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       They say about him: that: he was a good nice man and those few of my vague memories
of him: confirm it. A little crouched: skinny: smelled like tobacco:        the whole huge
apartment on Klobúčnicka 4: was smoked up until through beige wallpaper. I remember how he
happily lean towards to me - shows me his paintings: something asks me:        and then he
promises me: that he'll make me a little horse from wood.
       Some time later: my father brought it to me: it wasn't such a raw piece of raw pine
- how they kept squeezing:      poor fingers on the hands of hungry children in stories of
socialist realism: but a small wooden animal -    the curves corresponded strangely to the
living: nut color: on glossy lacquered: with sharp pointed ears.
       Of all the lost: forgotten and destroyed things: which left after me: at mysterious
points on the left side of the timeline -  I really would want only this animal back.
       I would hold him in my hand: with my middle finger under his belly:     so his legs
would stick out next to: Mine: the wood would slowly heat up:   my first only thing in the
world