I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages, because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.

As I sit here, in my final cage, as the world disappears from my eyes, upon everything that happened, I still yearn for freedom, I laugh and scream, in a fever. I cry, my eyes bulged I tumble like a spirit. I hit my own shadows. They pop out of the walls and slap me. Get out of my head.

Cult, cult, just that word, that shitty word in an unrecognizable square, in a room foreign to it for Lord knows how many times now, in the room number 433 of the landlord number 463, ah the numbers mismatch, everything is mismatched because they have it all.

They are counting.

Today is the last day, after my bloodshot eyes read the final murderous thought, after I set aside the revolver, bought with loan money, which I meant to use to blow my brains out, I sit at the table, and my mother, a living corpse, her hair gray and messy and her mouth slobbering in fear, is merely looking, silently reading this text, this goodbye and does not talk back, does not talk me out of using the gun, the noose, for she knows, she is the only living witness. They took her – for me and with me, and, buried alive, stuffed her like a taxidermy animal! Like those birds forever trapped mid-air, shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth. Death turns away from us disgusted, does not want to talk to us, the old Gods are dying of laughter, and the devil joins them. Either the asylum or the sword remain.

I will die a hero, but in order for them not to do it to others…for them not to do it to someone else, I will…I will…in the name of humanity, I will get up, grab a sword and like a horseman of death (for I know where they are) I will cut off their heads mid-flight and their heads will be a beautiful flower bouquets that will adorn my dying flowerpot, like that of a philodendron…ah, but you want to know who they are? Is this but a ramble of a lunatic?

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.

The first specter was back in school. That’s how they began. They choose the most innocent of faces. Someone you would least suspect. Then you come to a sort of metamorphosis, when a spirit of darkness enters the chosen body, takes control and in the grey matter and its synapses under the owner’s forehead, whether good or evil, crafts a sort of idea, emotional conditioning, they maybe use genetic engineering, Imhotep’s wisdom, Lovecraft’s magic, maybe. I have not uncovered this with certainty. The metamorphosis process lasts for years, without the body noticing, but somehow thinking that the thoughts that were sent by THEM their own.

This is where the separation begins. The tearing to pieces. The introduction of chaos. The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan from whose monstrosity I shiver even now when I don’t give a damn.

Why would a man not accept an offered cup of coffee, a hug, comforting? It was always a group. First the school. They had to choose the most vile, monstrous among them, in a group, to attack me the minute they saw me. It started with silent hatred, despising and revulsion as THE BODY OF THE VICTIM, and I speak for myself, although I’m sure there are more out there, turns towards the ATTACKED BODY AND MIND in the state of metamorphosis.

This becomes the leader of the brood mother. Then the other hornets retreat after they had set the stage. The leader, a turned humanoid, addresses me as ‘dear friend’, he sits in my lap, he even awakens in me if not lust, then the desire for human closeness.

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthetize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

The spirit of darkness, it is the world which crystalized the supernatural world of pure unadulterated terror. Subconsciously they work on the victim, and the CHOSEN MIND is chained to its protectors with wickedness.

This way, THEY head the earthly peoples. In time they learned that it’s somewhat more wicked and effective to work on individuals and they invented the method of destruction they used on me.

THE BROOD MOTHER takes info from the virus chain and the virus releases its wrath into the poisoned mind, into the senses, and it slowly creaks open the door of the supersensual world in Man and give him a few glimpses into him being able to sense it all…to be an announcement, a witness, a howl in the desert, only to finally get him in an asylum or make him commit suicide.

I did not believe all of this before, that there was an anti-spiritual leadership, a sacral dragon of darkness, a creation of a sick human mind in a lonely world which suffers for the destruction of the old world and the advancement of the new one which is created, maybe a long time ago, in dark caves of blinded pyramids, somewhere at the dawn of time, caves where select corpses for scientific observation and reanimation tumbled.

They planned this out well, but missed one crucial detail – there are too many writers in the world.

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

They use corpses, the most vile, cleverest archetypes of whores and killers…they implant their brains in the human molecule, the dead cell remains dead, but it still multiplies unusually imitating the human immune system, to make it look like human living tissue, but it isn’t. They behave in the early stages of metamorphosis like wise men or somewhat more reasonable beings than the average lot.

It is then that they send the information on a mysterious wave which they insert into the molecule, the brain of THE CHOSEN body, they send the radiation, create a mutation, and it creates a type of hunger, desire to devour an individual it came down on completely, at the beginning of an unconscious process that’s occurring.

This is how a soul starts getting dirty, getting vile and dishonored. The creature, turned, despite looking human on the outside, is but a replica, born in the night, a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves. In order to cover up the deathliness and the enormous wickedness of their plan, the Chosen ones have the fairest faces and words, like hidden knives they were taught to use to pick the victim’s innermost layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure, a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure craves blood, reading all of my innermost desires and fears from the deciphered map of the mind. This is when I also go through a metamorphosis. I become a stumbling cave dweller who blindly feels everything up in the darkness and stumbles along the catacombs surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed and the slaughtered and ready for testing. The brain exchange is complete, and the proof of this are the retarded statuses I post on social media and the blood I spit on the screen, upon vomiting – for in the final phase, some try to resist, an unplanned, human, nature-provided ability to shift focus and fear for the bare sense. The optical ability enhances, images of merry demons smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues, upon the rapid degradation of potential to maintain one’s own I and in this struggle, the eyes expand, bulging in fear, staring at the monster, the shifted human form which has the same countenance, but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings, whose disgusting, dry mouth open and utter the Kafkian judgment: She is bad, she is selfish and only thinks of herself.

This is where the compilation comes of several entities pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors in one singular entity, hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

THE MAN goes through the processes of disbelief and self-accusation, for at the end of the day the question of personal involvement in the clash and the following sudden departure of a loving being comes in, a being that uttered a judgment out of nowhere, using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think, to use a flaw in its mind map, while the CREATURE had for years been accumulating the power to submit the man to its own moral metrics and laws of fidelity.

This is the human propensity for the animalistic. This is his propensity to go in pairs and be bound to a pack, they know it. Even if the pack was, in this case, by way of modern technology, made up of a single person that holds meaning to this man which will take a few more appliances with her to completely destroy, compromise and annihilate the person.


I was fleeing the city where the first Creature caught me. After a decade of lying down, my tired eyes opened. I was alone, but I got up,. I knew that the provincial folk of K. are nudging and laughing, maintaining that my experiences were, indeed, unusual, but worthy of psychiatric study. This was how I lay, alone, in black wreckage, while my mother, as well as my aunt who still wasn’t transformed at the time, extended their hands, replaced the pledgets on my head and carefully watched me, always from the same point, mildly creak-opening the decrepit mouse-colored door, peeling and crumbling.

I would stare ardently at them.

– I was stripped of control by that bastard the Lord. I was in church… and I saw the Buddhist from Burma standing on his head.

– Poor kid – my desperate grandma would say. No one could transform her. To her even without the Controller the universal reality consisted of no more than a handful of cigarette buds and other than rage at the useless, impotent God who punishes the good and awards the weak, she made her own, by a strange unnamed force, knowledge of something that cannot be known, but merely believed, but she behaved as if she knew. It was her hiding spot.

I wonder if the reason for her immunity to the cult Lunatics in the disunited country and my resistance to it was in fact the golden vein instead of a regular one, the one in our bodies. In hers Russian white flowed instead of blood. I bet that even her blood was white. Like with the popular White Walkers, two decades later, with their thing being to sow the blood and death, stopped by a hero… while in actuality like any experienced Satanist they sold money and water in order to give the weak-minded, like the Turned, the hope that they will live in peace with their zombified brain until the…well, the end of their days.

In that black wreckage my ass was joined to the bed, the femininity was no cause for hysteria, but rather the end horror of it. The grotesque calls were repeating themselves. Still, back then I still believed that the wicked calls are a secret devotion, an unbending pride, a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions that the friendship between me and the monster, called Ivana, was possible.

It wasn’t a friendship I owed moments of erotic bliss. Whenever she was entering my head, she did it with roots, the wind, the breath of tropical sun. Is there anything more sweet for the Controllers than to make that particular misshapen friend deal a powerful blow, with a knife in the chest, and then to devote insane and grotesque calls which left me mute and in the most horrific of pain

And when the Creature sticks a knife in your back, everything moans in bliss.

No, that swift knife did not come by itself from the hand of my beautiful loving friend. This was my fault, me, Aitia, the cause, I did something horribly wrong, shameful and wrong. What? Does it matter? I snobbishly discarded the cowardly lack of will of the people to stand up against the dictatorship of S. M. and peddled at their flaws.

In other words, I was using my distraught brain seek the cause even in my own guilt and burry myself deeper, not have someone else do it, like Mengele, on one of his ecstatic cult-like performances behind the black curtains, but…ah, this is self-examination! This is how I got their attention.

– She requires a more subtle blow… Resistance is too big…I repeat, Huxley, the resistance is too big. – Where did I hear that before? It sent chills down my spine, it pierced through me like a horn, me at lobotomy class and still nothing. They must have planned to leave me here to lie and die. They were too powerful.

I could say so many things of my lying, which was preceded by an awakening, and in it was born a dream and again an illusion, then pain, memory, repenting. Too human. Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep? No, I must do this myself for them to mask their existence, and I would liken an insane person and they would become one more victim the richer, those who know of the human mind more than before my death, then the further development of technology of destruction of Man would ensue, right there near the end of the century, on the threshold of the creation of modern man.

I won’t speak of the particulars of me moving to Belgrade, for that cannot be approached in any other way than the old fashioned one: what does a prisoner feel when the jailor lets him go? A neat little zero that I was, a pathetic dying woman with new adventures before her, I made a step into another dungeon, bigger than the first. And the first one contracted, shrunk and tightened into a cellar that pulsates into the mind where locked up demons scream, the slobbering spirits of darkness, and I am sticking my tongue out through the keyhole and stick the tip of said tongue through an old well-crafted jail lock, so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

Me, poor and nameless, triumphantly felt the walls of my tomb in Kragujevac, while the other Crag-ujevac folk stared at me squinting a tad, not openly wickedly, but rather like they were holding up their breath and the liturgy words of exceptional power and magical pretending that they care that I’m leaving (to a degree they did, at least the ones that weren’t Converted).

But, there were ones who told me that the ones who remained I was looking at with an eye of mockery, as if they were mages, insane and criminals, as if…as if we were the ones who held you against your will.

And it was no longer important what was said, nor the enchanting passion and force behind the ‘Ah, you will come back to us soon’ wickedness with a wink, but a concept of rhythm and tempo wherein the uttered swung enchanted, rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness or whatever was sent to get me to pick completely gray, meaningless and messy faces and plant in their mouths narratives, sentences and judgments which their minds, thinking humanly intuitively and wickedly, could not say it at all, because those judgments were uttered with a dark force which the mind of the provincial person which collapses itself into the nothingness of the subject, i.e. itself, with its icy passions, cannot even hate too much. They especially cannot express themselves in that magically silent way in which the great demons terrify, threaten and curse every person who manages to force them out of his or her body or to fight back.

What a speech it was: rough, brutal, yet silent and dark as if pumped with the presence of the spirits there for eons , the true polyglots, storms of words, yet calming, mildly warning, a style much too stylized for these gargoyles, in no way grounded, but rather tactless and hyperbolic.

This is how it would have been, and I explain this in detail for such situations and masquerades performed by the Evil Spirits will go on in what I can now fairly call well-directed film intervals:

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere, for I had not seen so many people while I was by myself, as if a pseudo-country was forming, a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting, well-intentioned advice from good people whose faces I have not seen once in my life. Panel:

Soft, muddy picture, then the image comes into focus and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes. Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion and that would last for ten seconds or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening down there, everyone who ever hated me, eating sandwiches and sowing leather jackets that I pay on a loan, then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things in it as if they were laying my corpse in a sarcophagus . Who are these men? How come there are so many good intentions in this…

Ah, they are counting.

I did not know back then that it was THEM.

Still, a couple of furies jumped out then, a close-up, then in the background. And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me, they giggle, and judging by their crooked mouths and vile laughter that adorned their faces the shadows danced. And they said, with me neither living nor dead but watching a scene before me of a fury that controls the others moving among these poor souls that speak more stylized than Hamlet when he is simulating…with a movie rhythm that came from the perfect juxtaposition of all the insane panels:

– This is now your celebration! And we perform our craft packing your suits, consciously, how we were ordered.

They then bowed and disappeared.

As I jerked myself out of that dream, I understood it the way I should have: a volcanic explosion of stress, a creative dream of a wannabe author, a young rising writer who never really started rising, whose first and final stop was the Damned Mire.

And from now on this is what I’ll call Belgrade. And of Belgrade itself and the triumph of bleak oafs whom the hunger for stealing and devouring of souls, those turned as well as the simple ones, regular ones, harmless bandits lead to me I will devote an entire chapter someday. Migrants. All of them migrants, they shouldn’t be judged. All human, like one, always seeking something and striving towards something, all of them vicious, worried about their own hide, they bow to themselves and their carelessness repeatedly.

But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum, that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker, liar with a crippled child in his arms, nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me, but indeed the faggots did it first, and then the yurodivi, the church flowers of evil.

And I will devote a special part to the first Ethereal Archbishop of Evil, called Hermangandar, for this schismatic cultist, hieromonk apostate, he was the first to welcome me to Belgrade, he, the Presbyterian of the church embezzled on the schismatic Convocation where his followers were taking Communion. The silver-tongued told me clearly that nothing but self-exile awaits if I do not do what he would do for me had he won me over, me, the detractor of his Divine presence on Earth, this Protosyncellus who became prominent on this cultist website where they got me in a dialogue with those cut off from everything good, clean and honorable, sexually speaking.

And now comes the history of the events of sense provided in advance where I will list them ALL, their names (this is where they get weaker, watch films and listen to myths, there is truth to that…), write them down, through all of their trickery, cheating of existence, metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed. And when I jot them all down, I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate as if it were the fate of an avenger, my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

The spiteful spirit writes it all down as it were, chronologically, for them to walk first along the facts of my handiwork, to read…

Until they tear off all their clothes and fingers.

With claws and spikes.




Široka katedrala sa zvonikom
nakon deset minuta ćutanja u snu,
na deset načina me doziva svesti.
Probudih se tako sto sam se lecnula
obrisala znoj između grudi, na spoju rebaraca.

Čuvam snove, iako su oni kao vreme,
zarobljeni u kakvom staklu poluispijene čaše.
Snovi vrve sačuvanim predmetima i bićima,
noć u njima je i ništa i sve,
i verujem i ne verujem u simbole
neiskorišćene ljubavi.

Takav je San, kao ploča što ponavlja,
neprekidno objavljuje uzbunu,
parodiju na ponavljanja.
to je san koji uzdrma živce i ode, neobičan,
staklast, erotski poput mrtvaca
ubačenog u sanduk sa postavljenim stolnjacima.


Umirem na ostrvima kojima nisam mogla verovati
i baš zato me privlače i baš zato se u njih zaljubljujem
zbog kula I zidina koji deluju kao utvrda.
zbog daha karnevala I erotičnih strujanja.
miris Venecije dekadentnog I raskalašnog
u istom času smelog i introvertnog okusa.
Venecija, mirođija koja nudi i čini živim.
tamna I teška, zatvorena, zimi i promiskuitetna leti.
žena zarobljena u muškom imenu. I obrnuto.


Vi ste bedni ljudi
bedniji od starinskog ormana
veliki u mrenom obloženom oku..
pomicaj naslepo na jastuku, sve maske će spasti.

U ruci držite maramice jer kijate i slinite bez prestanka
i volite belu boju, kao i golubove koji šetaju bezazleno
ispred vratnica ludnice.

Okolo mene na vas zaudara, a ja sam prokleto lepa

u praznini škrinje
soba mi je grobnica
u Snu
gde kraljevi i hulje
zagledaju u krvave stope
koju prati moja golotinja
pobediće golotinju
u koju bulje
kraljevi i hulje
beli I stameni kamen oblaci

Džinovski divovi prohujaće nebom
rasplamsaće olujnu vatru
vetar kraj otvorenog prozora
nek’ iskrvari svojim tokom

U crvenilu strahote pene se sivi kumulusi,
na zemlju puštam
oluju, kišu, sneg i zmije
i svuda će popadati zmije I razleći će se po blatu.
a blato je gutalo zmiju I zmija je gutala blato.


Golgota se razlistava kroz vreme
izbrisano iz svesti, savija put dalje
oskudno – žednima, teturaju se u pravcu stada
mrtvi na nogama
i njihovi pastiri

Zemlja je mala, umrežena, prava mesta plasiraju, prave ljude.
samo treba biti tamo i ne verovati nikom i ne voleti nikog.
tek tada su mogućnosti za uspeh ogromne.

Nada je kič koji hoda, ali časno ju je imati
po skerletnom zakonu bede
(zaglavljena u oštrici sekire dželata Henrija Osmog,
malo izguljena od čvrstog stiska

Ipak ću danas izaći
izložiću sebe pogledu, pustiću da me vode i pričaju
na lice ću ugraditi izraz uverljivog slušaoca
oni će misliti da je to zbog njih
ja ću znati da je to zbog mene
i pre nego što se umotam u novi, nadolazeći san,
opet uznemirena

Došla je Golgota
da me probode
da me vaskrsne

Nema vise objavljivanja na netu. Cekajte izlaske knjiga iz stampe. Izvinjavam se postenim citaocima.

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Update group photo.
Prepiska sa tvitera – malocas, nakon sto sam postavila dve price o Borisu.
Od sad, pa na dalje, vise necu postavljati javno svoj materijal, ma o cemu se radilo i ma koliko godina trajalo, na uvid svakom ko moze da zloupotrebi, jer su dosla neka cudna vremena, a ja imam dovoljno losih iskustava da bih svoj rad izlagala svakojakim vrstama internet silovanja od strane internet bolesnika koji mal mal pa mi upadaju u mejl, u vezi mog literarnog materijala, evidentno opskrbljeni pogolemim programerskim znanjem, bilo da su filolozi ili maratonci.
Iako je moj materijal zasticen, nije za svacije oci. Generalno: Veliki problem na internetu jeste kradja materijala. Lopova nije briga za autorska prava.

Uzgred, clanak o Borisu je skinut mnogo pre nego portal e – novine. Evidentno je da je ovo neko ko cuva sve clanke o Borisu, prati, cak ja nemam taj clanak… Mislila sam da je u pitanju entuzijastican citalac, ali to svakako nije. Ili ne na dobar nacin. Ko je? Nemam pojma.
Ali, nije dobronameran. U pitanju je, takođe, poznati ton, poznati osećaj, poznati okus u ustima.. nista dobro, kao sto bi Cohle rekao: psihosfera…
Ali, nakon svega sto mi se desilo, interesuje me. Izgleda da danas covek mora da ide okolo ozvucen i s copy paste priborom u ruci, ili da izbegava bilo kakvu komunikaciju osim one nuzne.

nadimak: avanture borisa K.
avanture borisa K.
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Intermeco: Boris K. ume da bude veoma nezgodan lik, znam to iz iskustva. Kad sam s njim, ja postajem neko drugi, neko ko se obrađuje, neko „u procesu“: Jozef K., lično. Ne bih li pokušao za promenu ja njega da mučim, kupio sam mu preskupu kartu za koncert, kako bi se izvesno vreme osećao neprijatno što sam izdvojio toliko novca. Ali, moj prijatelj ima čudnu naviku da za svoj rođendan poklanja drugima poklone.

Ove godine poklonio mi je knjigu kratkih priča pod nazivom „Avanture Borisa K.“ Leile Samarrai. U posveti piše: „… Za tebe od Borisa K. Čitaj samo naslove.“ Priznao mi je da je kupio nekoliko primeraka i da je svima poklanja. Kakva je knjiga, pitam. Nemam pojma. Otvorim nešto nasumično da vidim, kad ono, naslov priče: Boris K. i Proces. Počinje ovako: „Sreo Boris K. Jozefa K. u momentu dok je ovaj iščekivao pogubljenje, glave prislonjene o krvavu stenu… ponudi se da podmetne svoju glavu umesto njegove…“ Ali tu se priča naglo prekine, baš kad spiker stade da najavljuje početak drugog dela koncerta.

avanture borisa K.
Jois je neko pisao o Borisu K.

50m 38 minutes ago
Leila Samarrai
taj tekst je sklonjen sa e novina. pisao je neki Istvan Kaic koji mi nikad nije odgovorio na obracanje, a valjda ga je znao tadasnji izdavac koji mi je napravio mnogo problema – krsenje autorskih prava, mobingovanje, sklanjanje tekstova, bojkot, niko ne objavljuje i slicno. Ako imas FB, mozes me dodati, pa da kopiramo ovaj tvoj tekst koji si ti sacuvao i da stavimo da je link sklonjen – pomocice mi da pokazem da sam mobingovana i da ne pricam prazne price. Taj izdavac dostampava Borisa, prodaje, a da ja nemam nikakav uvid u to. Pokusao je i da mi izbojkotuje promociju.. Pisem nastavak, prevescu ga i postavicu ga vani jer sam ovde – mobingovana, jednostavno receno. I pokradena i prevarena od samozvanih knjizevnika i trgovaca koji sebe nazivaju izdavacima posto se pravi knjitzevnici ne bave takvim mutnim radnjama. Dakle, ako zelis, dodaj me na fb.. tamo sam uglavnom da bih igrala igricu Criminal Case 🙂 Naravno, oni ne mogu da me sprece da pisem, kao sto vidis. I da idem van granica Srbije jer Boris tamo pripada, u sta sam se uverila saradnjom sa “strancima”. Ovo stavljam pod navodnike jer vece strance ne videh nigde nego u Srbiji. Gross…
avanture borisa K.
E-novine vise ne postoje, nemam fb

p.s Cek cek… ja sam autor Borisa K. eno me na Wikipediji, knjiga je objavljena, nalazi se u biblioteci i moje autorstvo je neupitno. Ponavljam, to je pisao u okviru neke kao “reklame”, davno.. neki Istvan Kaic kog uopste ne znam. Kad sam mu se obratila, nije mi odgovorio. Nije ni cudo, cak je jedan Amer hteo da mi pokrade pricu, ukoliko vec nije, jer me je u ime toga da ce objaviti Borisa u svom casopisu kontaktirao da mu pojasnim neke stvari koje mu nisu bile jasne, a ja sam mislila da je to urednicki deo i da zeli da se pozabavi nekim urednickim sitnicama, no on je iskoristio moja objasnjenja i nestao, iako sam ga i zvala i pisala mu – nisam mogla da verujem koliko daleko ide.. pogotovo sto je zastupljen na internetu i uredjuje knjige.

Tad sam prestala da saljem svoje price casopisima i zatvorila sam pola bloga, ostavljajuci nesto sto im, po mojoj proceni, nije dovoljno interesantno. Pitam se, takodje, sta se zbilo s neobjavljenim pricama koje sam slala casopisima i koje su odbijene.  Gde li su zavrsile i pod cijim imenom. Gde je tu garancija? Ima li je? 



Dakle, niko nije pisao o Borisu izuzev mene, tu je svako objasnjenje suvisno, ali ton tvoje recenice mi govori, onako kafkijanski, da nije… osim ako neko ne pise fan fikciju i to losu.. u pomenutom e – novine slucaju, ili je zeleo da promovise, ali izdavac se potrudio i da se to skine. Promocija Borisa je odrzana u Parobrodu. A ko si ti – Borisov fan? 🙂

Leila Samarrai
dobro. Uzivaj u citanju.
avanture borisa K.
ne, ja sam Boris K.

Leila Samarrai
ako si Boris K. onda ces znati ko je bio Ignasijus Halverson…

mnogi zele da budu Boris K. ali jednostavno to ne mogu. Pisi fan fikciju. (savet)

Leila Samarrai
Izvini, zvucis mi sad malo uvrnuto. jedino ako se identifikujes s Borisovim likom do te mere.. da li je to u pitanju?
avanture borisa K.
laku nocFGD