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Wager by Umorni

Samo moram pitati Umornog je li Valez ili Vaskez? :)

A sunray on my forearm. A few dried conifer needles tucked between the hairs. The sun makes them transparent. An ant moving about in directions known only to him. A blade of grass in his mouth. And my gaze, still sleepy, observing all of this. My ears detect a silent conversation, without registering its meaning. I don't give a damn, I'll go on sleeping. As I'm closing my eyes, I can feel fatigue weighing me down. Just before dawn, as part of a recon operation, we came near their trenches, moved about for a couple of hours, removed a couple of mines and since the order to attack never came, we returned to our positions. Someone's hand on my forearm, a light squeeze and words: “Wake, up! You really don't want to miss this...”

Opening my eyes again and looking at my forearm, the ant and his blade of grass are now gone. As I lift my upper body to a sitting position, a combat vest falls off my chest. These caring, mother-like gestures are not exactly commonplace around here. Still, one of my comrades was making sure I don't end up with inflamed kidneys. Nice, really nice. It must've been Rale. Looking around I realize that apart from a few faces well known to me, there are several other completely new too me. Different, too. I mean we're not a sight to behold, but we're quite different from these guys. They have beards. Long and differently groomed bears from what I'm used to. They're wearing our uniforms, but from my position I can't see the insignia on the sleeves of their uniform. I ask, silently: “Who are they?” Neno leans over and replies in an equally conspiratorial whisper: “Mujos” [Transl. note: mujahideen, coll. mujos] To my next question as to what are they doing here, he shrugs his shoulders and says: “I have no idea. Đokarto seems to be striking some sort of a deal with them, but I have no idea what's the nature of this deal!” Only a step away from us Đokarto is indeed talking with one of them, with others forming a semicircle. They're listening attentively to the conversation. No smiling faces among them.

I've heard of their lot, but so far I haven't seen them up close and personal. Each and every face is unmistakably ours. That strange peasant-like shape of both head and the body. Most of them are young, ruddy youth. At twenty-five I'm not too far from their age either. I rest my gaze on their leader: bumpy head and a fiery look in his eyes. Different from that of others. Maybe the look in his eyes explains his dominant role. His body speaks of many hours spent in labor, hard physical labor. The visible muscles are lean and sinewy. Rale is holding his automatic rifle on his lap, making it look casual, but holding his finger on the trigger and with the barrel of the gun pointed at them. One of them is doing the same. I can tell that the rest of my comrades are equally clueless about what’s happening, but it’s easy to figure out that they’re not to be messed with. And then again, Đokarto is a serious swindler with con always on his mind.

I've known Đokarto since the first days of the war. Full three and a half years now. Actually, I used to see him in the years before the war in my neighborhood since he's much older than me. He was hanging around with those hard-to-define guys who were neither alkies, nor thieves nor neighborhood's tough guys, and yet a little bit of all of that. From the first days of the war, he had this ring, which apparently he was never going to sell, but given the situation he was forced to do it. No way around it. The ring was old, massive, with a stone on it, but nothing too impressive. A person to whom Đokarto decided to offer it would unmistakably like the ring, and following their brief chat, I and possibly a couple of other guys would get loaded with food and booze supplies. After we've moved on and after it's been established that the ring is no longer on Đokarto's finger, he'd inevitably remember that he'd forgotten something and head back. Upon return the ring is again on his finger and logistics on our backs. Đokarto, the magician. I myself never managed to get anything for free from these villagers, not even a bottle of whey for my jaundiced liver. There were stories in circulation that he still somehow paid for the food and booze, but I knew that he hadn’t had any money in his pockets for years. Some even checked his boots, finding nothing but the foul odor of sweat.

Đokarto and this leader of theirs are headed now in our direction. I see the Islamic inscriptions on his clothes. His face is tanned and uncorrupt. Something tells me there won’t be any problems. But again, it’s hard to tell what’s cooking in Đokarto's mind. “Merhaba, guys”, comes the greeting from him. “Merhaba to you too”, we reply in unison. Đokarto asks him: “Which three do you want?” He points his finger at Neno, Valez and King. Đokarto says: “All right. Let's now agree on the time”. The other guy pauses for a second as if weighing different options and says: “Fifteen minutes”. Đokarto waves his head: “Too little… Really too little time!” “Is half an hour okay?”, the other guy suggests. Đokarto nods in agreement and extends his hand. The mujos' leader does not reciprocate, saying his word is enough of a guarantee. Is it really, and for what, all of us wonder. As he goes back to join his comrades, Đokarto is bringing us into the picture: “Don't ask anything. Neno, you're covering the first company, Valez the second and you King the third company. Go from one dugout to the other and take from each, how shall I put it, Vlach [Transl. note: offensive term for a Serb] his military ID card and bring it back to me... Take ID cards from those whose names can go either way too... And make sure you take all of them, from each and every Vlach!” A few quick questions are thrown at Đokarto, but he waves them off: “No questions, right... Take all such ID cards and tell them they'll have them back in half an hour. This is what you need to tell them. If need be, give them a cigarette or two, promise a pack. Do whatever you need to do, just bring them all... I'm not goofing around and trust me when I say that it'll pay off for all of us!”

The three of them get on their feet unenthusiastically, with Đokarto hurrying them up: “Hey, don't sabotage me here. The stakes are too high!” They head off each in their own direction. They'll need less than half an hour to make a round of ten to fifteen dugouts of each of the three companies. Đokarto is silent while the rest of us shower him with questions. After a short while, he finally starts telling us the story, though reluctantly as if it pains him to share the details: “Yesterday, I was in the village... well, one of the villages. I had one drink too many. The owner just kept sipping and I saw no reason to protest. These guys were passing by the shop, and it so happened that at that moment one of the villagers called me by my name. They started at the sound of my name, asking me for the name again. I repeated it for them loud and clear, and the very next moment they all grabbed their guns. Whoa, I said come on guys, we are in the same army, fighting for the same cause, showing them at the same time my military ID card. They passed it among themselves, visibly shocked and not believing their own eyes. So I asked them: “Haven't you seen a Vlach in the Army [of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina]?” This leader of theirs, whom you'd just met, said: “We did hear that there were some Sarajevans here, with a few Vlachs in their unit.” Since I was quite drunk, I riposted by saying: “A few Vlachs, you say. There are more of us than you!” His brow furrowed as he studied me more closely: “Are you some sort of their commander?” “Yes.” “Commander of what?” “Of an intervention company.” “Okay. Well, I guarantee there are more of us in my unit than your people in the company...”

At this point, Rale was shaking his head: “Have you got no brains at all in that thick head of yours! Couldn't you find someone else to outsmart?!” “That's not all, there's more”, Đokarto chipped in. “Anyway, there are 37 of them in their unit. And I made a bet with him that there're at least ten more of us. Next, we agreed on terms of this wager: a ten kilos lamb, the real thing, perfect for roasting, for the ten men exceeding their number, and for every additional man a liter of plum brandy per Vlach, I mean, per man!!” Rale is looking at him incredulously: “You're a complete idiot. What were you thinking?! There are quite many of you in the unit, but no one ever counted you. As we speak, at least one third of the entire unit is roaming the forest, picking mushrooms, begging for food and brandy in the nearby villages, and some even sneaked away to see their relatives for a couple of days. I also know for a fact that two of these, Vlachs as you call them, are now busy fishing on one of the forest creeks…” “So, all is well if we find them, but what if the number is not sufficient, what do we pay?” “Well, the same, minus the brandy”, Đokarto replied in a less assured voice.

I'd gladly burst out laughing. One of those hysterical laughs. Cramps in the stomach are starting, but something abruptly stops them. This is simply not something to goof about. What a moron, what a combination. A Serb enters into a wager with mujos on the number of Vlachs with brandy as stakes… What will come out of this stupidity?!… “And just how exactly do you mean to pay them a lamb, if we lose the wager, because we drank all our money, you idiot!” “Well, we agreed on the real lamb, not money. If need be, we'll nab one in the village, not much of a problem.” I couldn't but feel that this plan just kept getting better and better!

Valez came back. He hands over a pile of military ID cards to Đokarto who counts them one by one. Twelve altogether. “I told Hasko to do another round immediately to find a couple more... And you owe me three packs of cigarettes. I had no time to bargain.” Đokarto checks his watch, wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue and says: “Ten more minutes”. Rale adds resignedly: “You could've accepted the first option of fifteen minutes. It would've been the same for you. No, it would've been the same for us since you dragged us into this mess.” Neno comes back hurriedly. “This is all I managed to collect”, he says still gasping for breath. Đokarto counts them and a small smile escapes his mouth: “It could work out. There're sixteen here, which makes it 28 so far. We're still nine short from the figure of 37. I think that King has most of them”. I felt like throwing in a jab: “It could... only if he made it on time. He's got two more minutes. Who knows if bros are tolerant on the issue of slight modification to the contract. In the business world, these minor changes are often accepted in passing, of course if they work to the mutual satisfaction of both parties.”

Đokarto is looking in their direction. If up to this point it hasn't been entirely clear to him what he got himself into, just looking at them explained the full extent of the fuck-up. Their gaze is fixed on their watches and none of them are smiling. In fact, they’ve all assumed somber expressions and seem fed up with this nonsense, now that they've had a chance to absorb imbecility of the wager. At this moment, King exits from the thick forest. The thirtieth minute is ticking away. Doing his best to make it look real, Đokarto smiles nonchalantly and shouts: “Run King, run!” King doesn't hear him and is dragging his feet over the clearing. “Run you moron, run!”, all of us are shouting now. Although he doesn't understand the reason behind our shouting, he recognizes the edginess in our voices and runs the rest of the way. Đokarto impatiently snatches the ID cards from him… Next, their leader comes closer: “Bro…, bro…”, he was going to say brother or brothers before biting his tongue. For a second or two, he's at a loss of how to address us, thinking of a suitable term: “Sarajevans, the time is up. We won the wager.” “No way, my watch shows two more minutes”, Đokarto stretches his arm to show him the time. He managed to return the clock when no one was looking. “Besides, that's not the point of the wager. We're all interested in the number, aren't we?” He's looking at us with those fiery eyes. And then without saying a word, he turns and goes back to his people. They're talking in whisper now, which signals danger. Rale is no longer the only one with automatic rifle in his hands. Doing our best not to be noticed, we've all taken our weapons, unlocked them and placed them nonchalantly on our laps. Fuck you Đokarto, fuck you big time! The last thing we needed was to have a shootout with these guys within the radius of ten meters. If the shooting starts, chances of survival for both us and them are below zero.

Đokarto is counting the remaining ones, one by one, eleven altogether. I detect a relief on his face. Valez is smiling as he takes another four out of his pockets. He's now talking to Đokarto in a low voice: “Try these too. You have Zlatan, Goran, Damir, but they have Muslim surnames. And this Jasmin has a Croat surname. Just mix them up with others.” Shuffling the ID cards in his hands, Đokarto turns to them and exclaims: “You decide what you want to do, but I'm starting the reading out loud and the count…” He then proceeded to read from and show each and every individual military ID card in full voice to his befuddled audience: “1. Boris A.; 2. Slaven D., wounded twice in combat; 3. Goran B., 4. Zoran B., these two are brothers …. 37. Viktor G, this one is a Jew, the only one in the Army that I know of … 42. Nenad M, the guy with the moustache, one of those who brought the ID cards, and 43. That would be me, and you saw mine yesterday.”

He turns on his heel and returns to us. He's content as he senses victory. After a couple of minutes, their leader comes over: “We accept this as proof. Come in three hours to K., to Osman’s house. There will be a skinned lamb on spit waiting for you there and brandy too. There'll be an extra bottle from me. We're not going to try it. No grudges, okay? Alahimanet bro..., Sarajevans!” “I have to tell you that you are at least two years late. If you came by at that time, there'd be at least twice as many of these names. Just so that you know“, Đokarto says as they leave. Murmur among us is getting louder now. An entire lamb and 7 liters of brandy for us... how many? I count to eleven. Enough for all of us, even for some uninvited guests… We're chatting amidst the thick smoke of cigarettes. No sign of tension from just a little while ago. We figured out the place for a spit, allowing us all to lean against the trees. Duties have been distributed. Đokarto and I are in charge of small logistics, others will pick up wood from the forest and prepare some mean embers. Valez will try to get a kilo or two of potatoes from that widow of his. And some salad too. Neno is already off to the kitchen to steal some salt and margarine… Hooray for imbecile bets! … Yippee, we're having a party, party, par-ty!!



Ove mi filmove prikažite u Sa i eto me


Germany/UK/Australia, 2018

On an isolated island in the Indian Ocean, land crabs migrate in their millions from the jungle to the sea. The same jungle hides a high-security Australian detention centre where thousands of asylum seekers have been locked away indefinitely. Their only connection to the outside world is trauma counsellor Poh Lin Lee.


USA, 2018, 94 min

Mobbed by iPhone cameras and pushy reporters, 23-year-old Nadia Murad leads a harrowing but vital crusade: to find the most influential platforms in the world and speak out on behalf of the embattled Yazidi community who face mass extermination by ISIS militants. Having narrowly escaped with her own life, Nadia must now relentlessly recount on radio shows, at rallies, and even on the floor of the United Nation’s general assembly her ordeal as a Yazidi sex slave and witness to her family’s brutal killings. Though excruciating, she forces herself to revisit these realities again and again. For without her testimony, the genocide happening right in front of the world’s eyes might go completely unnoticed.


Spain, 2018, 96 min

The Silence of Others reveals the urgent and ongoing struggle of victims of Spain’s 40-year dictatorship under General Franco, who continue to seek justice to this day. Filmed over six years, the film follows victims and survivors as they organize the groundbreaking “Argentine Lawsuit” and fight a state-imposed amnesia of crimes against humanity, in a country still divided four decades into democracy.


A Journey to the Fumigated Towns is the final episode made by Fernando Solanas in a series of 8 films dedicated to the Argentinian’s crisis in the 21st century. Based on testimonies, re-creations, archives and photos, this investigative documentary reveals not only the after-effects of the soya’s model and other GMO’s grain productions with agrochemicals, on the health of the Argentinian people but also the global and environmental consequences.Fernando Solanas unfolds dramatic stories and testimonies from locals, farmers and researchers. As a fearless director and a senator, he is convinced that Eco-agriculture produces food for everyone in a natural and profitable way.


Austria, 2018, 92 min

Agbogbloshie, Accra is the largest electronic waste dump in the world. About 6000 women, men and children live and work here. They call it „Sodom“. Every year about 250.000 tons of sorted out computers, smartphones, air conditions tanks and other devices from a faraway electrified and digitalized world end up here. Illegally. Cleverly interwoven, the destinies of the various protagonists unravel the complex story of this apocalyptic society. Their very personal inner voices allow a deep insight into life and work at this place – and of Sodom itself. And you can be sure - it will most probably be the final destination of the smartphone, the computer you buy today.


Austria, 2018, 97 min

A film about truth and lies and how a dishonest man can rise to power. Ruth Beckermann documents the process of uncovering former UN Secretary General Kurt Waldheim’s wartime past. It shows the swift succession of new allegations by the World Jewish Congress during his Austrian presidential campaign, the denial by the Austrian political class, the outbreak of anti-Semitism and patriotism, which finally led to his election. Created from international archive material and what Beckermann shot at the time, the film shows that history repeats itself time and time again.


Landslide architecture by Hybrid

Ciglane is Sarajevo's neighborhood built in the early 1980s at the location that used to be home to an old brick factory. The neighborhood sprang up on a landslide entirely in line with the systemic idealism that had failed to recognize the moment in time when the development of a solid and compact state project turned into building castles in the air. Envisaged as the peak of Sarajevan elitism, the Ciglane project successfully ignored the fact that the bigger they are the harder they fall, or that a dung beetle is not supposed to climb trees because at some point it'll inevitably roll down. In any case, upon its completion Ciglane became Sarajevo's first true snobby neighborhood with its residents ranked in three categories: those at the bottom (privileged grounding with bathroom tiles made of the Chinese porcelain, which was the subject of scandal year after year) – with these slots “rightfully” belonging exclusively to the most deserving cadre of the JNA (Yugoslav National Army), next, those pinned in the hillside who for a decade and a half pretended they knew what it meant to have their back covered, especially if it was Mount Everest behind their back (the higher middle class of non-military orientation) and, finally, those who found themselves on top of the hill, mostly inconsequential left-leaning dummies who simply weren't important enough do get luxurious apartments at the bottom of the Bosnian pyramid, ending up instead in scrappy ones with an unremarkable view of the Roma settlement of Gorica. In 1984, at the time when my family moved into Sarajevo's “Beverly Hills” – all nicely tucked between the military superior and civic inferior complexes – Ciglane was a neighborhood with its borders defined by rose gardens, rooted firmly in its hill, and generally solid in all respects. No one expected that an ordinary group of moles could be undermining such a “firm” multi-culti structure.

How did the crumbling down of Ciglane start? Ciglane started its inevitable inclination toward the black bottom already in the early nineties, when the ground, under the pressure of tones of cement and concrete, started dislodging paving slabs and breaking them in half across the middle in the process. As early as 1991, we were walking on trenches. By this time there was no one to take away all the soil that came out and bring things back to normal, and so, some residents began to complain that they hadn’t paid all that money to have shit swimming in plain sight. Still, Ciglane retained a veneer of cultivation until March 1992 when the officers' majority made Ciglane the only Sarajevo neighborhood that largely boycotted the referendum in the city that was predominantly pro-independence. Here Ciglane's landslide really came to the fore. Only a couple of months later, the canon of the Army of BiH was placed in the tunnel on the east-facing hillside, while the main staff of this joke of the military organization moved into a building on the opposite, west-facing hillside, the building that is now home to the Tax Administration. As a result of this strategic positioning of military objects and assets – and with privileged apartments in lower Ciglane vacant since the officer moles had left for Belgrade long before the 4th of April having done their subversive job excellently – Ciglane's middle class found itself squeezed between a non-stop targeted main staff and a non-stop active cannon, while the small fry on the top were assigned the role of being the target for sustaining direct shelling hits. As bonus points, garbage containers were overflowing with Tito’s framed pictures, ranging from photographs to oils on canvases, while empty premises of Šipad Komerc company became home to a masjid – an adequate price to pay for an architectural miscalculation.

Even then no one thought that Ciglane could sink deeper. Even when Bosniak war profiteers grabbed for themselves the officers' apartments turning them into gold-plated exhibitions of kitsch. Even when turbofolk came roaring out of Ciglane's cafés creating a suitable atmosphere and a shortcut for slick Sarajevo's sugar babes to meet their future gift-givers. Even when its dark streets and alleys became the meeting point of junkies and lunatics. No one thought that it could get worse. Only when the first bomb planted under the car of one of Sarajevo's recognizable mafiosos exploded, and then the second, and then the third, we realized that never again we'll be able to look down upon anyone, even if we lived on top of the hill and had a view of the entire city, even if we were the only neighborhood in the city with a fricking inclined elevator (inclined dick, if you'll pardon my French). We became a certified hellhole with the composition of the population from the Eastern Bosnia and Sandžak in the fifty-fifty ratio. Bullet-proof jeeps drive around the neighborhood, with master Ćelo [Sarajevo mobster who died in 2008], logically, putting up a ramp in the street in which he lives to make room for his vehicles’ fleet. He is, generally, a man you meet daily in the local superxafs, along with two of his bodyguards whose guns brazenly stick out of their pockets and with their hands resting on them, as if it's the worst time of the war. But, this is not the peak of the ecstasy. The ecstasy comes when you look up from the black bottom, and you see Breka.

Breka is the only Sarajevo's neighborhood that aspired to take away the prestigious medal for snobbery from Ciglane and probably the only one that managed to degrade itself even more radically than its much hated rival. I remember how long time ago, we, the unruly youth, used to throw Hepo fire lighting cubes at passers-by on the Fuad Midžić street square, the same one from which Selena fled [reference to the song of Sarajevo’s cult band Zabranjeno Pušenje], which is now home to a mosque that appears to have been fitted there through the eye of a needle. I say that because architecturally it was impossible to fit the mosque that big on so small a square and because needle drop deejays have become masters in mixing the call to prayer, and turning up the volume, leaving everyone with ear pain. There is no more Hepo fire lighting cubes’ crew in Breka’s dark streets. They are either in diaspora, on horse or in the mosque (or all three together?!?), but whatever the case – it's some form of turbofolk.

And so I sit in my apartment in Ciglane. I sit and bleat. My best friend's (now in Canada) apartment, next door to mine, was given as a gift to her housemaid in gratitude for her long years of assistance. I could swear that she's the most moderate and urban person in the whole building. For the sake of my mental health, I'll skip the mention of all ministers, scientists and other illiterates who moved in from 1992 until now. We sank slowly, but efficiently, and it must be said that from the top of the hill, or from a bird in the branch we had a rough landing and ended up with burnt feathers and a broken beak. Even if we manage to chirp, it can only be in the rhythm of the Fatiha prayer. I am amazed at how we deal with the fact that the Merhemić square (used to be the Non-Aligned Movement square) will soon become the construction site for another colossal mosque and that our next-door neighbors are nowadays burying sihir, or black magic, in gardens that were used for planting exotic herbs. In all likelihood, it's only now that we've reached the bottom from where there is no further descent, and me... I am just keeping my mouth shut and watching and waiting for us to join the current trend of tumbling down and finally wake up – under the ground!


Apartment at the coast, cottage on the mountain by Aime Sati

That we like to complain is a sure fact. We do it masterly and beautifully like Meša [Selimović]. Seldom is our complaining masterly or beautiful, but it does happen. In our everyday lives, our complaining is clumsy, interrupted and marked by the routine cursing of Alija [Izetbegović]. I don’t know which person is universally represented in curses from the other entity. And by other entity, I mean Republika Srpska, not E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial or Alien. They probably curse Alija too. If you met a Chetnik in the period 1992-1995, and survived, he or she cursed Alija. Old habits die hard. So, we’ve identified the point of convergence. And it’s not a nice one.

I have to admit, we complain for a good reason. Personally, my complaining is directed at the Neolithic population, Illyrians and Slovenes. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time to populate this area of the average altitude of 500 meters. What probably made the idea even more appealing was 5 percent of flat areas and suitable agricultural land. They probably looked forward to ores, silver and digging. They probably looked forward to a natural shelter of mountains and rocks suitable for building fortifications. I get the logic: you’re at sea when you feel like trading and when in the mood for piracy, and on the mountain when you’re hiding, defending or when it’s really hot. Which was the case most of the time. It probably hadn’t crossed their minds that they were going to leave their descendants with a complex blood structure that doesn't function well in the low altitude conditions and causes various cardiovascular problems.

Problems with blood circulation are secondary to creative violence and the drive for robbery. For a short while, I thought that the problem lied in the territorial limitations preventing the formation of larger towns and the isolation of smaller communities, but then I thought of Luxembourg.

One of our bigger problems is that we’re on the way. If someone is headed from Istanbul to Vienna for dinner or war, we’re on the way. And the same applies if someone is headed in the opposite direction. A good idea of apartment at the coast and cottage on the mountain became a wall fencing us in. Which in turn created a habit not to think too much, just to fight and run for cover.

Too much anguish, rage and sorrow has accummulated in too small a space. We could say past is the past, if past was not the present. Perhaps it's not the most important, but it's important to be honest to oneself. We may wish to have a regular income and suffer because of political orgies. We may strive for a good life, pretty things and cry for all the Apple products that we don't have. We may be afraid of the rain. We may be hungry for or fed up with love. The reality is that none of this is important. Within the radius of 200 kilometers around the chair that I'm sitting in, there are 7,000 dead people – unidentified, abandoned, tortured souls. Most of them would nowadays be strolling around, breaking their fast, spending time in meetings, healing others, getting flustered in the public transport, teaching abroad at some university, pickpocketing, parliamenteering... Many of those who had sealed the fate of the unaccounted for by firing a bullet at the back of their head, rape, beating and mutilation of parts of their bodies are strolling around, spending time in meetings, parliamenteering, enterprising. In doing so they are reinforcing another layer of misfortune, sorrow and rage. It seems to me that we've grown accustomed to it being acceptable, normal even. And so we stroll around, get flustered, eat, love, drive, all the while breathing in the atoms of torture of those who should've been here, but they aren't. No room for prosperity there. Perhaps, we should leave this country, for a couple of decades, for killers to finish off themselves, take down everything, plow the land and then send grandchildren back to build cities, apartments on the coast and cottages on mountains.

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"All I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football" Albert Camus

“Priča mi N.:
- Ne valja biti prijek. Treba ostati smiren. Uvijek promisli prije nego što planeš i uradiš kakvu glupost. Ne zaboravi, za glupost nikad nije kasno. Važno je ponašati se racionalno. Odbrojati do deset, tako eliminiramo ishitrenost i glupost. Duboko disati. Ostati hladan i kad sve vrišti u nama. Uvijek iznova moramo gledati Kuma i nadahnjivati se mudrošću starih Sicilijanaca. Michael Corleone bio je majstor sabranosti. On prvo izbroji do deset, pa tek onda ubije brata.” Ozren Kebo

"Perut je prvi znak ludila!" Jack Kerouac



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