Drywall

I was just walking home through the square,
an ordinary evening, coffee in my hand.
A streetlight’s shadow lay at the corner,
deprived of base and source –
like a stray thread on a white collar.

My step halted. And the street – empty.
The billboard had peeled away at the edges:
beneath it – not plastic, not copper wire,
but a synthetic, impenetrable world
where no ray of light had ever burned.

My key fell onto the faded asphalt,
slid downward unimpeded.
The metal touched the frozen ground,
but the clatter dissolved into pixelated haze
and emitted a delayed, corrupted code.

No monsters, panic, or drama.
Only a crooked technical mesh sticks out.
My finger plunged into the empty essence,
where the marshrutkas don’t run in the morning,
where all reality – worn and unstable.

My index finger suddenly went numb.
Forgetting density, dimensions, and tone…
I wiped my palm on my pants –
no mystery hid in the breach,
only a black abyss and drywall.