- Fiction
I feel the sea with my fingers, feet, ankles, barely swirling – the waves aren’t breaking today. The water slowly envelops my body, as if I am sinking into a well with walls into infinity – where is this feeling from which I am returning?
- Poetry
In my earliest memory
I’m six months old.
Father lays me down on a black duvet
with white polka dots.
- Reviews
Mindaugas Nastaravičius, Antra dalis: eilėraštis (Part two: a poem)
By Linas Daugėla
- Poetry
the mind becomes more mindful
and sight remains insightful
night draws nigh as day recedes
and what is heavy has been heaved
- Essays
I contemplate old age now, while I still can, while I am still capable of recording its features, while I can still see its spies.
- Reviews
Marius Burokas. Seismografas (Seismograph).
By Ugnė Žemaitytė
- Poetry
Dangerous times. Strange days.
No matter when you leave home – it's night.
Night and the flames of camp stoves in the sky
As if a crowd of tourists had waded
Into a forest glade.
- Poetry
The body is my news.
Everything is written there that others need to know.
And they need to know that what I experienced
is not so easy to forget.
- Reflections on Belonging
At some point, especially after war broke out in Ukraine, I realized that not only was there no such thing as a "true European," the very idea of European identity was not a self-explanatory concept, passed down from generation to generation, established once and for all in some document or declaration. The idea of European identity is constantly recreated and reconsidered.
by Narius Kairys
