SILVIA TOTEVA HE dreams of me confides in the apple-like profile and the matt taste of a warm skin his blinded lips pronounce me while the shamefaced air flip-flops down the steep staircase and puts together the imagination in an exquisite, supple, smooth departing body. UNDER THE BARE DOME of the feast of the matt cheekbones the dream shivers injured by the crumbs of SOME laughter His hoarse strings I follow ... Translated by Zhivka Ivanova