If we are bothered by someone else's smell, imagine how uncomfortable they must feel, not being able to get rid of it themselves.

Living in the suburbs has a special charm, especially if you live in one of the quarters of Tbilisi's Varketili district, where the sea is also nearby: tall buildings, scorching heat, and mulberry trees in the yard, whose pungent smell reaches your nostrils.

The noise of the neighborhood, gatherings, conversations around the table, drinking, smoking, hoodies, jeans, sneakers, Adidas—these are what reflect fashion trends, taking their beginnings and energy from the suburbs and sticking around.

Here, you'll encounter Soviet-era kiosks covered in rust. Larger-scale parks and children whose voices color the world, reaching the silent concrete buildings.

The political atmosphere is more superficial; there's not much to capture in photos, but if you head to the sea, a camera will definitely come in handy.

I have an apartment for sale.

When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

The possibilities of humans are limitless,
All the goodness that intelligent minds offer us is immeasurable.
I often call them gods—
I worship the book—
I worship the hacker who managed to cleanse my computer from a dark virus.
You would be a liar if you’ve never once worshipped someone or something.
Now I drink wine,
I recall Dionysus,
Or I simply thank the winemaker for the beautiful wine.

One day when I left the house,  
I wandered through the streets of Station Square.  
I was at the casino,  
Not to gamble, but for the spectacle.  
I was walking quickly back home when the only valuable thing I had,  
A Canon camera, fell onto the curb.  
But I returned home calmly,  
That day, I remembered you,  
I sensed you had a problem.  
I wished your wife would lose her child.  
A short while later, a horrible pain struck my abdomen,  
As if one of the vampires from a book  "Interview with the Vampire"had devoured my insides.  
More than that, I entered the bathroom,  
Started vomiting blood.  
I thought for a while, then realized,  
You have the power of pain.  
Now, when I feel the same,  
I curl up on the bed, soothing you.

Silence deepens within me like a black rock,
when scientists discovered that even plants speak in their own language.
My silence remains silent, like a thorned rose untouched by anyone.
Only I know the depths of that rock, the breath of the rose’s silence.
And my black heart,
my breath of stone,
which is terrifying like the portrait of  Gray, weighed down by its gravity.
my hands that cross in sleep, protecting me from loneliness.
Oh, my silence,
my silence,
silence,
dark silence,
shrouded in mystery,
you, yourself, within your own being.

In a maddened world that has taken root within us, we are poisoned, poisoned by the selfishness of leaders for whom no dose of calming medicine can be found.

I met a thief and told him, "Leave my wallet." He left, but that day he probably lost the desire to steal.

My mind is like an overgrown field, mixed with thorns and weeds.
Like a wandering dervish, but not at peace.
I think I’ll smoke a cigarette on the veranda,
with coffee.
Or maybe I’ll take a long walk,
to open a door for these stifling thoughts.

We brought saplings of trees,
radiant peach, apple.
We nurtured them, they bore divine fruit.
I wanted to export them, but in vain,
says the farmer from Gori to the journalists.

I cut them all down, cut them down to save my time and nerves.
I cried,
and the trees shed tears as well.
I destroyed the fruit of Eden.

Spring seems to have died,
I’m inhaling the scent of rotten lilacs.
I taste the chocolate you brought me...
Drunk, I smoke a cigarette,
but I can’t feel it.
I drag my feet lightly on the road, slamming the rough soles of cowboy boots.
I cry,
I want something that doesn’t exist in nature,
something immaterial.
I can still feel your cold hand on my shoulder.

Red roses planted in a filthy ravine,
For the bliss of passersby.
Brought there by witches –
Visually stunning,
Left at the mercy of rain,
Blooming red.
The wise will say it is in honor of the mortals –
While the lowly will glance with irony,
Their eyes deceitful.
Just as Venus embodies perfect beauty,
Red creations have emerged in this filthy place,
Tender roses, the ravine’s charm.

If we offer kindness to others, as Viridiana did for the homeless in Buñuel's film, we would have to re-educate them from the beginning so they could adapt to this noble gesture?  You are not truly great and forgiving if you expect this in return.

There’s a kind of exhaustion like the one I have a void and at that moment, you might listen to a music track like Snow Surfin' Matador for a bit of energy.

Sometimes, we don’t know
if we’re happy or unhappy,
confusion follows us
like a three-year-old child.

We get lost in the discovery of talent.
Maybe we’re good at dancing or knitting,
we write let’s try.
We might have even been a good pilot.

Who knows, who knows.

For some reason, very wealthy people think they’ll impress us. I remember when I was eighteen, a member of the middle class. A wealthy person invited my friend and me to see their home.

Everything seemed revolting: leather furniture, glossy floors, brown tones everywhere, dark crimson velvet curtains, and that standard coffin-like smell of oak. We talked, but I didn’t eat anything I didn’t even feel like it. In general, I can’t eat around people, filling my stomach without the desire to feels absurd, and I can’t eat in a crowd.

We went outside to smoke, and the host said, “Come on, let me show you the second floor.” But we refused. He was so surprised that he couldn’t hide his reaction his face practically asked, “Who do you think you are?” His expression didn’t surprise me at all.

He drove us home in his huge Land Rover, speaking to us harshly. I still run into him sometimes on the street. Now, it’s me who’s surprised he has little left to show.

Words settled in the brain,
Left behind by others,
Remind us of them.
We often wish to erase them forever.
In moments of crisis,
The dirtiest and most tainted words come to mind,
While those drowning grasp onto good words.
Words are insignificant to some, they say,
Yet they still leave red lines on our white ribbons.