MILAN TODOROV: APRIL
Milan Todorov APRIL For a long time now, I have been thinking about changing the furniture in my living room. I browse various offers through online catalogs. I find a flaw in every single one. I see companies trying to sell me worn-out leather sets as new—almost new, well-preserved, without a scratch, and so on. I don’t like other people’s things, because I am convinced that furniture remembers the traces of чужих hands, touches like a once beautiful, now somewhat bitterly ironic mature woman, forgotten and slightly unhealthy in her mockery. I can barely accept even brand-new items from a factory. I am especially sensitive when it comes to beds. I imagine all sorts of scenes, mostly obscene. Who lay there to test the loveseat or the elegant sofa? Who was thrusting themselves into a seven-thousand-euro Chesterfield armchair? At one point, I thought it might be best to take out a loan in dinars and repay it over the next year or two in monthly installments. In my favorite eve...