I wonder where is that love? That love, which is so much in every frame of your favorite black and white films. That love that drives lonely cowboys somewhere, that love that makes the heroes of French and Italian black-and-white paintings smoke so often and for a long time. Is she here? And is there one for me?
Is he: I wonder where is that love? That love, which is so much in every frame of your favorite black and white films. That love that drives lonely cowboys somewhere, that love that makes the heroes of French and Italian black-and-white paintings smoke so often and for a long time. Love, which is in each of the seventeen moments of that very spring.
Is she here? And is there one for me? In my color time…
But when I’m buying a bottle of beer at a night stand or knocking down my third or fourth shot of something in a smoky bar, I can suddenly feel like I’m wearing a nice white coat and a nice soft hat. And also to feel that all this is around … well, all this, everything that happens to me … this is nothing but the beginning of a wonderful friendship, my friendship with my time. Friendship in the absence of love.
She is: I wonder where that city is? The city that I know very well, although I have never been there. But I saw him many, many times in those same black-and-white films that you can’t tear yourself away from. That city, in which there is always such an amazing light, always shiny wet asphalt and in which there are no cars, except for sprinklers. A city where everything is so leisurely and significant.
Embankments, bridges, monumental policemen.
Only beloved artists live in that city, who are always alive and wonderful there.
But are there such places, and most importantly, time, where and when this black-and-white city coincides with the city I walk around, where my window flickers, or somewhere in the stream of cars the headlights of my car are on?