I’m writing this against death.

A green flower on the table against death.

The sun is shining in through the window right now against death.

You sit in the yellow chair against death.

The butter is marble-hard against death.

I’m still going to make toast.

The neighbor has been hammering the wall

for weeks now against death.

We walk along the embankment against death,

take bulbs, big breaths,

stare at the water,

like a grey photograph of distant relatives,

none of whom

we ever knew.

We waste time, like so, against death.

We separate our trash against death.

Under the sea-green blanket against death.

We sit without a sound for a long time against death.

Numb for minutes at a time against death,

after closing the laptop.

We’re laughing against time,

just before sleep, or always.

I turn back and forth in bed,

when I remember everything.

Look at yourself inside me against death.

You can’t see me now, but it’s not a problem

that you can’t see me right now, it’s okay like this.

In the sky,

about twice an hour,

a blinking space station zips by,

over some unbearably bleak

constellation,

cutting it in half, crossing it out,

completing and disintegrating it.

I’m going to make coffee.

Put this on.

I don’t even care about the rest.

---

Translated by Timea Sipos