I'm stuck at a certain time. Every evening called; Terrible stagnant evening. Gradually in the name of night, the monotonous call of the insects becomes darker, as well as darker.
I fell asleep thinking of the tiring old thoughts, the old rusty, discolored beds in places. Sometimes I feel grateful for this bed to hold me. The intense sun of the morning woke me up like countless old days, vaguely remembering the isolated nightmares of the previous night; Although I doubt whether listening to voices in sleep falls into nightmares. I never see a scene in my sleep, I only hear a few voices singing something like Lulabai. I set foot outside the house like a long-standing habit. In the open space in front of the house all the fallen leaves of the earth have come and accumulated. I don't know which of these trees. In the light of day, the house seems to be torn apart. The plaster has caught algae in many places on the fallen walls. In one corner of the front wall is something written by an inexperienced hand. I never knew whose handwriting. Terribly dirty and lonely, this house seems to be the source of hundreds of mysteries, forbidden, unknown, unearthly in the raw darkness of the evening.
Like the last few days I have not decided once again to go out in search of something new. I went far ahead, walking along the grass field. Wild grass all over the infinite space around, grass that never grows big; Day after day remains intact. Sunlight intensifies slowly. When a house in the middle of a wide plain on the horizon seems like a dot from a distance, I feel tired, all over my body, pulling back. Once again I get stuck in the same place on the border of the world I know. Somehow I dragged the body slowly to the yard of the very old mossy house. The afternoon light had eroded by then. Preparations for another mysterious evening have begun.
Sometimes called rain in this desolate land. I don't know when it will rain in the sky which is always black. This rain continues to fall forever. Pulling out an old chair and sitting on the porch of the house, I try to reminisce. I don't remember the existence of that chair except on a rainy day. But I don't remember anything but a weary morning, a dull evening, a nightmare, an old Lulabai or an old house with an algae-covered house and the imaginary face of a man stuck at a certain time.
