tey niaga erom tihs

nowadays, I speak the tongue of the Zorza, and I do it with sophistication and I am always hungry to learn... the tongue of Zorza, the language isolate immemorial, is a weird but pretty language, obscure to me until the moment I fully understood it with the blink of a tigers' eye: it is full of swaying diphthongs and triphthongs that flow about slowly and create ligament and tendon to dozen-lettered words ripe with many different meanings at once; it has a hissing, mysterious phonologic aura to it; vibrant and free-flowing; the speculations of the linguist would draw to the harsh-soundingness of the western slavonic tongues... It is reminiscent to some degree to old proto-Polish, although it is way more dense with wovels; as I mentioned, the triphthonged words are rather a standard variety than a hidden curious oddity – but it is completely different from, say, Polish, or Belarusian, which I also thought of, in some fundamental elements; the strange, random and loose syntax with which they construe their sentences was alien to me for the longest time, and the melodies and intonations they interweave into their speech are underpinned with a lot of emotion; they spit ugly words and they make love to beautiful words; all of it with the brooding undertone of passive-aggression; their language exacerbate my infatuations: they tell me their stories over new camp-fires every night as we slowly but steadily approach the beaches opposite Buyan; I am so impressed by their experience; how they are centuries old, having lived through the birth of culture and also having been the first to call out the symptoma of its dilapidation... nevertheless idealistic, radical adolescents, still passionate, still imbued with stern meaningfulness... and the energy and strife with which they chase their goals set aflame an old match I had forgotten somewhere inside me... we never settle for more than a night at the time, and everyday is the laughingstock of the next one...