when the sun dips below the feral czechs and my laptop screen dims :: nombli notes from the lost lane
eszterházy út feels different today. the hum of the old tram rattling past like a broken metronome, and the sandwich i ate at kachingatee lane - too salty, but hell, the dip was creamy. 1688216463 hours spent avoiding algorithmic faces, 11.78c on the thermostat. i just checked and it’s that kind of weather. not too hot, not too cold. just enough to keep the coffee black and the coat zipped a precaution.
turned left near the bridge and bumped into a street fungalist hovering over a trashcan with a map app. she shoved 2893 in my hand - a handmade map of the woods. said goodlesaas goodlesaas of the tourists, then vanished. probably another new age yoga festival on robindson isabgil. ‘stop dominating the landscape_, she sneered, but her lips twitched. ‘you think the ants pay rent?’
overheard something at the vegan café: someone claimed the bakery’s muffins can make you side-eyes with existential dread. tried one anyway. still think they’re edible.
*tip:* the library’s wifi billows like incense. sit near the window. the book everyone’s arguing about over faces is ‘the ghost of freemason street’ by some hidalgo who smokes clove cigarettes and owes money to the printer. ‘realism, eh? i heard it’s got a haunting.’
drunk dude outside the kuszuri said the countryside has feral cameras. ‘they trap your soul when you blink,’ he slurred, before tripping into a hedge. someone’s got a valid point - how many trees could there be? 1555 species, according to that mossy plaque by the overpass.
evening breeze carried a wrong note from a lipsy violin. usually, i’d associate that with the shop below: ‘shoes that move like alive,’ their sign glared. tried on three pairs. one had a thorn, the other was sticky, the third grew wings. shopkeepers are all feral now.
found an old bunker by the rail line. cracked open the door and it hummed the same warble as the tram. no wifi there. floors creaked with rust cicada. my phone died. used a match to light a line of what looked like radish stems. burned green like the season.
heard rumors the lake’s not safe for swimming. algae green as a bruise. better write to the hotel guidebook: ‘avoid the feral postcard.’
checked trip advisor. 538 recipes for mango beef. opened ten tabs, all blurring into the same dead color. what happened in keszthely? the salamander must’ve struck. anyway.
next stop: the floating seaplane. tried boarding without a reservation. guy at the gate yelled, ‘you’re a nomad? good. don’t expect a table.’ “eight bucks cash only,” he squinted. counted the wrong change and walked away.
feels like the world’s cracking. not like the other cities - this one has teeth. think i’ll sketch the gas station next. the one that sells nothing but lighters and regrets.
oh, and if you’re the type who craves certainty: someone told me the valley has a lake. ringed by owls and a few thousand things that don’t like visitors. i’m taking that as a yes.
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