A phrase had lodged itself in my head and refused to leave. “Pruning the wings.” In fact, that was the title of a short experimental film that the YouCube website had recommended to me. I never watched it. Lately, I watch less and less of what various sites recommend.

They claim it’s something aligned with your interests, but in reality there’s a hidden image, and the tickling of your interests is the bait you’re meant to bite—so you can swallow the poison along with it. What poison? Well—your problems, complexes, fears, hopes, doubts, and all the other things that a mere hint can activate.

For example, a person might be insecure about a wart on their cheek. At the same time, they might be interested in how to replace a stove burner. What better helper than a website that kindly offers a video showing exactly how to perform the task? And by some coincidence, the technician will have a similar—no, a larger—wart, just to properly tickle the person’s complex. To sting it a little harder.

How would they know about the wart? There are many ways. The person may have searched online for folk remedies to remove a wart. Sounds stupid, I know—but once it gets into your head…

To clear my mind, I decided to go to the hardware store to buy a burner. No, I don’t have a wart.

In front of the neighboring building, a woman was pruning a bush with vineyard shears, humming something to herself. I kept walking. A little further down the street, a car passed me with an advertisement for vineyard shears plastered on its doors. So what? It’s spring. In spring, demand for gardening tools increases. Nothing strange.

The weather was nice. I could have enjoyed the walk instead of thinking about nonsense. I walked and didn’t think about pruning anything. Besides, there’s no need to prune plants at all—let them grow freely.

There were only two customers in the hardware store—a man and a woman. They were asking the clerk how best to trim a hedge. At least they weren’t using the word “pruning.” There is a difference between pruning and trimming, right? There must be.

The clerk replied that hedges are best… pruned with vineyard shears. And he went on and on, explaining in detail, constantly using the word “pruning,” as if hammering it into my head. And he smiled politely.

I couldn’t take it. I left.

I didn’t urgently need a burner anyway—and besides, the other one on the stove still worked. It just wasn’t a day for shopping. There are days like that.

On my way back, I thought about walking through the park—it was on the way home anyway—but… well, I figured there were a lot of bushes there, and I might get a tick. To be safe, I took the longer route along the boulevard.

There, a shop was undergoing renovations, and a worker was pru— pardon me, cutting the end of a protruding plank. Cutting is different, I told myself, and kept going—though somehow I picked up my pace.

Ugh. The front door. Finally. My home is my fortress, as they say. The slam of the door behind me was the most soothing sound imaginable.

But not the sound of an angle grinder!

Someone upstairs had decided to renovate right now. Enough to make you want to sli— cut your veins! Well, good thing I have powerful speakers. Sometimes music really helps.

In the evening, silence finally arrived. My ears were still ringing from the loud music, but at least it was over. My wife had just come home from work. I wasn’t going to tell her anything—she wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

After we greeted each other, she told me that the neighbor had suddenly stopped her downstairs at the entrance, trying to get her to sign a petition for the pruning of a tree next to the building—one of its branches was blocking the view from her window.

Madness.



Boyan Taksirov