball that is looming over us, dangerous for humankind but nonetheless beloved by many, such as myself, white noise is terrifying and soothing at the same time.

When people ask me, why do I like this noise, which many don’t know is actually white, I try to answer them with a similar question: why is it that as soon as the sun comes out, when look up at it, even though it destroys our skin cells and even has the power to make us blind?

Is it the power that fascinates us? Is it, just like the white noise, the force of “constant power spectral density”? It even sounds cool, doesn’t it?

“Hey, what have you been up to these last few evenings?”

  • “Oh you know, just listening to the sound of constant power spectral density.”


There you have it. Well, it really depends how much you give on other peoples opinion. But if that is something that drives you, you can end the conversation right there and be the coolest kid on the block.

But let’s dig further than that. So white noise, the sun. What else is seemingly infinite, soothing and dangerous, powerful and yet, comforting? It’s the force of nature. We love the oceans, even though we neglect them quite frequently. Why is the earth called earth, even though we just sit on a few pieces of it that are surrounded and dominated by water? Why is a mountain majestic? Why is thunder magnificent? Why can’t we control the things around us? And why, the more we try to do it, they show us that we are not really the rulers of this ground?

White noise, maybe you are the compressed form of force that cannot be ruled. The longer I listen, the more I accept it.

I heard that it is good for babies. I can see why: born without aspiration, prejudice or entitlement. The force of nature is accepted, tolerated and respected.

Its time to go back to our humble beginnings. Respect the power and force. Respect constant power spectral density.

Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy the sound of the blow dryer, my form of respect, white noise. Trying to become more humble.

The flush.

Recently, he hasn’t been feeling well. It’s not like anything spectacular or tragic happened, it is this sense of detachment that comes with loosing grip. If he is being honest with himself, he didn’t treat himself right. It’s all just temporary, he lies to himself. Jake who sits in the next cubicle could even see it and hear it. He is embarrassed.

“Hey, are you alright? You look a little off, my dude!”, drawing on his plastic vape pen, exhaling Watermelon-Cottoncandy supreme.

It made him even more sick. Maybe it’s the people around me, he asked himself. Maybe I just need to change my environment. That’s it, for sure. All will be good and I can finally find my peace.

He lied to himself.

Even at home he didn’t feel comfortable anymore. Nothing provided coziness in his home.

“That’s called Hygge my dude.”

Shut up Jake.

Usually he can endure those scrolling, ponytailed, high-confidence, higher-anxiety, e-Scooting, Tinder-dating, Craft-everything-drinking, non-farting types of people.

Not today, Jake!

And that’s for all the Jakes out there, and those who aren’t called Jake but act like Jake and sorry to those who are accidentally included here but are actually not a Jake.

The thought of the word Jake made him flinch and tension. A sudden release. Satisfaction. Bliss.

He stood up and pushed the button. The toilet flushed.




“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry! Look at it, it´s huge! I don´t know why your are still wasting your time searching over there. Just get here, man!”

This guy, always shouting and boasting, I am really tired of it. Not for once he can shut up about his stupid berries. We are all searching here, we get it. It´s not like you are the first one to ever find something. For days we have been flying around these woods, jumping from twig to twig, always blindly following the one who finds something. What´s the sense of flying in a group when everyone is just looking at the same spot? Why can´t we split up? And why the hell am I not just going somewhere else?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

Here we go again. Again, the same spot. Same people. Why are the places wherever we find something special attracting everyone else to come there? Are we just blindly searching for thrill, for food, for entertainment? What do we expect to happen there? It is the same place, it is the same people. Isn´t craziness defined by repeating the same action and expecting a different result each time? Are we all just going crazy?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

Are we crazy or just so occupied with whatever we are trying to do and trying to show to others that we don´t realise that we are stuck in repeating the same routine? Why do we have spots where everyone is, searching for the same thing? Why the hell is nobody leaving this devil´s circle? Why not me?

“Hey man, I just found this amazing berry!”

We move in flocks, we are born in flocks, we die in flocks. Twig to twig, tree to tree. I don´t even remember where I have been lately. I have just a memory what the others have done, what they found, on the search for food in the autumn. Life is hard for a tiny bird in winter. Maybe I can´t survive on my own. Maybe I won´t find anything. And if I find something, who can I tell about it? Am I even finding something when I can´t tell anyone? Do I exist when there is no other bird around me? Is that why we constantly exclaim anything, chirping? Is it just the fear of the silence, the darkness, the loneliness?

Hey man, I just found this huge nut!

Get over here.


I am soaking for you. Me and all my friends, we are prepared to take whatever comes our way. Waiting here in this holder, packed together. Some of us have dents, some of us get ripped apart. We get fiddled with, thrown around, folded and put under tables to make them stop wobbling.

Hey-ho hey-ho.

I am full of excess beer, full of regret and bitterness. But it doesn’t overcome me for I am longing for that sweet Union.

Hey-ho hey-ho.

We like being put together in packs, but do you even know why? Probably not, because you are a human. We like the closeness. You thought it was convenient for you that way? Tidy on the table! What about us? What about our desire, the Union that I speak of? It is not with other coasters, it is the love triangle we endure all this pain for.

Hey-ho hey-ho.

The sturdiness, the soft pressure, me in between. Soaked by beer but lucky to be adored from each side. The Union, that is the situation you are looking forward to, as well! After your beer is drafted, I am being put on my old lover I can relay on, the table. Together with the glass we form an expression of aesthetic pleasure, tidiness, comfort.

However, you were adoring the beer, neglecting the love in between, as humans do.

Hey-ho hey-ho.

I am sorry coaster


You turn into Stepańska street. I sit down.

Still a little hungover I am sitting in my favorite cafe, surrounded by wooden walls covered in old movie posters. I breathe in the coffee-filled air and immediately begin to cough. My body isn’t ready yet.

You stop at the old Antikvariat and look at the newest old books. I order an espresso.

The last week has passed by very fast and it seemed to have no significant events to make it memorable. I wonder how many of those weeks have already passed. How many of these weeks I am unable to reminisce about are still to come?

You continue walking up the road. I get my espresso.

It’s Sunday and once again the streets seem empty. Well, despite the people heading for brunch or breakfast or lunch or just to have a walk. I seem like one of them, I don’t like it. Weekdays I can sit around and feel good about doing nothing while others are working. But if nobody is working, what’s my role in this whole thing?

You pass the window of the cafe. I look outside.

You are terrifying. My stomach hurts a little while I try to understand what just happened. A little Film sequence was running in my head. Oh how much we could experience. How much we could grow together, see things from a different perspective. How compassion grows and creates the bubble around us. I won’t ever feel cold again.

You passed by. I am looking after you, disappearing.

I now bow my head. I didn’t expect this to be the memorable moment of this week for me to remember. I taste the espresso, it’s bittersweet. I put down the cup. It is beautiful. Deep blue with golden edges. Never before have I seen such a composition between the deep colours of coffee and blue.

You turn around the corner. I drink the rest and pay.

I’ll be back again, for you, my shining deep, my espresso cup.

Hot pocket.

She was sitting on a bench with a full package of toast. Silently sobbing, she felt sad and angry. The ducks and pidgeons around here were more interested in the bag of bread than her, still it felt nice not to sit around alone in a park. “A little like being connected to nature”, she said and sniffed her nose.

She was hurt like so many before her, she knew that it would end this way. Still, it was a great ride. The places, the food, the sheer speed of the way of life. If you are speeding through days like this, it is no wonder to come to a stop earlier than anyone else. Either you run out of gas or just hit the breaks because you cannot see clearly around you anymore. But what if there no way to hit the accelerator again? How can I get moving again? “Well, here I am sitting now, she thought, in a traffic jam. In front of a constant red light. Who really controls the signal?” She will not find out.

Everyone told her: do not get into that car. Do not hit the gas. Do not think about change, think about what you have. Your car might not be the fastest but it gets there, eventually. So they said. “But where?”, she asked the ducks in front of her and threw a whole slice. The ducks and pidgeons came from every direction, fighting for the white bread.

“I do not want to feel the pain anymore, why am I even crying? I knew the risk, I took it. I enjoyed it. But now, I am sobbing with toast in my hand. Actually, this reminds me of something we always had for lunch, after skipping breakfast. This horrible thing that looks amazing from the outside. Crispy, deliciously smelling. Warmed up in a beat, for your pleasure. You take a bite and it stings you with the heat of the sun. Tongue burned, palate ruined. But there it is, the savoury smell of grilled cheese. Yeah, now that I am thinking about it, still all was like a hot pocket.”

She sniffed her nose, smiled a little, emptied the whole package of toast on the ground and leaned back on the bench.

“Fucking hot pockets”.

To the guy stamping my bus ticket.

We all get asked at some point what we want to become once we grow up. And we answer “astronaut”, “firefighter”, “someone rich”, “someone famous”, “author” or “someone with my own garden where I can grow my favorite vegetable”. I mean, whatever makes you happy. But who would say “the person stamping tickets in a rustic bus in a post-Soviet country”? Well maybe this guy stamping my ticket right now. Who knows? Who am I to judge? Actually, it’s more challenging and surprising than it seems. He is there, cramming his way through the crowd. Always there, known to everyone who regularly takes this route. It’s the same price for everyone, same ticket every time. There is comfort in it. He knows every bump in the street. Every crossing and just 5 seconds later, he knows where to hold on because the bus is taking a massive bump in the road. A friendly tap on the back by the guy who is coming back from the pub. A little smile from the woman who just finished her shift. We are all here in the same boat, bus in this case. It’s familiar faces and new ones. Maybe he is looking around, seeing the same faces with different expressions. He is the one who can detect mood swings. Bad day at work? He can probably tell the difference. Happy occasion? He will know it. But you won’t. That’s the difference. He will even know when you are new to this bus line. So when I am looking around, looking at him, I cannot help but feel foolish about my estimations. I can write whatever I want but I won’t come close to what he knows. So sit down, guy stamping my ticket. It would be my honour to have a beer with you. Share your insights, your knowledge, your experience and understanding. Or don’t. Who am I to expect anything or judge? But maybe, just maybe, I will learn something. Even from your silence. So have a drink with me.

And all I am left with, is to say,

Thank you.


The whole morning she was unhappy with herself. Something was missing. It kind of went through the whole start-of-the-day routine. First of all, the pillow had escaped over the night. Now her neck hurt because she was only lying on the mattress. Waking up, everything ached and her neck was happily cracking. How she wished to be someone else. Next, the shower just completely ignored her need of warm water. It just would not get warm. Also, the shampoo was empty. “Why do I even shower then”, she thought while drying her hair. And this continued for the whole morning. The toast was soggy, the butter too hard, the crunchy cereal too soft. The wind too strong, the sun hiding behind clouds. The people too grim, her boss too happy. Oh how she wished to be someone else that day.

But still, she was missing this little something. Maybe a feeling, inside her. Rumbling, churning her stomach.

He represented his kind with all the pride he had. A little deformed but full of elation. Some say, you are stronger in a group. Here, he was in one but this little guy could have easily filled the role by himself. He was put into this little bread just this morning. He had a good position, just sitting on the outside on top of the bread. He could see everyone coming in, going by the baked goods aisle. He did not wish to be picked by someone special, he was just proud to be representing his kind, the raisins.

She was on her way to get lunch when she passed the deliciously smelling breads. For a moment, her stomach stopped murmuring. “Maybe that´s what I need?”. She picked the bread and put it into a paper bag. Happy to have the chance to brighten her day, they both were happy when she approached the cashier. She paid and sat down in front of the supermarket. Full of hope she took the first bite.

“Ewww. That´s raisins.”

Oh how he wished to be someone else.

This is not how his story ends. For he was not being eaten, only his colleague. He leapt of the bread and watched her throw away the bag.

“No, I do not want to be someone else. I am a raisin. I am the unloved version of a grape. Who are you to judge? You have not been pressed and dried. You are standing there, full of water and all those disgusting fluids that you need to survive. I have surpassed life. I am non-perishable. Who are you to judge my taste. You will loose your water, then we can talk about who is disgusting. I will not stand for this as long as the raisins are discriminated.

Wish to be someone else because I will not.”


— Listen to “Lest my water break” from Kapitan Korsakov while reading

Some say they were meant to be together. They met shortly after they were put together in the plastic bag. Exchanging looks, separated by their fellows. How can someone feel so distant and still familiar?

They shared the same destiny, as it is mostly the case when you land in this kind of packaging. Most of them will end up forming the outer sides of a nourishing mini-meal for they were slices or toast.

He was on one side of that artificially formed loaf, she was stuck on the other. As it is mostly the case with slices stuck together, everyone is craving some personal space. And often, the other side looks more comfortable.

The grass is always greener on the other side. So it goes.

They weren’t interested in personal space for it was useless when separated. One day, their package got bought. Excitedly, most slices were discussing how they might end up. What kind of sandwich will they be? With meat? With cheese? A vegetarian one? Or as the holy grail, a French Toast! Well you see, toast slices are not really looking for anything special, they are not even a proper bread. But one thing they really want is for sure. To be spread with butter. Not any fake butter or margarine. Proper full fat butter.

Is the grass really greener on the other side? If it is spread with butter, yes. So it goes.

2 weeks went by and they had lost all hope by then that they would be united as a sandwich. Only little did they know that their new owner was especially fond of the end pieces. So as their day came, the whole package was opened and they were the first to be used in the sandwich making process.

No French toast, they said. But still, they were happy. Finally, being united, forming the union of a sandwich. She was picked up first. Ready to be baptised with the foundation, the bond of all sandwiches, butter. As soon as the knife touched her, she felt that it wasn’t what she was expecting. It was margarine. Disturbed she laid back onto the table.

We can make it work, he said to her. It is only important what we make of it. She couldn’t live with it. Weeks of waiting, longing to become something greater than just a slice of bread, only to be spread with margarine. He tried to talk to her but her mind was shut.

As soon as she got picked up to be put together with her lover, she leapt forward towards the ground.

If I waited forever to see the light, only in the last minuted to be denied. I am leaping forward for

The grass is always greener

after suicide.