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Some people carry a darkness within
them, the kind of hopelessness you
get from the hallway of the Vrapče
Psychiatric Clinic on a gray winter
morning. Nothing can drive it away:
winning at a bookmaker’s, accidentally
brushing against a young breast in a
packed streetcar, the disappearance
of a migraine, Prozac, nothing. That’s
how it is with Damir and me. We’ve
known each other a long time. We
have a bond formed by months spent
together in the college cafeteria,
thousands of nights hanging out in
Zvecka, the Blato buffet and Dijana
bar, summers on the island of Krk
searching for some shattered stone
tablet, and autumns in Istria looking
for my ex-wife, all to no avail. Also by
years of shared hangovers, gonorrhea
of the same geographic provenance,
the storms of the Kvarner isles and
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Neki ljudi nose u sebi mrak,
beznađe kakvo vlada u predvorju
Psihijatrijske bolnice Vrapče u
sivo zimsko jutro. Niŝta ga ne može
odagnati, ni dobitak na kladionici,
ni nehotičan dodir mladih grudi u
prepunom tramvaju, ni prestanak
migrene, ni prozac, ništa. Tako Damir
i ja. Dugo se poznajemo. Vežu nas
mjeseci u kantini FF-a, tisućiju u caffeu
Zvečka, buffetu Blato i u Dijana
baru, ljeta na Krku gdje smo tražili
nekakvu slomljenu ploču i jeseni
u Istri gdje smo tražili moju bivšu
ženu, sve bez rezultata. Ili godine
zajedničkih mamurluka i dva tripera
istog geografskog porijekla, kvarnerske
bure i one velebitske, jugo na
Otrantu kad su nam se srca znojila od
Lady
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