I got distracted. At times I forget who I am and what the darkness around me is. What are those lights twinkling. The road goes around and meanders; what could be done. How about doing nothing. Immediately fire, or flood, is getting stronger.

I remembered Jan B. in the garage, in the pit under the car (a blue Fiat 125p; late '60s-early '70s version, with vertical lights at the back and a gear lever at the steering wheel). He injured his hand. Hard; he almost cut his finger off. He rolled out of the pit and made the dressing station ready, removing a pile of some stuff from the counter top with a clatter. He doused his hand with vodka generously and then sealed the wound with scotch tape. He wrapped around the finger and a part of his hand; the tape didn’t want to stick to the body, because there was too much blood. He was mumbling swearwords under his breath. He raised the hand up and he smiled, warmly, like he never did. Jan waived away the offer to get him to a hospital, sprinkling the blood several meters before him. The wound healed quickly. He was John the king of the area.

Meanwhile, I have the second version of the text. It is good. It is airy, like the book itself. Inconspicuous, but powerful. I’m taking the moment to look at it from different angles.

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)