сижу на той же качели что и почти два месяца назад сидел приглушенный, а ощущения уже немного другие, заглажены, хотя будто бы не прошло и дня; it’s distant, non-existent

he vaguely knew it was rather numbness after shock, and not the kind of healing happening with time; bizarre dreams would flood the nights with vivid stories, cameos and significant symbols of longing for various places and pasts, for belonging; not-there-nor-here it would be, the mornings would be barely survivable, and the visions of wandering and being lost in memory mazes would taunt with dull recurrence; perhaps the distance of time is the numbness of depersonalisation, and perhaps the refuge of crisp air of the nature’s recluse is the distance from any kind of engulfing humanity

слово не воробей, хотя воробья поймать тоже сложно

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness—a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life.
— White Fang; Jack London, 1906

jolly new year fellow earthlings, this time we cut ouroboros in half

дальній грім дуже спокійний; він не схожий на ракети й великі вибухи дронів або артилерію—хіба іноді розгортається рокіт, як той лязгіт металевого камінепаду, коли щось в небі повільніше за мить вибуху розпадається на снопи іскор й вогню—гуркіт хмар підхоплюють тихіші відлуння, і все тоне в спокої шуму дощу