К. Потапов - ПоТок Сознания - ТОК FM - Радиоэссе В Центре - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

When the last charges of fireworks and volleys of champagne run out, when the amount drunk is proportional to the torment of conscience, when last year's snow and crumbling Christmas decorations crunch under your feet, when only the horror of a crumbling treeb and unsent valentines remind of the past fun, then weekdays come. Usually they are cast in an uncomfortable February twilight, illuminated by a silent television screen, smell of something burnt, and, just as the days before the holidays are saturated with the expectation of a miracle, this Christmas Eve turned inside out is filled with a sense of passing time and an unfulfilled fairy tale. You press your forehead against the balcony with hope and you see with your own eyes that bright red trucks are leaving the city. Our holiday is over. And at that moment, when twilight rolls up to the very throat, and you don’t want to leave your room anymore, at least an eternity, and even more so on the street, that’s when it’s best to hit the road.

It is best to make your promenade in the historical center, overcoming the border of the old and new city, which passes exactly through the hall of the very first fast food. Here you can feel truly interfluve, in every sense of the word. Looking around with the eyes of an idle loafer and guided in movement only by aesthetic criteria, you gradually begin to be surprised at the architectural chaos that is happening around. Having no idea about the names of styles, you still feel their diversity literally to your taste, whether it be the Stalinist Empire style, a pointed glass block of an elite high-rise building, or a tower that has not yet been burned for construction, from the time of the century before last. Moving around the old city along the memorized streets, looking at the facades that set the teeth on edge, at some point you decide on freedom and recklessness and dive into the dark arch of the courtyard.

You can argue for a long time about the beauty and grandeur of the old city, but you feel its whole flesh only in small courtyards. It is better to do it on an empty stomach: on a heart that is hungry for the meaning of life, somewhere in the middle of another winter era. Of course, in spring there are more colors, cats, hope and confidence in a bright future, but in spring any settlement shifts towards Paris on the scale of beauty, and if you still decide to check your city in all aesthetic parameters, take advantage of the impassive cold of January. He will not deceive you. Moreover, nothing compares with the icy ivy wire, the unextinguished garland, and the roof slope. Lines of balconies are ready to turn into verses, using consonance as rhymes in the endings of dumped junk, hanging sledges, skis, lonely smoking figures. And in the historical center, the vocabulary of this poetry is undeniably greater than anywhere else. At such moments, you feel like a survivor in two thousand one hundred and last, watching Europe at the apogee of the ice age. And when you come across a frame of someone else's life in a yellow window, uncovered by a curtain, you feel the loneliness of your being on a universal scale. And suddenly, in all the surrounding chaos, harmony is born, which means that meaning appears. Anything can serve as an impetus, whether it is the ringing of a horse-drawn bell or the creak of skates from the largest square in Europe, or the fall of a carved electric star from the sky of woven tram destinies. The main thing is to have time to make a wish. Because the next second comes magic, the tram, hiding around the corner, goes to eternity, the milky way lamps shine only for you, and the beeps add up to a symphony of your happiness. The world takes on meaning, twilight does not recede, but only brightens up the sharp corners of reality, and at this moment time is formed from the fragments of architectural eras and styles. Therefore, it is not scary to raise your hand, snatching an unknown route number from the general flow, because just as in England any direction is a direction to the sea, so in your hometown any direction will lead you to home, because the concept of home expands like a pupil in February twilight.