"How strange, how indescribably strange, that behind the wall, this very wall, there's a man with an angry face sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out, wearing red boots"
"His overcoat was long and thick, of a purple hue, either plaid or striped, or maybe, damn it all, polka dot."
"On those days, I would try to manufacture a joyous mood for myself. I would like down on my bed and smile. I'd smile for twenty minutes at a time, but then the smile would turn into a yawn."
"Reason? Rapture? Rectangle? Rib? Or: Mind? Misery? Matter?"
"Marina told me that one Sharik visited her in bed. Who, or what, this Sharik was I couldn't for the life of me determine."
What the hell is this? you may ask. These are lines from very short stories by a Russian writer named Daniil Kharms (1905-1942), who starved to death in the psychiatric ward of a Soviet prison during the siege of Leningrad.
The lines above are taken from a handful stories by Kharms published in the New Yorker. You can read the full stories--the longest of which is about 625 words--here. They were translated from the Russian by Matvei Yankelvich, Simona Schneider and Eugene Ostashevsky.
Here's another collection of his stories.
Read Wikipedia's biography of Kharms here.