Moja ženska vstane zjutraj ob šestih, da ne bi zamudila službe v tovarni. Odplazi se tiho kot podlasica in nikoli ne vem, če me v slovo poljubi. Ko se zbudim, je njena blazina že mrzla. Nevaren hlad veje od tam in v izogib srhljivemu molku se odplazim v kuhinjo, odpahnem hladilnik in pozajtrkujem običajno steklenico piva; njegova mrzla, zamolklo
temna vsebina se kot prijazen zaščitni film razlije po notranjosti mojega telesa, in ko je steklenica prazna, so moje občutljive
prebavne sluznice že varno ločene od meglenega ljubljanskega zraka, ter se lahko brez velikega strahu odpravim na mestne ulice.
Skoraj deset let je že, odkar vsako jutro na enak način opravljam svojo pot do knjižnice - tam me v čitalnici čaka s knjigami obložena miza, ki je nikoli ne zasede nihče razen mene. Če to koga v moji odsotnosti zamika, vem, da mu prijazne knjižničarke nekaj zašepnejo na
uho in človek se nemudoma
premisli in odide za drugo mizo.
(...)

Every morning my girlfriend gets up at six to make it to the factory on time. She steals
away like a weasel and I never know if she kissed me on her way out. When I wake up, her pillow is already cold. It emanates a deadly coldness and I crawl away from the
creepy silence into the kitchen, open the fridge and have my usual bottle of beer. Its cold,
dull and dark contents spread over my insides like a
comforting protective film and
by the time I finish the bottle,
my digestive mucus is securely detached from the foggy air of Ljubljana, allowing me to walk
its streets without fear.
This ritual to get me to the library has been going on for almost ten years now. There,
in the reading-room, is a desk loaded with books that nobody else would read but me. Even if someone were drawn to sit
there when I’m not around, the librarians would whisper something to that person and make her/him change her/his mind and sit at another desk.
(...)