but he stood up slowly, looking down at the dismembered body with a wooden expression, the way he had looked once before, thirty-five years ago, on the hill next to our village, next to Bezrečjė. Only then did I retreat from the window; I went to the bus stop, just like I’m going down the station platform to the fifth track now; I don’t know anything, I can’t testify to anything, because I’m no longer here, all that remains is a burning rear and a fresh memory of the coming generation;
