Dus is neis.
Dus is neis.
The words come out strange, half-mumbled, as if borrowed from another language or another self. But they fit. They fit the crooked cobblestones, the way the streetlamp pools its light like spilled honey, the distant laugh of someone who has nowhere urgent to be. Dus is neis isn’t perfect grammar—it’s better. It’s the sound of relief, of small joys unpoliced by syntax. It’s what you say when a friend pours you tea without asking, when the rain stops exactly as you step outside, when a song you’d forgotten finds you again in a supermarket aisle. dus is neis