368 pages of timeless life.
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Yesterday I was watching The Marriage Story in The Flicks, an independent cinema in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. A ticket at this cinema costs four dollars and is valid all day; you can watch four films in a row if you feel like it. You have to take off your shoes at the door and there is a shelf of used books next to the bar.
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As a Belarusian crossing the border in the opposite direction, I have to give my document to the driver, in the best-case scenario, so that it would be stamped and checked by a computer. In the worst case, you have to go to the window with your things. I have minimized my visits to my native land for all kinds of reasons.
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On my way to the theatre, I peek into several bookstores. Even sale books are very expensive. But I can at least look at them. The thick ones are the most discounted ones. Who writes such thick books? There is no time. One only needs a beginning (an interesting one) and an end (a happy one).
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It is a strange moment when an artist decides to stop doing art. What happens at such a moment? Nothing. The world does not come to a standstill. It is only he who stops quietly.
