Naznak

Verses full of grit that grates between your teeth. Grass that pleasantly tickles the back of your neck, and the fear that sometimes grips you, perhaps just because you have to walk through the Žižkov tunnel at night. You're thrown from pillar to post, and sometimes you have no idea if it's from right to left, or from top to bottom. Confusion. One big oxymoron. But then again, so are we. We try in vain to find meaning in something that is, by its very nature, plunged into chaos.