The death of Devil

What is the devil in your mind? What does he mean? What a role does he play? Can you imagine him, pretend or surely descibe? Have you looked at his face? I have...

I
Into dim, slowly darkening room is meekly staying total silence. Behind of faceless melancholic atmosphere is hanging mournful static longing. In languid deep apotheosis of faint twilight is waiting wearisome ensemble of tired things, unhappily encircled by inconspicuous and shameless naked walls, rather shabby and plain and completely detached from all splendor. In narrow window is weakly flaming with soft coyness silver-nacreous moonlight. In sleepy, idly melting air is offhandedly thickening evening depression. In the midst of such deserted chambers is quietly sitting Stepan Denisovich, a young poet and simultaneously a student at local aviation institute, a person absolutely lost, rid of luck and of future of prospects. His discouraged and doleful mind was fluidly wandering along of joyless roads of gloomy, wreched and hurting thoughts, devoted to strong permanent despair.
"So it is, so it's going... The day has started own vain way, then has senselessly finished, provided coming of next night... For which of aims? For what of prospects? What has it brought to my existance? Or not to my, okay, let's change. To whole humanity snd nature. What has it given to them all? Just total emptiness in countless amount, losses, bitter futility, pain. To which of higher immense goals does this reality direct own current roads, where does it move across of time? How stupid, how awfully mindless is all, how senseless and hurtingly vain – just from and to and here and there. Life  does bring us something new. What is more, all past hopes are melting – even faster than snow: the snow needs at first to fall and to lie for some moments or days, and human hope starts to die at the very creation. No one of great number of people will answer clearly why he lives. Having even ascended from now – as high as only can be – to the frames of thw global world's history, you'll never find with any of efforts even shadow of firm sober reason. Time is passing away, day are steadily turning is nights, night again into days, life does not try to get own ending, it's trying to last further with no finish, the only question – why, what for? Does someone contemplate this crazy play of fate life? Does it have any kind of observer or author? Do all its passions have some single sourse? The world, of course, so loves to be just random, but anyway it's not an argument of total global absence of the meaning. Any justice is fruit of pure utopianism, but is at here, at least, small modest something, that causes feelings differ from disgust? Is at least, any peice of true weightiness in endless centuries and years - at least for somebody, for one unknown person? Looking forward in life, I always see one hopelessness and vainness. And this is not a kind of formless thesis, but real fact, so evidently proven by past practice."
The hero has sighed and stared back in window's darkness: "One void, vacuum, as well as all my fate, in every day and any sphere, with sure absence of exceptions. There is nobody at here I would like to devote my heart, such ones are out of existing. Both richly dressed and fully, smart and stupid, exalted and low – all they are idiots: each face and every person. Motley canvas of new ideology is rid of any principles of greatness, of any grace. There no tools of improvement. Thoughts are windy and painfully hollow, rare feelings are faked. Daily abyss of being is too much poisonous and fatal. Everywhere is darkness and only, and all is given – just to fade... Or to burn, but it's always impossible. After all, it's still allowed to believe..."
When chances end, we start to cherish hopes, and when we stuck in vainness of interpersonal connection, we begin to write letters and messages. And just according to such fact, Stepan Denisovich, having sat at floor lamp, has taken out some graish piece of greasy paper and begun to display plain and cautious symbols.
"Dear Irina Vladimirovna, my beloved and my priceless, all the time so much irreplaceable and so immensely significant and mighty, my highest best phenomenon, my lifetime angel and my God, once again I am clinging with all my sick heart to your selfless saint abode, and it's not possible to show and describe all my warmth and affection, all pristine sinless tenderness of inner gravitation to your person, so much pure, incorruptible, sweet and sincere serene. I can't explain, but some unknown power each second pulls me in your fiery, in your bottomless love, the only saving my lost soul from gloomy plague of gray life. It’s hard for me to stay in current madness, it's too much hopeless and too vain. No personalities, no people, no heights – only limitless primitive crowd, where no one will understand, or frankly warm, or decorate with real inspiration. It's more appropriate to choose a noose at neck. All around are lost. Inhale their life, and you will suffocate at instant, not having finished your first breath. Among of darkness of this world, among of its unlucky, all I have to believe and rely at are your faint tender outlines, your vague reciprocity and tempting sweet amusement of your nets, of priceless weightless trail of common selflessness and unity of hearts. That's why, I'm timidly appealing to strange optimism, fragile and baseless into essence. I want some meaningful direction, some strong purpose, I want salvation and want you... I want such cherished thing, which's humbly called by us as human happiness. I still believe in kind of higher power, connecting people and their fates. It's apparently mad, but I really believe... We can't enslave such thing as mind, as well as heart, as well as world around. Here my thought take own end, start to fade and get shallow, I’ll add exclusively one thing – that I love immeasurably love you and adore, and wait for quick reply and meeting."
The line has finished own shy length.
Stepan Denisovich has torn oneself apart of sheet of paper, turned off the light and then silently frozen at window.
And far of outside is so so dark, so gloomy and sad. Just total boredom and only. The omnipresent one and omnipotent.
"It would be hopeful to fall... Through of ground or deep into abyss. But much better, as usual – into bed and night dreamings – the sweetest shelter from the world."

II
As all we know, any life, which's not distinguished by own joys, has, as a rule, exclusively one sadness. Stepan Denisovich’s lost fate was in common completely the same. This dreary time, he was slowly following empty boulevard, thickly clouded by bottomless veil, in usual permanent and painful contemplation of dejectedly spreaded surroundings. The last ones were not shining with prosperity. Everywhere is strict lifeless coldness, the same type toneless cloudiness, and for long dark period extended over sides. In sweet dense air, impenetrably gray and louringly downtrodden, is hanging spicy viscosity and depressive confused melancholy. Into empty and motionless sky, is pouring tired whitish haze with rare tattered and formless flocks of fog. On somber faceless facades are defenseless small drops of past rain. Near of featureless frightened horizon are pale and carelessly sunk into sleepy and gloomy prostration, enshrouded by despondency dim outskirts. Among of own chilling abyss, are lying framed by mist landscapes. In courtyards are straying random shadows. Into distance are timidly waiting so much ineptly knitted long lines of unbounded vastness, richly flooded with utterly meager and almost indistinguishable views, submissively subordinate to predominant broad disappointment. The walk is average, but still quite straight and aimful. By very objective sad set of hopeless rueful circumstances, the path is going to Boris Andreevich, so awfully familiar old friend and completely like-minded close person, with whom the hero was related for last couple of torturing years. They have to talk about routine – about exitless existing, unrealizable desires and deep futility of all. Monotonous time was deliberately in no kind of hurry, atmosphere was patiently calm, filled with peaceful detachment, thoughts were free and oppressed, rid of any insights ans just static. So much natural deep alienation is gradually involving in own nets of swiftly selfless meditation, liquid kindness and silent weak somnolence. The hero was unhurried and idle and now and then was involuntarily sinking into thoughtfulness.
"What do we have in our petty century, what is inside of human abyss? Each one is either trying to get new, or longing to forget oneself, or looking for some thing or person – all are crazy, all are in stopless wheel. Be rapid, human, hurry, rush... As if next grave can run from you away. And the last one is all that is given. So nasty piece of universal history and progress. Nothing good, nothing worthy and useful... At least, in one from countless crowd. Only cloyingly fierce harsh lawlessness - as the only sign of stability. What's imputed to all who are active? To trample tiresome earth’s flesh, to bark short time and to shut up, to imitate initiative and leave. To get forgotten, not even having got remembered. To burn out and fade. Sense is only a myth. A myth for the sake of which we pay with all own being. And fatalism of modern sick traditions kills not worse than gun. It’s too sad... Such stupidity is hurting and dejecting. What is life – harmful poisonous swamp, rotten fruit, wrong formation..."
An old and lonely brick house has unexpectedly got drawn at the neighboring side of the street. Destination is finally found. Now the stairs and the door.
The room is typically filled with airless hot minimalism - things are worn, colors – wilted. All the picture of modest interior is surely impassive, weak and empty. In role of monument of nonexistent hope in the middle of gray naked walls is proudly standing oak desk. At window is a hanger nailed by nail and mummified herbarium tulip at shabby frame.
"Once again mindless fiction of days has brought us with each other. Once again, we are here." - has extended Stepan Denisovich.
"The world has started games again."
"All is surely so."
"Sit body down, don not stand."
"Then drag the stools, where have they hidden at this time? On the balcony?"
"Just as always. I'll bring."
Have got a seat.
Boris Andreyevich was living very poor, even strictly ascetical, so he had no furniture satiety, was sleeping onto overcoat, and from objects of luxury was possessing the very same stools, that were traditionally serve for to meet rare guests and to spend endless moments of sad joyless thinking.
"Let's start the plot of conversation." - Stepan Denisovich has waved his tired head: "We'll wash whole skeleton of world till every bone."
"Would be nice not to dirt ourselves at such process." - the interlocutor has smiled measuredly and sighed: "But time is really a rubbish."
"Which one - just ours or eternal?"
"Is any difference between of such two things?"
"Till harsh tart bitterness and pain unforgivably small. Time is far from all needful and right – from values, meaning, purity and love... But seriously, border is too cloudy. Murk has place everywhere — both in yours personal and also into global. The only question – where is darker..."
"You're really forward-looking in conclusions, you catch at very essence time by time."
"Such quality as superficiality, believe me, is very very nasty thing. As well as windiness or pettiness."
"The basic features of each townee."
"Exactly so. As I'm writing essay of new people."
"Very fatal sarcasm. The world inspires me on only two things – on suicide and getting drunk. And for some strange and vague reason, the first thing for my soul is much sweeter."
"Do not croak. You're not crow. Death is ticket with no return; you cannot go far with such direction."
"There is no reason to start. Fate's platform - road to futility and only."
"And where would you like to go? To enlightenment and paradise? Such sweet locations don't exist. Tell these tales to your God, if you'll somehow find him."
"God is as future: such one at once exists and not."
"There is no future. But one time it will be. And will certainly be much much worse than present. All predictions have only two types: the first – desired, but unreal, the second – merciless and awful, but inescapable and firm."
"And after all, we call them ourselves."
"Not we, not so, such ones get given by the life. Having grown as a fool with the fools, you have no own fault."
"I agree with all volume of heart. Most of people are stumps. Some - simple, and some burnt."
"Wait some more, and you'll also be burned."
"I'm afraid not to meet waiting's finish."
"They will do, do not doubt."
"But for some reason world has been created... Why do they live? What for? Explain."
"For farce and making show. In logical and mindful motivation is important the goal, in crazy one – fulfillment's process. And the more clumsy and disgusting it will be, the more fun it will gift."
"Sure suffering. Torture."
"But who really cares... Devil’s friends are in joy. So be the same – just come and go. You have parted with someone, you are ready to climb into noose, your heart absolutely broken. But people instantly will help – if your heart gives you pain, they will beat you in head – for priceless chance to get distracted. You love is dead, but that's not all – there are also poverty, hunger and wars. Do not suffer alone, do such matter with others – in cozy common shit."
"Is it really a life?"
"Strictly no. Life hasn't ripened yet to be named with such word. And it never will ripen. Its fruit is far not of high quality. It’s already entirely rotten - long hundred times and smelling bad. It will not grow anyway, that's fully clear."
"There was a habit - to believe in some God and consider that all is not vain."
"Even now it's okay to believe, it’s also not forbidden – as in past. And if you'll ask me to explain this kind of faith, I’ll describe it with simple example. Imagine rather usual situation, you give some money to the beggar, he insists that he lost his dear mother, that he is harmed and fully ill, you believe him and poke your last pennies, but he simply deceives you in all. His mother is alive, his health is greatly perfect. But you don’t know all this truth. And you will never know, it's a fact. That is why you believe. Now imagine at place of this beggar your God. This is whole explanation."
"Intelligibly, simply and concisely."
"And truthfully, the most important thing."
"And all pain is that world can't be changed."
"And cannot be destroyed! What is even more painful."
"I also am about that..."
"We've coincided in thoughts."
"Like damned ones."
"Just like that."
"Why we live, if this world can't be changed?"
"The purpose of each life is not to change this world or days, but to be changed oneself. That's why you have to heed the haters."
"How could we find oneself in world..."
"So self-awareness is nothing more than a slice of the truth, that's cut off from the piece of world's lie. Teach oneself to deny. Have you got only evil? Then invent something good."
"Seek for help from the enemies only... If to rephrase your vague words."
"In whom else. Friends don't exist at all."
"Just as truth. All we have – only lie."
"Lie is more than a gift. But there’s one immense thing: if you’re lying, please, do it completely. Lie, seasoned with a part of truth, doesn’t look so convincing."
"Priceless note. Eating lie, the main thing not to choke with the truth."
"After all, all is fiction, illusion. But people love if life's like that. They fight here not for freedom, but for more comfortable form of own submission."
"Does it have any sense to coexist with their motley crowd?"
"No matter how strange it may look, but sometimes really have. Sick lost humanity still stubbornly persists in stably gradual surprising with own fruits, with new commitments and achievements, inventions, heights and graceful plots. Apparently, in unity of them is something inexplicable and secret. Having joint weak sand, you will get concrete stone."
"At now I even stronger want in noose."
"Be more patient, more firm. Each pessimism is child of mind's excess, the only fruit of knowledge is just grief, there's almost no other food for disappointment at all."
"That means today we're truly saved from hunger. But misconceptions are indeed a pit."
"This is utterly right. Delusions are quite similar to rulers – by some of reasons to elect them is much more easy than to overthrow."
"So, where to go, after all?"
"This world is made in such a manner, that everyone, who wants to walk, will never stay without kind. Look and seek. It, perhaps, will be rather helpful."
"Where does the happiness of me idly walk and come playful and frisky..."
"Life has exclusively two types of own fruits: just miracles and tragedies – that's all."
"We belong to the second."
"By the way, that's not new."
"We've got used to all dreary, I know."
"Then unlearn..."
"I would love to, but lost being's model is like kind of elastic material: if you get bored with its sad presence, you even cannot break it into parts. You just feel torments and keep waiting."
"But outcome each time is just the same. The end of any firewood is ashes."
"But it's an anthem of the apathy."
"Such thing is also positive and bright. You know, world is madly mindful, only here lack of rights can be completely compensated by lavish broad excess of duties. It’s so glorious and pretty."
"All the meaning of life is hopelessly located in its meaninglessness, it's kind of curse for all alive..."
"Then let's go to some church – into pair with all other humanity."
"Yes, hopelessness is clearly unbearable, I know."
"Let's look at world in more smart way. The light at one of ends of tunnel is quite certainly present, the only question is at which - at one, that's only upcoming, or at one, that already was passed."
"It looks like rather easy way to grave."
"Every fool very perfectly knows, that physics is a science of the powers, and philosophy - science of powerlessness. Endure farther, that is all what is given."
"People are rubbish."
"I agree. I completely agree. And all them are deep in sufferings at here. Both nits and geniuses stay in boundless grief. People basically are quite multifunctional, but each of them can act exclusively in one of three short roles - as rare phenomenon, as lost consumable material and as ideological minds' mentor. Look for yours of these states."
"I know people for so long, unlearn me please to have great hatred to each society's member of this world."
"This is incurable. Don't blame me."
"I'm informed. But how to understand and notice all of points of each human breed..."
"In strange question of kindness and evil, the only thing that brings true sense is who of them is just an implementer and who is real owner of performance."
"It's a matter of time."
"But, standing with no clocks and being blindfolded, how will you remark and decide?"
"Is my theory true or I'm stupid and only?"
"How can I solve such vague task... I also am just one of simple fools."
"But you're experienced in people's observation."
"Mindless people from ancient old times have been worshiping only three things: first - fire, second – weapons, third – shamans. Three things, that were completely able to deprive them from home, from life and from mind... Build conclusions yourself."
"Each one of us who knows how to go will never stay without own deadlock."
"Our life is like sea: it unites both the sailors and drowners. Keep own being afloat, do not look at the members of bottom, those ones who're in abyss are no longer helpers for your fate."
"Where else to take strong will and due efforts..."
"Into tryings to eat with excess, the first thing that you risk is to die in sharp hunger. So, do not overdo."
"I have no forces in inside..."
"Believe, you will. Both for bad and for tricky of deeds."
"I'm wholly sure, with me it will not work. I feel no gravitation to achievements in world, which looks like mockery or curse. I will prefer to contemplate and only. And then I’ll stop myself as clocks. I do not want to show initiative or care, don't want to gain participation in such life."
"The dinner was both nice and lucky, but, by some terrible mistake, the world has suddenly gone crazy and added food to our usual poison."
"So much alike with my opinion. As if you've taken this from my own tongue."
"All of minds have identical roots. All thoughts are plants of single field. Both in smart and in stupid we're partners. Don't hang your nose, one day we should be saved."
"Consolations are nice, that is known. Nice, seducing and prettily warm, but where else to get filled with due strength and inflexible sure straightforwardness, where to find weighty reason for hopes, where to affirm oneself – in what?
"In own essence and depths of soul's inwardness. In own opinion and joy of understanding. The point of view is source for line of fate."
"My fate will never move from such a start."
"You're just believing in such statement. Follow mind, do not hesitate. Build some meaning and goal. Such things will lead you to all true. The broad between of thought and thinker is more than virtual and vague."
"Cutely said. But anyway my thoughts are stably bad."
"Life is such kind and type of abyss where does not stumble only legless. Don't be sad or upset. All of us have mistakes. Some person only a handful, and some – much more than immense ton."
"Mistakes have differences too, some of us will take prize with no risking, and some will even die without medal."
"Be more brave and less timid. Life's benefits are matter of the takers, not of beggars or lovers to wait."
"There's nothing to take."
"The main thing, don't lose yours."
"But how all this can be prevented..."
"You are right. No way, no methods or tools. No matter, how much talented is hammer, nail clipper will still do own cunning job. Fate all time will be stronger than human. But, of course, if it will truly want."
"No changes will come, no spreaded ways out..."
"This is vain, this is kind of frail look. Any systems exist and develop till first appearance of powerful reformers."
"It can't be soon, can't be even at all, I am thinking. What a kind of damned life this hell gives – no sense, no pleasure, no praise..."
"In last you're clearly insincere. We like to praise – almost each slightly noticed far person, especially person now is dead: what a good priceless person he was, so nice, so opened and honest, it's so fine, that his fate has got end – just as we always have been wishing him all life."
"All it’s funny, but sad in inside..."
"All sadness come from happened failure. Each inability to build oneself from parts creates desire to be broken."
"Strange sick laws here we have. Strange and filthy."
"Don't dramatize, it's ordinary now. Say what you like, but feeling of the sea begins from first acquaintance with true storm."
"It's nothing else than pearl of purest madness."
"And you still can’t get used to its broad path. So it is: spoiled hatred gets most often perceived as quite suitable love."
"Mindless paradox, illness!"
"It’s a paradox, yes. Just one of many many others. The same feeling of guilt right as love to the motherland, which overtakes at first most distant immigrants, also falls in main turn on fully uninvolved and wholly sinless."
"Without reason we adore, with even shadow we hate... We're skilled and mighty in such startings. I agree with your view."
"It is already more farsighted. We love to feel close presence of some justice, we love it madly, with all passion, with all volume of adoring heart. We have such strivings and intentions deep in blood: to enrich all already rich ones and to rob all entirely poor – how close it's to nowaday humans. We love to be participants of justice. And this is a consistent valid thesis, not just an observational light fact. But if for you it’s not enough, I’ll add, that global essence of new changes comes down to the next ill logic — we have some house, so let's burn it, then we will have to build new one, so maybe it will really be much better. Such ideas hold minds. At least, for lost majority of people."
"We ourselves are cause of lack of rights. It is regrettable and sad."
"Don't worry, reason will be always. Remember, choice belongs to fate, it will never be yours, yours role is only to to accept."
"How to live with all this? And, what's more accurate, what for?"
"What a for... What does determine any fire – its brightness or the number of warmed ones? Please, answer frankly for yourself. Perhaps, then you'll refuse from desire to burn."
"Each single pessimist for sure soon self-hanging needs only second one in daily permanent addition."
"I've never been advising noose as exit."
"You, apparently, offer me gun..."
"Maybe, maybe. Let's wait."
"But anyway we stay alive. We meekly live and gain own problems, own disappointment in everything and all, especially in swamp of current people, enshrouding us in anguish and despair."
"Any human is made as a rose: he can become disclosed and understood exclusively with period of time. Don't admire with bud, if before you've not looked at each thorn."
"You can’t predict the presence of last ones..."
"The thinner is the ice, the deeper is the river. Do not jump in quiet lake, and you'll stay with no wide loud losses."
"Where else to find some meaning and some aim... Both for luck and for hardships."
"What a for do you need such a trifle? The presence of the best guide-man can't replace painful absence of road."
"Inferiority of final can't be so freely reimbursed by excess of the endless foreplay, yes, I know, I know. But sometimes it's too hurting, too sharp."
"Not sometimes – every day and each second."
"There's nothing to cherish..."
"But what about own mind? Human consciousness works like a nail: shake the last one just once, and it'll never be able to fix something weighty."
"Do we have any need into mind?"
"For pure formality and only. Before of getting suffocated, it is traditionally popular to breathe – with all lungs and all chest. Keep tranquility, try and compete. As you can see, it's not an easy task to be most full of idiots and morons."
"Filthy race, after all."
"But so much fashionable, frequent and so trendy. All are trying their best in obtaining of madness. Kettle-bell onto neck more often gets perceived as a precious swimming supporter."
"There is nowhere to sail..."
"To deadlock, as all others. The main thing, don't resist anyway. Attempts to fight world's stupidity with mind are as to try to break a hammer with a cup. You will certainly lose. Remember, we were taught to breathe exclusively for chance to suffocate."
"This is absolute crisis. Total crisis of all – of sanity, of life and of all future."
"I will nod and agree. But any abyss has no hands, that's why we reache it ourselves. It's most awful."
"It oppresses and kills."
"But how else? Long lasting powerlessness, given with persistence, with way of days quite confidently turns in sense of guilt."
"By passing through doubts any time."
"The worm of doubt lives not everywhere - in apple of fresh consciousness and only, that means you're far from mental wilting."
"But how else to get true use..."
"Don't worry, life do all itself. Please note that lack of awl's sharpness gets now freely compensated by lavishly excessive weakness of the bag."
"Even hopelessness got own control – bent a lot, dear human, but keep being alive."
"So it is, so it works. Both truth and lie exist in utter harmony, in balance. What's more, each mind is working so, that while we carefully break one mental wall, two other ones get hurriedly erected somewhere near. Don't forget, when you choose between two sure evils, the main thing - not to meet the third one."
"There's nothing to wait for at all."
"No expectations can be fruitful. Such thing is barren, wrong and vain. It's rid of any prospects and results. Time's not a source of positive reforms, it's just an abyss of omissions."
"But if to look at world from side, it's not so difficult to notice, that lots of spheres constantly improve, update oneself and move to new achievements. It turns out such way, that at least into technical part, at least in visual performing of conditions, can be some kind of progress and development, of some affinity to purposeful directions."
"Don't look at outward prosperity and beauty. Of course, such qualities attract whole width of mind, capturing all infrequent thoughts and stealing sanity and use from having head, but just at here is carefully hidden the biggest irony of life: each evolution of the cover is inexorably connected with even faster degradation of the content."
"What for to live? And which a way? What to cling at in nowaday abyss? Where to seek for support?"
"In interestedness into next events. Refusal from self-killing is already strong step. Your curiosity is measure life's love, of faith in own reality and future, in all unknown, new and strange."
"What is this world inside of frames - nothing high, sins and stupidity, swamp, no feelings, no meanings, no minds."
"In fact, all difference is tiny – both soulless lowness and heartful exaltation are exceedingly close. Some people have been punished by shameful bodily instincts, that's why they tirelessly run by night brothels and noisy drunk taverns, some others have been similarly cursed but already by moral intentions, that's why they all in own shy turn with identical ardor and passion rush by churches and saint places and scribble endless loving recognitions."
"It turns out, we have here nobody who is really worthy of pity, nobody who deserves true frank compassion?"
"It's a sin to have pity. Never keep such a feeling to anyone – into any of cases and days. Any pity is moral subsidy: a person has not done you some good thing, but you already give him certain part of your sacred warm leniency. It's elementarily stupid."
"Can something be corrected, fixed or changed? At least in time of century or more."
"If I will live another fifty years and they will ask me what has changed, I'll answer into brief and meager manner: young ones have gradually got old, old ones have died, fool ones have surely remained unchanging fools. This is classic of life."
"It looks like absolute despair, but you through pain restrain yourself and try to keep attempts to struggle, to overcome and crawl ahead, albeit all prospects and  all future come sadly down to one death."
"Among of those who've decided to get drowned, the main thing not to find those ones who're aware how to swim. This is basis of rules, of main meanings."
"It’s too rueful to know, that we push our lifes to deadlocks by free will. We reaches to bottom ourselves. It turns out, we've lost once again, at this time just without of forest."
"All is really so, we ourselves are roots of own troubles. We indeed build own problems one-selves – as well as we believe people... And we can't stop to support and continue such rave."
"But without of people it's hard. Anyway we depend from society."
"You can calmly increase such dependence in seconds. Get out of own route and way, get lost as traveler at winter, then find first people you will meet - with a smoking and smelling bonfire, self-made hovel and hot boiling food. Don't hesitate, they'll gladly give you help – they will hurriedly warm all your frozen and trembling weak body and will equally promptly and deftly cool and chill all your similar soul."
"But how to understand all kinds of people, how to get learned to such ability and talent."
"Save oneself from such merciless madness. Never try to disclose person's mask: in new realities, such ones are shown in many dozens. And never get attached or tied by soul, there is no faith to own feelings. As well as no reason in their presence. Both logical and sensitive perceptions are awfully inconstant and fragile: take an ant, put it right on your palm, then pay attention and own glance: it’s enormously tiny, clear nothing at all, but put a can of water next to last one – just directly in front, and your ant will effortlessly turn into ant of king size, in volume equal to large weighty piece of sugar, but remove modest can and all magic will be promptly dissolved, all puffed faked globalism will scatter. With problems all is just the same – as well as with soul's ideals and values. All that you can believe, all you really cherish and save – all of these vague pointless matters can easily and fully disappear, burn out, die and sadly transform into dust, any greatness can get resultless, miserable and empty, murk can turn into light, sinless goodness in bottomless evil. All life is artificial and hollow, all is painted and only, that's so. There are no objective qualities. All your thoughts and all feelings and plans are not more than small toys of your being. And, believe me, in time of big chaos, sabotaging of them will be easiest deal for your fate. The level of most clear understanding is determined by single degree of left unrecognizable deception – for most mindless of us life has scammers, for slightly less connected with mind illness life has politicians and government’s low games, for quite trivial fools - religion or some cultural events, and for absolute skeptics and sages all that rests - only love, as undoubted leader of most cunning and graceful deception."
"Where to seek for own mind, where to grab it, to gain."
"But what for do you need such a useless and comical trifle? The highest level and degree of any obviousness, given for perception, is pure invisibility at all. Most insidious, merciless lie always keeps on the surface, being met every day and so regularly catching our eyes, but reliably remaining unnoticed. That's why all waitings and experiences are vain and pointless in very own essence. Time never sends us executions; all it does - just fulfills them at practice."
"So, maybe, it has sense to learn oneself?"
"It depends on your vector of view and of angle of its application. Remember, any of defeats is either too self-confident persistence - to the winning and getting the prize, or on the contrary too strong and mighty fear of to lose. So, be careful always and constantly."
"Any caution is prudent and good, I don't argue at all. It works like kind of self-hypnosis. But recognition of own weaknesses is not equivalent to gaining of some strength."
"The winner is distinguished from the loser by one degree of love to war."
"It's too sad. You spend yourself, you burn inside, but in the end you clearly see, that your comrades and friends and your enemies are entirely equal and close."
"Any aimlessness differs from others. Each purposeless material is fixable, any purposeless work is a kind of nightmare, every purposeless feeling is tragic, and purposeless life's time is really fatal. The most expensive ever thing is your chance on a step."
"There is nobody to go with..."
"Leave such vain sentences to kids. You need to learn to act alone. There is no aim into presence of company: each one, who lives, for fate is just a puppet, a temporary purposeless performer. And main grief is that people are terrible actors – if they are understanding own role, they do not want to play at all, and if they are not understanding, they vice versa start to overplay. What a for do you need such a crowd? They will only spoil and fail all the play."
"But what weighty can be into there - in this play... They die like flies, hate and suffer, get sick, rot and perish in immense amounts. Fates and fates go to grave. Fates and fates disappear in abyss. All are weak and short-living. And vain."
"Look more correct, more deep and absorbing, each fate's collapse is rather specific and surely not equal to all others: it is one thing to rot as vegetable mass at some unused abandoned warehouse, and completely and sharply another – at huge and life-supporting one. It’s quite appropriate to add, that each one single person is more unique than whole humanity teamwise: in you alone can be effortlessly collected all of best inner qualities, features and treasures, and in humanity all qualities are mixed – of course, with large predominance of dirt, of low cynicism and inward moral shit."
"It's disgusting to think of all this. Void, emptiness, longing and torments – all myself in inside."
"Even sadness is also specific. To remain with no air on a sinking wrecked boat and on save and just floating up is not equal. The question is, what awaits after passing of emptiness? An emptiness at start and an emptiness just before dying are different as earth and blurred heaven."
"How to put all of things onto right and appropriate shelves..."
"Don’t even try. It could have sense, but not today already, our current lost lawlessness has begun so much strong, that every poison tastes like food, and any lie and mean deception get impeccably deftly adapted in proclaimed inner content to that helpful and precious form of accepted for truth. Any mind's analytical strength at now is simply vain and useless: you'll never sort one lie from others. And what's more it's entirely purposeless too. Granite of world is harder than your mind."
"Where to take source of hope?"
"In yourself, in inside. In own faded and sorrowful person. Anyway, our life is a kind of such marvelous movie, where each actor can freely transform into own independent producer."
"Such a right, as it seems, not for all..."
"Worldwide is only right on death."
"By the way, most expensive and valuable one. Especially in current devastation, in external and inward destruction and all-consuming, merciless despair."
"At here I clearly agree. It's truth indeed, that people are united exclusively by frames of space and time. Not of one of ideas or meanings and not of one of deep, flawless suggestions. But it's not even partly a problem, not one of ideas and spheres has united lost barren humanity, but with such task has greatly coped distress and global ruination."
"Ah, greedy agony of life... Its deadlock is so horribly near."
"But any agony is stretchable and stubborn , sometimes from starting of the dying till the death can be successfully located all the life."
"It’s appallingly scary and hurting. How to gain inner personal use in such abyss, how to find and to save own indistinct direction to better..."
"Each human in this world in own role is just a kind of heavy kettlebell: all its possible meaning and usefulness as well as all its relevance of presence, all essence and appropriateness too are abruptly determined by life's circumstances, by point of entrusted application - put the same kettlebell at own entrance, and it will quite submissively fix your street door, humbly helping to drag any cumbersome rubbish or furniture, rags and bags, large vain boxes and rolls. But tie the body of such kettlebell to drowning human's feet, and it will promptly drag him to the bottom. We're the same. All rich prosperity of being, as well as all its features and details, all pluses and all flaws are solely determined by surrounding and factors, by roles intended for your fate, all such things don't depend on your person, on behavior or set of mental patterns, they also don't depend on strength of your desire for new changes, or on passion of boundless ambitions. Even idiots also are different: ones of them, having firmly inspired oneself by some famous adventures, climb to high clouded mountains, falling down and losing own lifes, and other ones fall similarly down, but already at flat harmless place. Each of us has belonging to path, to its frames and imputed conditions."
"But which of theories can justify such madness?"
"No ones. Take both most popular of such ones or most infrequent and forgotten. Each harsh and confident materialist as well as any rough churchman will similarly justify this life with kind of higher bottomless idea, with eternal broad meaning and aim, but it’s even completely unclear where and how it exactly exists, but no one of them tries to look just directly at person – just pretend, no one! They don't think of investing in life, don't look at person as at source of sense just fool your trustful mind and only."
"And such freaks are so tenderly cherish and so richly worshiped!"
"It's kind of collective disease – the, that is worldwide accepted and transformed into stable tradition. Each company is poison for its persons – take any salad and its products: each of them, separated from others, is entirely tasty and nice, but if such ones are joint with together into wrong, inappropriate way, then their final result can be fully disgusting and even totally uneatable at all. With close consolidation with society all is working the same: if you have got united with humanity, then heed, that volume of the slops, which will be poured into you, will be limited only by width of your throat. The only thing you can really get here from people is just contempt, that, by the way, can be freely replaced on pure hatred."
"Strong clear words - about similarity with salad. How painfully wrong is the fact, that all praised and supported by crowd so mindlessly prevails here over useful."
"In such lost case freed legitimacy gets acting. It not only mask living concepts and veil their perishness and flaws, but also hurriedly untie your rampant hands – believe to me, all this is always tempting. Legalized imbecility is called as comedy and humor, legalized and and allowed abuse is called as teasing and flirtation, and legalized and fashionable satanism is called as saint and glorious religion. And even paradise is really nothing more than the highest degree of profoundly modified hell. All is utterly simple."
"It seems to me, that happiness inside is such a magical soul's house, where it's given to stay and successfully dwell exclusively to architect and only."
"So it is, you are right, any purposeful sense as well as any promising beginning grows solely on soil of your views, on basis of your personal perception, of your personal logic and visions. Moreover, no being's facts can serve as evidence of meaning: any fact is a nail and not more – the one, which into absence of own prospects gets hammered directly into void."
"But how to adapt and to survive?"
"Destroy and kill your former self, realize that you are not a mainland, that you are not a continent at all, but only a banal little island, having drowed which one's land, you'll firmly start to move to the best of existing locations. But remember please else, that wisdom is a kind of gift, that comes exclusively by chance. Any meaning is small tiny seed, which can be sown alone and only, not in surrounding of crowd. It occupies not all the immense globe, but only shy point on its surface. And life experience is sort of cunning capital, that will be spent till end not by each one."
"Such constancy is also sadly static."
"So it is. Pay, at least, the most modest shy part of attention and diligently heed, that in a poisoned killing dish, can get spoiled entirely all, except of aforementioned poison. That shows all hell of voices' polyphony: in such one, as you also know, all is already said for you."
"All is strange and perplexingly stunning..."
"All is so - right exactly as always. More big than number of events is only the number of perceptions. There are only two of life's ways: to fly up and to fall back to ground – and not softly, not smoothly at all."
"But with faint help of simple sober glance, you'll never cope to change or stop such process."
"It’s sadly true that by adding unreal advantages, you'll never take existing flaws away - no matter at all, how nice you are praising own life, it will not come by such aimless word mass neither better nor somehow brighter."
"Not evil to destroy, not goodness to create."
"It's true, all creativity is weak, appallingly unviable and short: even twice realized and persistently strong deep desire to be exclusively in time, firmly fixed by three times clearly felt endless fear of own vain being late, can be easily crossed and erased by the only one vague chance not to go at all. And meanwhile, losers' purposeless victories aren't interesting even for themselves. Mortal ashes of perfect rich wood and the same useless ashes of sawdust are totally identical and equal, any previous greatness or glory and each past filthy shame after full final death will become in own sorrowful look completely and entirely the same. So, try to go and to hurry. To soon and hospitable grave, for most likely and frequent example."
"It's enormously sad. You stick to some abstraction, to one's kindness or to sweet lavish image, and then get into exitless slavery."
"This world is painfully sardonic and ironical. External prettiness and visual perfection serve here, as rule, as deft and cunning indulgence of hidden under them internal flaws. Love more frequent and deep. Love the same hollow beauty. Remember correctly and firmly, that beauty is a kind of wild stray dog: it gets used by each one, who aren't lazy – from most frank and magnificent geniuses till most cruel and merciless tyrants."
"And sometimes so forceful and heavy delusions from beauty, so sharply illusory states into head. As if your brain was fully amputated."
"Not brain itself, but right and sober glance. But this is temporary only. At these dark moments, the main thing is to keep stable calmness. Don't be afraid - your inner mental eyes have not fallen away from own abode as well as have not got turned off or spoiled: some fog has come – and that is all what happened."
"And what's more – that the deeper is shrouding haze, the wider are its killing evil nets."
"Human feelings, as fact, are marvelously similar with paints: the more ugly is tone of its color, the higher durability it has."
"Annoying, horrible disaster..."
"But don't despair in any case. After all, our mind was created such way, that the closer we are to the exit, the more often we think, that it's reliably not in there. And remember some more from my words, each mind in global inner essence is kind of prisoner who're able to exist exclusively in solitary jail. Being forcibly settled for long into any of possible companies – with faith, morality or pity, it will right instantly get lost – very prompt and exactly forever. Adore here only yourself, do self-development and treatment, but at the same exalted time stay aware, that this is alike with preparing rich boundless table for non-existent friends and guests. You'll, of course, come much better, but all world will remain fully bad, no one will appreciate you, no one will indeed understand, no one will give give hands and become dedicated close person. You will be genius, it's fact. But all you'll meet - just grave and only. Bad empty prospect, after all. And the only one, that is real."
Both have got silent at this phrase.
Boris Andreevich has timidly turned out and, after lazy moving back, rather languidly sighed: "What's at now, by the way, with your personal life? Without changes once again?"
"Without any of their number..."
"And with mine all the same – as in past. Immense trouble, I know."

III
The day is getting built without ardor, with no zeal and no cheerful shades. Time is sluggishly stucking in fuss, passers-by are quite lazily trampling long sidewalks, fearful wind is unhurriedly driving away old wet foliage, offhandedly combined with slushy dirt, and turbid thickening dense air is sleepily dissolving in own space relentlessly increased discordant odors. Incinerated pallid charm of abundant in past finished heat is removing and melting with summer, sadly stayed far away and replaced by ripe merciless coldness of autumn, fully rid of mild tender prosperity and enveloped with breakably short and sadly tearful farewell, not persistently calling away from vain perishing present. Faded featureless town is waiting, meekly burning itself and uniting with bottomless apathy. Disconnected from land pale horizon, forlorn and lost in faceless haze, is getting timidly diluted with large clouds. All world is suffering and wilting. Humans hopelessly too. One of in this context was clearly known, none other else than Stepan Denisovich, humbly going through everyday grayness into local poetic alliance, outrageously aimless and vain, ideologically alien, but serving as the only accessible free place for an opened speeches' platform. The mood was giving one despair, the head was empty – right as thoughts, and mind was zealously devoted to tart pessimism, boldly seasoned with absolute minor. Another district, by the way, has gifted cherished destination. And now routine and only. Rejoicing in futility as always. And don't get used to something else.
The hall inside is rather empty, at old and closed with shabby tissue chairs are sitting several of simply dressed pale people. At low stage is standing bald and faceless man with quite formal accounting documents, and next to waiting for new speech hollow tribune is dusting little clumsy lamp with long yellowed porcelain shade. Deep longing straightly into all.
The meeting has begun.
"Well, let's announce all, who're ready."
Soon several of hands have hurriedly and skillfully reached out, one of their greedy fervent bunch was modestly belonging to constantly distressed and eternally seeking Denis Stepanovich.
"Mr. Arbuzov, you are, as always, with own scribbles." - has derisively sneered grinning master of process and begun to write down all ones of activists in list. After finish of this, the evening has received own birth. All brave participants have started to use stage, appearing one by one. Weak performance has moved in ahead, Arbuzov has ascended the last.
"Defecate." - has quite contemptuously pointed the presenter, dissolving into endless jesting smile, voluptuously intoxicated by self-power.
Stepan Denisovich has slowly got up, turned firmly covered with absolute displeasure and, having briskly overcome this fear, promptly climbed onto stage, rather steadily settling at center and meaningfully taking and unfolding shameful couple of sheets, crossed with handwritten abrupt lines.

Don't crush bird nests, don't spoil love
Do not condemn the lovers
Don't spend vain tears and don't leave
All ones, who're truly loving

All ones, who're catching each your word
And wait each day and night
All ones, for whom you are their world
For whom you are their flight

For whom you are more huge than life
And sweeter than existance
For whom you're needed all the time
From very first acquaintance

The hall has gradually started to disperse.
"Wrap up your vain and empty fuss. People are bored. Such graphomania on fences is in bulk." - the entertainer has disturbed the hero: "Every time all the same. We are tired already. You have to have be concise, we have not so much free time for to waste it on such tasteless rubbish."
Denis Stepanovich has folded all his papers, not received recognition, and begun to go back.
"You're a fool." - has greeted him bony figure of Georg Romanovich, a local critic, who has never been writing anything own, but has always been utterly interesting with any works of others: "You push you nonsense once again, it’s over-nauseous to listen. Admit, that even for yourself all this shit is completely disgusting. What are you trying to achieve?"
"I do exclusively that things, which I consider right and needful, which seem to me important, actual and aimful." - has muttered dumbfounded Denis Stepanovich and then tried leave out, but the road was stubbornly blocked.
"Don't run away, just wait a moment. Let's go aside, we have to talk. I will explain you some of things."
"Of what we really can talk? My own opinion is guided by ideas, by deep conclusions, aims and inspirations, by inner personal beliefs and prudent judgments. And it's not in my accepted principles to sell my heart and refuse from the truth, I'll never start denying of myself, of my frank soulful essence."
"Stop your baloney, moron, I've stopped you not for this, don't urinate in my exhausted ears."
"I don't intend to talk with you."
"Don't bark, shut up." - Georg Romanovich has pulled Stepan Denisovich by collar: "You had bad explanations? You cannot understand in peaceful way, I will explain a little bit another."
"What do you want from me this time?"
"Don't pour your water anymore, don't bring your rotten soulfulness to people, for whom you're trying to be ardent? Do you really want to succeed?"
"I expound my views, my ideals and senses, my life's basics."
"The world is built on something else - on strength and merciless persistence, on social integrity and frames, only wars give us heroes, true human should be ruled by valor, by thirst for victories and prospects. And you willfully submit to woman's essence, to ones, who were created for abuse and who serve as a source of betrayal and grief. You're brainless coward, completely stupefied with previous impunity, you are only a rag, only hollow and aimless ensemble of most primitive pubertal dreams, you've never seen the life, as well as never have got normal beatings. But I will break your childish peace."
"I act here as I feel. I share my essence, my best values, confirmed by many times of sufferings and pain."
"Do you sincerely believe to women breed?"
"Yes, I do."
"You're a ram. No offense. I wish you no evil, after all. I don't want you to live as an idiot. Any woman is leniently given for to be fucked and constantly deceived. And you live in a kind of pink fairy tale and inspire yourself with these snots, exposing your own weaknesses for high feelings. Give up all poetry, don't spoil tons of paper, be normal, go here something sober, become at least a human for beginning. Don't be stupid again."
"Enough. Make fun at others, I'm not a dog to wait for stick with neck."
"I've not finished. Are you going to spoil my mood? Someone else will stay silent, but I'll kick you away. Such freaks live painfully and short. Look better at yourself - creepy sight. You are equal to shit. Do you have even anything healthy? You are mindless and vain."
"Shut up!" - has interrupted Denis Stepanovich in fervent trying to get free.
"You tremble, stumble. You are slug, you're not a man. I've warned you - you'll regret a lot."
"Fuck you..."
"You'll be fucked much more hard, you even will forget how it's to walk."
"Get off!" - Denis Stepanovich, having sharply escaped, has howled and hurriedly begun to run away, having luckily hidden in gateway and changed path on more complex and long: "What a monster he is! Herod, devil. Real devil in all. Just the best illustration of the theistically shown, appalling demon. Disgusting, petty, soulless scum. Unprincipled, two-faced and wholly putrid. Dirty creature. It's hard for our poor earth – it carries on own surface even him, even such awful nit. He is devil, that's fact. The most real and low. The most powerful, fallen and dangerous. The worst of all. Of all now alive. It's definitely so. Without doubts, thoughts and hesitations. The worst of everyone and all."

IV
The boulevard is crowded with people. Motley public is fussily scurrying, deftly dashing ahead, pushing passers-by's hindering shoulders and powerfully boiling with all mass. The wind is pestering to weighty clumpy clouds. Slim naked trees are skimpily exposing calm laconic striptease of soon autumn. Monotonous pale paving stones are keeping boring, wet and gray. At tall sad lampposts are lonely wandering unhappy skinny shadows. Voluptuously bitter static air is freely thickening around. The street is slowly exuding and abounding with weak herbarium of pain and faded foliage, of upcoming unlucky oblivion, replacing everything and all. Dumb dreary disappointment, completed with long gloomy dim sun-rays, is quite indifferently hanging over places. Gently tender pernicious mist, united skillfully in flakes, is cautiously melting in disorder, staying totally pensive and rueful. Opaque emptied horizon is fragilely getting more dark. Languid, piercingly painful sharp hopelessness is timidly increasing in amount, faintly huddling in generous seeking, in ominously tragic endless murk.
Two passers-by, Boris Andreyevich and Natalnaya Vasilievna, his only acquaintance and ideological companion, who was modestly sharing his life, are motionlessly sitting on peeled bench, fully shabby and tortured by slush.
"I'm thinking once again about being." - "After all, it's believed by some minds, that into fate all things are only for reason, what means that even most wrong steps, most stupid and disastrous for their maker, most humiliating, vain and hollow must have some logical direction, some strict predetermination from above, we have no mistakes, so I think. In any case, if your, at least, at once have really tried to understand the essence of reality, you'll be of similar ideas. I want to know what all the grief was added for, what is the meaning of this drama. I want to have most clear explanations both for flight and for fall, I want to know the controller of this play, want to know its author..."
"Again you tell me useless rubbish. Vain and empty at all into any of words." - Natalya Vasilievna has sighed: "You are looking for heaven, but you're sitting in swamp. No penny in pocket, no things are achieved. Who would support you from the crowd walking near? Each one has aim and current duty, they have found themselves, have found purpose and vocation, but you yourself stay lost in aimless dreams. It's similar with calling moon from sky – it will never roll down in hands. You can equally twaddle for long, what would really happen if we've decided to sell Earth – no matter at all, how much it will cost, who will buy it with all human problems... Think better where to take some money for to provide two our lifes, we're sitting not in cinema or theater, but in the middle of cold alley on freezing, clothed in snow bench. And you again keep talks of ephemeral... Who else from people walking here will honestly support you in such dreamings? Who else think so – as think you..."
"They do not think at all at poor practice, they do not know how to do it, they don’t get puzzled, living here, don’t get involved in such a process. They do not gravitate to thinking or prediction. As well as never strive ahead with fervent selflessness and passion, never build global history. Just weakly contemplate and only."
"It's so hard with you to be. Madly hard." - Natalya Vasilievna has sadly taken deep long breath and asked without any ardor: "Do you still draw? Has it any success?"
This question was quite relevant and sharp, because of fact, that all support of hero's life and modest everyday existence was totally depending on the money from short and meager artist's craft, day and night filled with flaming creation of pictures, the ones, which with entire passion were getting sold at local streets.
"Nothing worthy and great, but some progress has come." - Boris Andreevich has hopelessly responded after a pause: "The process now is more easy, but all is staying complicated as before. But it's more profitable now. Now I stand really longer and bolder, I draw more rare than in past – sell already created. I have to be more active and persistent. I have to do it confidently, bravely. Then we will live completely nice."
"We will live, yes, of course..., if we'll not die from constant hunger. From melancholy and despair. And you again gain praises to world's globalism..."
"We have no globalism at all. We have the world, have its hollow and mindless humanity, so simply packed in vain civilization. What do we have in current time? Only huge populated earth-ball, aimless point in absolute abyss, short moment at eternity of days. We have just immense endless bunch of small particularities and trifles. And no kind of globalism or greatness."
"In dreams are mountains of gold, and in reality one failures. All transformations and all plans so stubbornly remain just verbal rubbish. And life moves forward as before - with no useless looking back and no worrying of stuck laggards. Waste your life as in past, if you're silly, I will not stop you or correct, will not disturb your foolish everlasting childhood."
"After all, life is short. And its abyss of dead empty vanity is irreversible and sadly all-consuming. There is no shelter, no treatment from such lost captivity. People live for to trample earth's ground, to lose dreams and to die. And I want to have meaning, to have justification and bright aims. I express my small world into art, embodying hurted soul in unforgettable, in unshakable, great and eternal. And money... Money will appear. I am not in distress of their matter. If you have light inside, night is brighter than day."
"You are stupid... Okay, it's time to go back, my coat already brings no warm. To chilly for to talk at ease."
"Let's go..." - the hero has got up and trudged with his companion in distance: "Has your daughter still visited you?"
"Oh, no. She's not so stupid for to come into local lost wilderness."
It's nice to clarify, that aforementioned Natalya Vasilievna has been a widow for more than dozen years and had grown-up and independent daughter, who was living in neighboring province.
"The devil, probably, is also quite afraid to visit our gray locations. Eh, melancholy, melancholy... But pain is cure from any lies, with last one it's more calm, more reliable." - Boris Andreevich has rummaged in his pocket and taken out few chewed bills: "At least some help. Not enough for too long, I'm aware, but it's the last."
"Not a lot..." - Natalya Vasilievna has slowly taken little papers, grasped in hand and carefully put inside of pocket: "Thank your soul for compassion. Quite enough for short future. Not for your globalism, excuse."
Have lovely smiled, then stood a little, gone apart.

V
Among of lonely bottomless sky's firmament, enveloped into canopy of sadness, is carelessly swirling and extending lifeless grayish cold mist of pre-dawn. Beyond of cloudy horizon, are reluctantly seeping through murk first timid rays of pale and drowsy sun. Cutting heights, slowly creeping bright shades. Behind of skew oblique window's shutters, is meekly wandering exhausted tired wind. In the middle of faceless and dark, downpour-flooded small yard, are gradually melting in deep sorrow gloomy viscous somnolent shadows. Here and there, single rare pedestrians are suddenly appearing from nowhere, successfully replacing in free way onto paths of the local inhabitants. First flakes of wet and liquid snow, mixed with merciless rain, are flying down from sky's abyss.
Denis Stepanovich, habitually motionless and usually depressed, is standing silently at window, unluckily beholding daily agony.
"Deep emptiness... Deep emptiness in all. Not only outside, if outside it's okay, but in inside all content is the same. Whole heart is dead – no hopes, no joy, only darkness. And fate is getting stricter, prompter - more and more with each day, and more minor, more hollow, deals also are not angelic and holy. Time is bored from itself, time is tired, long billions of years of universal transformations, of evolutionary sacrifice and fuss have turned out in absolute hopelessness with no kind of majesty or shadow of perfection. Even if whole civilization will just perish, no one will cry or will be sad. All known productivity and all historically given creativity comes down only to wars, to endless violence and sins, to stubbornly supporting endless enmity – to all and everyone without of exceptions. What's the source of this hell? What fills this agony with such a durability? What keeps this world alive? So much pernicious and ugly form of being... And we even admire sometimes – with its matters, events and commitments, bending helplessly down in front of face of fatal common madness. But what is life inside of daily racing – under false cunning cover of heights, what does it mean in global sense, what does it have in final essence? We have totally boundless universe, have its strict and indifferent powers, have distinct, rigorous forbiddings and useless breakable encouragements with similar inactive inspirations, we also confidently have so much surely firm separation of winners and of losers of main play, we have long mighty line between of all material and sacred, between of possible and real, we have just one predestination – harsh and strong, dark and hugely painful. We have fate and its laws. Have determinism. Where is life in its frames? One existence and only. Under leading of nits, any peace is a collapse, they need fire and pain - betrayals, hatred, treachery and wars. There is no suitable mirror, even taken from biggest of telescopes, for to reflect all current killing hopelessness. How stupid are all of regrets, how amazingly vain and irrational, how wrong is this feeling itself – at least, in lost surrounding around. It's like with each captured little animal: it gets in trap and instantly begins to shake and rush, to tremble and torn out with all power, then it suddenly shrinks and entirely fades, falls in absolute agony, by the reason of his last life's hour, but if this aforesaid mortal trap would had been by some wonderful reason very luckily missed, would the fate of such beast have some different plot? It would be quite emotionlessly eaten in literally few upcoming days – just by the first of countless predators, which are lavishly teeming in forests, would it really have long and fruitful existence? Hardly so. We are also the same: we tearfully and worryingly regret of any losses and mistakes, of all in temporary current, where if to be completely honest we have no significant chances, no tangible and weighty opportunities and prospects. We grasp here only for emptiness, for fuss, for accessible fiction and vanity, for short and aimless self-deception, fully fruitless, unreal and stupid. All life, all hopes, all deeds, all thoughts and aspirations are just rubbish. All this world truly do – just sow shit into innocent souls and only. And then ardently raise it and cherish. You look at this lost, poisoned world and discover yourself in deep abyss, in grave of greatness and humanity. Look around at here - what hide reality's conditions, what guides worldwide eternal path, by whom and how gets supported the carnival of sick rotten era, so faithfully devoted to extinction, what a for does it live, for which of strange and blurred aims? Oppressed and fully scattered world, where, against of dark doleful burden of encircling us permanent hopelessness, all-embracing and scarily deep, each step in any of directions only surely carries you more into hugs of wide baleful abyss, turning distant mistakes and omissions in their current upsetting results and tormentingly grievous prospects and burning fate and all its facts till lifeless ashes and cold coals, is this lost horridness a world? Is this a proper cradle for achievements, for frank saint feelings and improvement, is it a source for valuable rich fruits? Does such terrible place have some chances on confident goodness, on its growing and stable preserving, on increasing in purposeful essence and on linking with wealth and prosperity, on straight reliable recognition of better ideals and aims. This world, where runners dream of stumbling, this world, where any kind of hopes one a day gets crashed by dreary factuality, where omnipresent stubborn need for vague, clouded salvation, from someone clearly unknown, this world, where the only possible type of completeness implies through coming into grave, the world, where whole progressive line of long and tiresome existence comes down only to gradual extinction, it was surely dead from the very first day... Tell me please, tell me straightly right now - as to most aimless person from all - does this world has some reason or sense? At least, most scanty, miserable and faint... Tell me. Answer. Explain. I want to know, want indeed. I have to know it completely. I have to know all this rave. Yes, I have. Yes, I ought."
 
VI
Somber house is quiet, easy presence of two pensive persons does not change usual peace. Denis Stepanovich is sitting on one stool, Boris Andreevich is sitting on another.
"Sometimes I look at our world, embracing it with modest mental width, and it drives me in bottomless apathy, in endless hopelessness, despondency and pain. No unity, no meaning, no weight... People live for pure rave! For killing agony and void! It's sure horror and not less. Why it's so? " - Denis Stepanovich has sighed.
"Remember the sectarians and madmen, they've been killing themselves for sick myths, and you are wondering - why people live for raving, what else are all they able to live for?"
"This is pointless, wrong. Unforgivable, hurting."
"That's why, let me remind to you – not to admire with the people: in any case and any situation, the best they can is to survive - in terms of greatness, action not impressive. You can't help fools, they come to wisdom's pouring with a sieve. But after all, we're logical, smart creatures, and you certainly cannot deny our mind: all day we calmly sit at home and questioningly look at shining sun - look and wait, but as soon as it sets, we insistently rush to sunbathe."
"How to finish this madness, to stop?"
"For to stop to perceive any nonsense for logic, first of all stop to take real logic for rave, do it, try. Otherwise, all will shyly remain – just to choose aimless nonsense and wait: into absence of powerful values, we admire with scales of strong flaws."
"Where are the roots of this sharp trouble?"
"Deep in depths. Each death gets start from day of birth. Each awful collapse of life's line and any brokenness of final gets always prudently prepared from beginning."
"And what's indeed the strangest from all things is the fact, that this purposeless, profitless word time from time has some strict certain harmony, some blurred usefulness and meaning..."
"In new society of full madmen, any mutual steadied hatred, nicely equaled and tart, is called today as true and decent love. Therefore, if talk about aims, set that ones, which in essence and content are most far from all popular here, follow path, which is solely yours, and also steadily and soberly remember of fact, that aim determines future route: between of going one and his direction, as all of us detaily know, gets firmly formed some intimate connection, effortlessly embodied by the gait, which one entirely controls whole soul's comfort, whole inner peace and every next achievement."
"But how to predict and to foresee all slippery and nimbly shaky plot of strange and cunning living drama?"
"But what for do you really need this? It kills the very essence of reality. Your mad attempt to set by hand all unknown required numbers discredits any sense of equation."
"But, trudging such a way in random manner, you collect only losses and pains..."
"You losses move you into wisdom, in soon improvement of past views: if ground leaves away your feet – it happens only for better: if you are walking out of the land, it calmly means, that you are flying. Throw your previous wandering fate, throw aside – as a vain, barren garbage, don't try to save its hollow plot, your mind requires something sharp – losses, hardships and pains. Don't hesitate and don't ignore its searchings..."
"Why human stupidity is so harshly popular? Why it's so strongly in demand? Is everyone indeed so firmly foolish?"
"Any abstract and cognitive theories, as well as all theistic ones, get proved as usual not by practice, but by number of trusting adherents. This world prefers already done. Its crowd also gravitates to simple, mad and harmful, by the way. Truly happy and really mindful will never be completely understood, will never be supported by depressed, by taken into grief and married with disaster. It was always like that. And, believe me, it 's far from being stopped. Thick neck makes glad each kind of nooses. You have to know it quite well."
"The world is totally distorted, it's poisoned, spoiled and infected – by fatal terminal disease of souls' shallowing and dying."
"The world is clearly satirical and crooked, the most popular form of true honesty is fear to get choked with stolen piece. We don't try to solve our problems, we just try to accept them and only, try to discuss their presence one more time. We have appalling forceful cult - to make sins and repent. And if you have no sins at all - then you start to be worst of all evils, because of fact - you don't repent, don't suffer into torments of remorse. This world can't be explained by healthy reason. The principle of global utter justice, the one which is so actual and trendy, does not carry you anything good: into circle of ugly and sick in the role of wrong one will be right healthy person. So, currently it's fully how we live: the main part of reproachs, condemnations and blamings concerns at first most frank and happy ones. All unlucky and pitiable humans assuredly and openly consider, that this abruptly limited group is the most influential cause of any of past troubles and omissions. As if each loss of someone's leg has the only purpose and aim – to make all other gaits more stable. It can't be be soberly accepted or corrected... Life is fatal and crushed, in has been hurted right in essence, in all of basics of own sense. The same experience or mind are wholly accessorial and weightless. The happiness, which happened by pure random, has no depending on your brain: each walk by thin and brittle ice is not a fruit of skill, but a result of simple lucky accident. And what's terrible and sad, the more abundant are the chances, which are entrusted you for use, the more wrong and more empty is being: any freedom of tools brings broad duality of goals – that goals, which one a day transform in nothing."
"The world is now a kind of hellish circus: no seriousness here, no sure weightness, only fear and cult of wide stupidity."
"And so it is, this world is just a comedy. Tragic, sorrowful one, but anyway, of course, it is. And clowns also are at every corner - on posters, in politics, into clergy, and those of their mass, who wear carnival masks, are not the funniest at all."
"Who is guilty in all?"
"Being's system. Nothing spoils your soul so much as unity with principles of world. The beggars here aren't worried of lack of their money, they are much more concerned and puzzled of the money excess into pockets of others. It's difficult at now to grow up not as a soulless sick monster. Both doubts and convictions in such frames are berries of the same unlucky field. As well as black and white are one strange color. So, don't be glad in any case, if even something goes well it's just an error. An error or beginning of sad plot: the most popular preludes of grief have own start from most flawless prosperity."
"How not to lose, not to crash own weak mind?"
"At here we all keep talks of mind and prospects: each one and everyone persistently considers, that it's aptly his personal duty to mention an undoubted importance of having aim and distinct future road, but for some reason all of them so unforgivably forget to add small, unremarkable comment of their own lack of any goal. Stay away from suggested as meaning. From religion or soul adherence. Religion is a factory of weakness. It's type of ideology and thinking, which most effortlessly allows you to be sure, that any adept, rid of someone's help, will never try to gain this help himself, it forces sick and hurted ones to love diseases, forces ones, who has fallen in losses, to desire to grow their scales. Religion is not only a poison, but also its direct and free absorption. And, of course, if to be frank and honest, religion has no common with true faith."
"Why happiness today is so sinful?"
"Becoming absolutely happy, you oppose all yourself to whole world, creating sharp and timeless confrontation: the world itself has no day been happy. Since the inception of humans, there were only wars and diseases, disagreements, betrayals and pains, exploitation, deceit and vast violence, humiliations and pitiless sneerings. By becoming entirely happy, you break with very principles of people - to suffer, to endure and to hate."
"Who has invented all this shit?"
"The unfortunate ones have invented. And as you maybe also know, there is no more terrible tyranny than the authority of slaves. But still remember of the fact, that not only each mind is determined by deeds of environment, but also any model of environment is surely determined by the mind: transforming and reshaping in conditions, they are accordingly adapting to each other, correspondingly seeking for optimum of common mutual conjoint correlation. It concerns also frameworks of being and depths and boundaries of life, concerns its actual dimensions and the biggest accessible height of expressions' completeness. The world, which's taken out of the people, is truly limitless and meaningfully fruitful, and it's decidedly a pity, that only the degree of personal access to surrounding wealth in each case is completely exclusive. And if to say of ourselves, of inwardly located, hidden qualities, all is predictably uninterestingly trifling: we, as always, so eagerly rush to surrender to all hollow and stupid convictions, to shaky promises and slippery suggestions, if such ones can reliably provide with some faith – fully false, vain and empty, of course, but still able to bring little warming before of soon expected disappointment. Nowadays role of prophet is easy: tell me an object of your real admiration and complete, ended spectrum of fears, and I will accurately answer who you are. So, look at the roots and don't listen to people – it is impossible to sow sparks of sense with stone of their lie and boring twaddle."
"What a trouble with sense do we have?"
"Any sense is deplorably modest. That is why it belongs to few ones, all the time shyly hiding from viewing and only rarely exposing own quiet presence to stably narrow cohort of seers and sages. So, look more long. And always be afraid of perished spheres: ruins are able only to bury."
"What to do in this pit of extremes?"
"What to do... Just to rush as in previous times – from one of madnesses to others. Any love and affection to hammer is limited exclusively by one – by sweetness of betrayal with its anvil. Don't think, that sense and stupid matters can coexist in mutual conditions. So choose all stupidities randomly and only. Remember one – the rule of mad begins from partnership with normal."
"Much more than trouble, after all. All is mortified, poisoned – both world and people are just frozen corpses. All degree of uniqueness today is determined by firmness and depth of your mind's alienation from others... That's really regrettable and dreary."
"It turns all search of any weighty sense in endless tragedy, which's rid of even shade or trace of prospects: each sense, that has been grown on senseless soil will not ever get rid of own perishing spoiled genesis."
"Any life works as long equation: you fully understand, that you are wrong, but get first proofs of such a fact exclusively before of solving's end."
"Life does not know oneself completely, but  anyway in spite of all this nonsense it is assuredly engaged in own bold teaching, into time of which one its path gets filled with earlier unknown and eagerly evolving in own route."
"Let's criticize the course of evolution?"
"We will, we definitely will, and not only so trendy at now its useless biological applying, but whole phenomenon as kind of leading process. All evolution in inside is just a sadness generator. Any ones of its final results, having followed the path of painstaking extended improvement, are inevitably and sorrowfully doomed just to die at last day in the ending, to touch sweet limits and tart frames of better opportunities of being and then completely disappear. True ideal is always unattainable, long and narrow road to its bewitching tempting borders is entirely meaningless, stupid, all of countless risks, all luckily achieved and done committings, all experienced hardships and griefs, all overcome adversities and problems are are nothing more than mortified gray dust, hollow farce. Any meaning is scarily short. It's only temporary flag, passing purposeless guide: all will be sharply interrupted, turned in ash and replaced. Evolution is way to extinction, extinction in the most offensive way - through going through highest of maximums and further fading and fast wilting. And even personal development is so. The more smart you become, the more beautiful look you obtain and the more tender you can sing - the more shy and annoying you'll die. Evolution is work of the devil. And we are also in its cage. And  you too."
"To run from death ahead to its main abode is, probably, the funniest of funs. It's a shame to live now."
"Life's game is freed from satiety in tragic, in painful, violent and low. True happiness is such a kind of mountain, where the number of ones, who have climbed, is much less than of ones, who have crashed. Alas, darkness of triumphant madness works here much more effectively and amply than the lantern of buried reason. And what's of the returning to reality, I'll say, that, contemplating modern world, I can see only two pastly killed, and who from them is murderer, who's victim is all the time entirely unknown. That's why, each presence of some power, of serious authority and strength in existing wrong model of being is simply inappropriate and useless: if you're becoming for the people not a friend, but a strict sure leader, you are simply transforming from satanist in directly pure Satan, that's all."
"It's frightening. Till shivering and horror."
"That's rather natural for humans. Fear is a stuntman from the feelings, it comes here to replace last ones when they already do not cope. But it's also important to see true applying of torturing fear: if you're a hare and you're running from a wolf in a fear of being just eaten, be afraid first of all not of wolf and his teeth, but of own sluggishness and weakness. Moreover, fear doesn't guarantee safety. Any risk is indeed justified exclusively by role of final winner. Chances' coin can't fall on the edge. All or nothing, that's so. Defeated trickery and cunning are a soil for smartness and wisdom, and won ones are a source of delusion."
"After all, in this ugly society we have no shade of understanding, of aimful correctness and pureness."
"Smart ones inside surrounding of fools are similar with rowers on the land: are suitable exclusively for laughing. Wide mind today is even more offensive, than at least in some measure effective. Any dullness is absence of plate in simultaneous excess of dainty food, and mind is lack of any food in presence of whole section of free plates."
"Our prospects are short - only keep getting ruined by own mental remainders and to get slowly worse and weaker."
"True in all. Be clearly sure in fact, that human, just as river in sea can't fall in madness right at once – from the very beginning of life, although starts to research such direction concretely from the moment of creation."
"And after all, in no one of all scales, you can find any pointed vector, any truly straightforward free route. And even whole eternity is meager."
"No globalism can act as human mentor, the world was ripened not by God, but by the hand of pure scholasticism. There are no questions to people, exclusively to current world itself. The most awful of beasts is director of zoo."
"The only thing from all huge being, which's really capable to show self-improvement is our stupidness and weaknesses."
"I agree with each word."
"After all, all of tricks, all attempts go in vain. Having smashed all own past, you'll never build good type of future."
"If you dream of a race, buy a horse first of all. We are of those ones, who have never proceeded to life."
"All this is certainly for better."
"Undeniably so."
"Why demand of the nowadays crowd so purposeless and petty? Why their exactingness is so much perverted?"
"Demand and offer work quite simple. The price of water in this world is made exclusively by thirst. They don't want to get smart, do not try."
"They only hate, they humiliate and mock, denying and devaluing all essential. And the higher is any of feelings, the more defamed it is in frames of world, the more deep and more cruel cynicism and betrayal are implied inside of its sphere. Any unity, friendship or care are dead. What to say of saint object as love."
"Any love is exchange of the dishes, you pour your pure sincerity in someone else's cup, and if the last one has a gap, then all your gifted warmth and all affection, all tenderness are going into abyss."
"We do not differ true from false."
"We don't look at the essence. Among of fruits and rustling leaves, remember only of roots – no serious matter at all, which hand provides you with some help, important from whose shoulder does it grow. And any lie is only bad plagiarism of truth. As rule, not functional at all. And chances rarely come twice. Life's river, just as any other, is rid of giving plural human entrances, it is not possible to reach past heights once more."
"We have just hopelessness and only."
"And loneliness as best of forms of being. In love you get united with your partner, in changeless loneliness – with God, and if you're lonely and besides you're firmly atheistic in addition – you unite with yourself, what can be also rather pleasant."
"This world is rid of any heights, of pleasures, smartness and true values."
"And also always keep in mind, that as soon as you'll stop being fool, they will instantly start to declaim that you have vice versa turned in madman. Human smartness in obvious essence is tightly similar with sexual experience - the more enjoyable of truths you boldly dare to discover, the more a perverted you'll be called."
"We have just to endure all the time. To endure and bath into pleasures. But anyway it's hard here not to stumble, not to fall in nowhere."
"Do not give up. Remember the defective pistol's feat - they were forcefully making him murderer, but he refused to shoot at all."
"The only possible salvation from life's troubles is their natural completion in the ending."
"There is nothing to add. All keys from any being's cages are constantly in our weakened hands."
"The more attentively you look at living road, the more assuredly you'll find yourself at side."
"So it is. The more long you connect here with people, the more explicitly you risk to stop being human. After all, human face is just form: one day you sillily allow to yourself some sharply wrong  communication with hard freak, and in a moment turn own soul in rubbish, getting inwardly angular, crooked."
"Where to find that saint object of trusting – in which of world's manifestations, of its countless views and immeasurable feelings?"
"In no one from such a list. Human feelings are far from some nobleness, they have exclusively one point of application. And light with darkness also are the same. Shy away of their greedy deception. Life's path is sadly narrow and slippy, and sides are bordered with death. One sudden step, and you're a corpse. And defeat comes your abode. The more essential are taken heights of life, the more small will be splinters of past after falling from previous heaven. Do not look at reality's boiling: to choose the world of constantly led ones for sacred role of personal way's leader is sure evidence of headlessness and blindness."
"So much easy today to get lost... So much awfully simple..."
"If you stop to be useful, you become to be needless, excessive. Remember one – if life has obstinately planned to write your poor person off, then expect soon invitement from death. So, always hurry to be useful, to be most justified in fact of daily presence. Be glad with having every meaning, respect each weightness and importance. Strive here exclusively for graceful and majestic. And don't complain of ugly waste conditions, life's goal determines not one length road, but also its accessible free width: choose right waymarks, and no constraint will happen. And always eagerly proceed to self-researching. This is utterly powerful thing. Both every feeling of true happiness, as well as any self-identification in so unbearably disgusting petty role of complete helpless idiot is wholly personal tight matter. Don't be discouraged by life's troubles, we always have great plenty of such ones, their presence works as circuses' migration: if one nomadic circus leaves the city, then rather hurriedly and promptly its ramps and colored wide tents get replaced by completely identical ones newly settled. Ignore all kinds of facts and things except of individual ideas. Live by last ones and only by them – for holy priceless sake of their growth and of rich and awaited prosperity. And, after all, if this world speaks with you as with idiot - just stay steadfastly silent in response."
"What's wrong with people at this planet? What serves as source of their pettiness? After all, each of them can be aimful."
"Very alas, but no. With a small tiny mouth, you will never be glad with large pieces. Each limitedness, so it was invented, is sure property of person, but not of his environment and being."
"This is regrettable and wrong. The way of world is clearly deplorable. We've grown from wars and epidemics, it's a fact."
"Do not remember where you've come from, think of where you will fall. This truth is greatly more important. And always keep yourself restrained - you can't illuminate the abode of own mind with useless blaze of tart emotions."
"The world is pure delirium, pure rave..."
"Fully right, I agree. Nightmare differs from reality exclusively by single trifling thing – by possibility of sudden nice awakening."
"So it is, I confirm, but outwardly world looks rather decent. And this duplicity, this low deceptive harmony is simply poisonous and killing."
"Fair statement. Completely fallen rotten people don't look most lost and most disgusting: wholly putrefied corpse likewise gets rid of former stenching. But the funniest thing hides in fact, that smart ones, no matter how smart all they are, much more wrong play in fools than true fools in the very smart ones. And all blame for this murk lies on essence of our nature. And this is even not surprising. Imagine flimsy helpless boat and sternly storming ocean around. Who will be guilty in such case, if this boat will get ruefully perished – weak boat itself or strong and rough waves of depths? In formal frames, the fault is common. We all quite clearly understand on whom depends the situation, we calmly know its sad specification. The world is really too huge. And your personal mind's independence against involvement in some team is that small rightless boat onto heavy long liner, which gets remembered only in time when main ship irrevocably sinks."
"Given being is endless, I know, life's scales are boundlessly vast, it's unattainable to light all immense limits, all spaces and all corners of world's abode, no matter how bright you will shine with your flame, brightness measure is caused not by power of lamp, but also by the size of room around. With inner light all works the same, you cannot save all crippled fallen souls, cannot change."
"It's not required at all. Our personal role is quite modest. We mistakenly think, that we're masters of own blurred fates and destiny, we consider we know this world, know essence of life, we consider all matters and ways are completely controlled and examined, but your body was made not by you, your volume of accessible emotions and essence of surrounding environment are selected and formed once again not by you, you even do not know the amount of sharp electrical potential, which arises at tip of your tongue during hot oral contact, what to say of confusing profundities of universal thin organization..."
"Who've given birth to so helpless us?"
"Who've given birth, I do not know, I only know who pumps us with all content - we ourselves and nobody else. Lots of us wrongly think, indeed sincerely believing, that human was created by God's hand, by this is surely so, our God has created the world, and every human in its frames is a fruit of consistent self-building."
"Any fate is a kind of huge market, where you exchange your luck on something else."
"This is also full truth. Also wholly unshakable one. And we do it most often in vain. With happiness we have to do three things: haphazardly create, inadvertently kill and then regret all rest of future fate. And this is not a human curse, this is sad human flaw. And people keep such one themselves. That's why, don't sympathize with any of their number, especially with those cunning ones, who have already been quite lavishly compassioned by wide hundreds of the other insistent well-wishers. But world will always force to share soul, to gift support and bring frank sinless unity. This is road to death. Compassion is a sort of mental weakness, and sick ability of absolute forgiveness is at all iron proof of brain's dullness. Memorize all above. Preferably for confidently long."
"I agree, that we have sure gap between of current lost society and anything exalted, right and true. And to study this life by its people today is the same as to study past models from pictures by the very old achromic pictures: not even partially reliable, but quite popular."
"It's misfortune to be human. To see this world and whole scale of its sorrow and crisis. It's much more poisonous than any pure arsenic."
"We can't feel happiness or breathe with whole free chest: you can't become a mouse into absence of cat. Life is unusable, defective. I have no doubt, we are dead, time's river on its current interspace is simply inappropriate for swimming."
"The birth itself is kind of curse. We have to delve in being's rubbish, in its futility and murk. But ignorance of life, by the way, is more hurting and painful, it's very similar with drunkenness in effect: all troubles really become less harsh and sharp, but increase in amount of consequences. And each meaning itself is a form of life compass, of some guide or instruction for moving. It's map, which saves from going to nowhere. But sometimes all the best is just there."
"Sometimes it really comes true, but anyway such luck is always useful, we never spend it prudently and smartly. And the bigger is daily experience, the more thin and fragile is its breakable matter. Indeed voluminous wide consciousness is frighteningly shaky and unstable: all previously gathered information is collected in bulk – one little moving in wrong way and all will crumble in few seconds, having got fully rid of past harmony. That's why ideas' viability is most often short-living utopia – defenseless, purposeless and empty."
"Anyway climb and strive, rise up without hesitation. You can survive exclusively at peak. Rush to last one, attain. Cling for chances, for hopes."
"But what they are, these blurred chances.... Total vacuum, fake. Any mineral rock starts to be truly useful exclusively from time, when it was mined, no one of hazed abstract abilities can be initially actual and precious, no one of notorious chances can persuasively serve as salvation, such filled with fiction suppositions are made of emptiness and lie. They are hollow, dead."
"Yes, it's honestly so, but you forgivelessly forget, that meaning's use has limitless amount of dimensions: one single model, as you know, can serve as source for thousands of pictures."
"For ugly ones, as sure rule. Despair – evidence of living."
"The main thing – not to fade, not to give tryings up. The path to abyss, save in mind is staircase of only one stair."
"At now abyss is the only free abode. All is leading in there. People - world – own omissions. Mortal cycle, damnation."
"The very people aren't a coffin, they are only its nails. And the world, no matter at all how longly it dies, is still alive in global meaning. Sinking ship, while it sinks, can be many times sold. Main matter – not to rampage with pained mind. Foolish thoughts, as rough robbers, first of all hit most bright and most luxurious heads. And also do not be inspired, do not believe in something saint. Life gives you immortality for moment, world's history - for minute or the same. All will pass as short rain. As vain rubbish of similar universe. And if to say of giving of advices... Do not communicate with people. With old ones or with young, no matter. Be mo sober, more prudent. Do not ride to the center of city. But this, of course, only if you yourself aren't there. Don't read newspapers or walls' notes. It's enough to fall down one wrong glance at wraped up in a piece of such ones sinless fish for getting totally informed of political collapse of country. But politics is far from all decent. So let's cancel such talks."
"I support."
Have unhurriedly parted.

VII
Into dim static darkness and sadness of small and timid street cafe, in monotonous and sorrowful oblivion of reflectively lifeless, calm indolence, is staying sure absence of emotions. Faint mood is quite predictably extinguished, liquid time is pacificly sluggish. Walls are bleak, rid of joy and remarkable features, gray pale ceiling is served with dull golden-like ornament, rather tasteless and plain and a little bit shabby. Heavy tables are decently tired, thick outlines are meager and uneven. Whole charm is artificial and false. All leads to one distressful melancholy - even strained inappropriate positive thoughts. In peaceful drowsiness is hanging bored gloom. Next to slightly half-curtained large window, vast and blurred by murk, are sitting two meek silhouettes of lovers, Boris Andreevich and Natalya Vasilievna, firmly delved into mutual sadness.
"Once again, I am torn off from world-wide deathless problems and totally connected to your soul, politely building and developing in measure both weak vain body of warm thoughts and common docking by relations. Life is motley and short, free for horror and pain, greatly fast and so utterly shallow. Bright miracle at here is not a guest."
"You will never be changed. You even are not getting old... Thoughts and motives are strong. Immense plenty of dreams and identical absence of actions. Sure hero, not less. What a useless and nauseous fuss. Both highly sugary and utterly disgusting. As if you're made of cotton candy."
"It's that makes you a person – your soul sublimity, mind's wishes and directions, not by rare bright gift of right holding of mallet or of straight skillful cutting some skins. True person is determined by one meaning. By depth of thoughts and volume of self-contents, of mental and sensational fulfillment. And nothing else conditions us as humans. Please, remember one obstinate truth, that immortality of soul begins with from elementary its presence. All other things are secondary, aimless – all artificial excess of daily boredness and duties."
"Will at least tiny part of your thoughts will come luckily true. I am in deep and endless doubts. So stupid you are, so vain. It’s naive to rely only onto one bare chances, such ones aren't omnipotent, aren't salvatory. Denying weakness of oneself, you will ever become neither better, nor stronger. You don’t perceive your daily being as gift, do not appreciate its essence, don’t understand that you can happily exist with simple ordinary life - develop housework, do all best at your job and raise up dear children, you do not understand at all, that you can live without love, without sick exalted habits , just sincerely loving your routine, loving rare short weekends, small labor money and infrequent, but ravishing chances to cheat on flabby husband or fat wife with a partner, entrusted at work, and next for such a sinful case you, by the way, can eagerly repent at free late evening in a local small church. There is no other kind of life except of one, that you yourself have painted, I maybe even will agree, but world is different. And world is still alive."
"Each defectiveness captivates, ties. It discourages, breaks. You also have been taken in this claws, have been pulled into barren dense swamp of own torturing uselessness, have been wrapped in thick shawl of soul's lack, your inner hunger has been weakened by mushy crumb of aimlessness and lie. You surrender to crap of reality, surrender to the thing, that should just pass, just turn in zero and simply disappear - without trace or memory of presence. Each human in your crippled harmful vision is a kind of machine or, what's more accurate, of valueless addition to the last one – do work, come to home, eat some food, fall at bed. All sex – just tool of reproduction. Instead of feelings - frames of marriage. Instead of happiness - connection with society. For each penny at here you have not smaller than to die. You have also to give hollow birth to moronic vain children, to interwave these children into couple with entirely similar neighboring ones and to make them to give nasty birth to equally unbearable and worthless and, apparently, even more brainless, rid of prospects and essence grandchildren. And then, according to cold call of indifferent greedy authorities, obidiently and selflessly provide them for new war, then to get torn remains in zinc coffin. You need dominant presence of rules and identical absence of head. Submit and don't proceed to thinking, eat uneatable, break in free doors. It's not a life, not even slightest copy. Even occultism's reckless fanatics, profoundly accustomed to be suffered, would never wish such kind of fate. You've sold your brain to devil of modernity. And you've sold just your brain, not your soul, what, by the way, is much more tragic. You do not know how to believe, do not know how to live. Both miracles and happiness are near, you have just to approach them, to attain, to squeeze through wall of mindlessness to meaning. For you immortal influence of problems is indelible and fully omnipotent, you do not see this world without troubles, you consider, that duty of sacrifice at here is wholly inevitable, you indisputably admit, that viability of ones can stay successfully supported exclusively by dying of the others, you do not see the purity of meaning, don't see predominance of thought, do not see selfless joy of unbreakably stable prosperity. You acknowledge inherence of evil. And you quite stubbornly maintain justifying. Such type of faith in God is called as Satanism."
"You strive to ideals of sick immagination. Your truth is actual and weighty exclusively in frames of your vain words. It's highly difficult and hard to look at you in serious straight manner. You're guided by one aim, by mad obsession. It is more frightening than full of inspiration."
"Aim draws appropriate for cozy going route. It gives both firm justification and inward harmony of way, gives sure confidence in deeds and next beginnings, fills with rightness and tools. Chosen aim brings completeness. It opens possibilities and meamings, shows paths to suitable conditions and strengths for overcoming any hardships. I frankly ardently believe in broad supremacy of goal. And my friend from far youth - Denis Stepanovich, is also of identical worldview. We're accurately similar in all – as two boots of one pair. In any aspects of perception. We even live in similar apartments: my flat has number 87, and his one - number 78. In different of houses, of course, but still some mystical conjunction. I believe into aim, I believe in magic of concept, believe with all my poor soul. I believe and further."
"You evoke only average pity. No matter at all, how high are you goals, you can't get warmed without fire, just as can't feed yourself without food, and all your ravings of aim's power are nothing more than useless nonsense. Any aim can be truly appropriate exclusively in presence of free fools, in presence of clear chances on embodiment. The choice between of practical and tempting should be done for the sake of mind's sanity. Single waiting for better eventsis not a tool of their implementation. You tell just words, but want firm strength and doubtless completeness. You wish all and at once. Where to look for your joys, for long-awaited cloudless. So what's about selling of your pictures?"
"Pictures keep own slow moving, but happiness still hesitates in steps. We should be mutual, be closer. Gain understanding, love and hope."
"It's hard with you, it's greatly hard... As with iron on neck."
Have similarly fallen fully silent.

VIII
In toxical and merciless sobriety of strictly contrasting and deadly meager features of far and sadly blackened roofs, worn by age, were obscuredly huddling in depression deeply bottomless sorrowful sky with colorless and densely accreted with lands' grayness, wholly spiritless fog and whitish, smoothly shapeless flocks of weightless clouds, torn haphazardly of from all earthly and boring beginnings, quietly hopeless and meek and so perfectly rid of all optimism, of cozy friendliness or any bright warm feeling. Above of soulless expanses, rather lavishly sunk in wet sleepiness, were vanishingly floating through gloom few vertically falling rare shadows. The world was surely not here, it was today somewhere else, was somewhere not near, at here were only its echoes, faint and seasoned with tiresome drowsiness, with daily bustle and oppression and indistinguishable images of life, calmly framed into weakly formed apathy, hardly fettered desolate heart. All was causing exclusively one – inconsolability of many types and tastes. Indifferent and hollow palette of habitual rambling sensations was also purified of passionate abundance – all-consumingly forceful detachment, sharp disgust to all doing around and broad indifference to own piteous person. That's whole set of provided emotions. Humbly faded in pensive despair, timid shallow thought was weakly flickering in fatal atmosphere of tragic aimlessness and gradual extinction, intensified by burden of vast losses, of total separation with past luck and of painful and morbid fragility, unhinderedly dominant perplexity and unbearably hurting heart's torments, firmly hanging with doleful cover over any of states and experiences. Long time entirely distorted and irreversibly destroyed vague model of shadowy world was serving as a cradle of upsetness, than at least smallest source of rejoicing. All was plunged into pain, into mourning prostration and inward darkness of lost soul – the one, which is more thick than any others. As we certainly know, great utopian's depth at one moment gets instantly, that's why, according to this statement, Denis Stepanovich's lost mood, which have not found caressing encouragement, has got finally fallen in grief, in killing bitterness and sorrow's cold pit.
"Again I bathe my soul in desolation..." - the hero has sighed: "Once again, one tart sadness in me - as the only filler of human. Again one sadness into friends. Neither leave nor move back. And into future even worse. You cannot warm oneself with self-conviction. Strong mind is ineffective at today – into frames of vain breathless reality. And passive contemplation – all what's given. And no evident escape. Having got truly rid of mind's webs, you find yourself in many other ones – in social, in factual and jointed with problems and life's circumstances. And sometimes you so want to relax, to surrender and fall forgetment. We are just fruits of evolution – the process of escape from some disasters and dominant continuous survival. We are beasts. And society is kind of mad zoo. All existence is only a pit, an entire and merciless abyss. And constancy in rueful, aimless form is not identical to purposeful stability. The world is  simply hopeless at today. And each of souls in its walls is also totally defenseless. We cannot rise to stars, cannot try to recover, can't get saved."
Denis Stepanovich has sighed, then had descended down to the entrance, slowly checked small mail box – yes, a letter! Climbed again, started reading.
"I warmly greet my dear precious boy! With genuine and endless satisfaction and incredibly hugest affection I've read your long-awaited message, so clearly and distinctly feeling all unshakably bottomless love. So pleasant, I feel, so good, that I can't even think from such bliss. I would so much like to take in all your kindness and care, to taste all joy and tenderness at once. I can't even believe that happiness has come really true, that it's so much close, so opened. Please, be sure, that in mind I'm entirely yours, inseparably soldered with you. So much wonderful is this harmony, so calm it's for me, so easy. As in paradise given from heaven. Only you fill my mind, as if all other has been evaporated. At now I want just to dissolve, to get stirred in this holily sweet reciprocity, to disappear in its abode. So much sinlessly saint is this tart lovely constancy, so boundlessly bright. I find myself so greatly happy. But at the same imputed time, I understand that life moves usually another, not always following for dreams as well as not each time embodying expectations. Not always everything is fully as you want. And I am afraid to be cause of your next disappointment. I'm far from being writer of love plot. I do not want to gift false dreams. After all, life is not in my power... I have only one chances – as you. Not for everyone happiness is, it's quite sad. But it's extremely pleasant to be loved, as well as nice to love myself. And I can’t live without you. You are utterly good. Very good. Very very, be sure. No doubts, you're good. Good and mine."
At this point, the letter was ended, having left involuntary sadness.
Denis Stepanovich has sighed, reread message one more time and perplexedly rushed to write answer:
"My precious, sweetest and most saint Irina Vladimirovna! It's so pleasant for me to be again in our joyful unity, at least in modest writing form. So much nice for two wandering souls to be near, so sharply important. My zeal for life is made exclusively by you. So warm it's in bundle with you – in enchanting ravishing idyll, as at highest of skys, as if I'm filled with miracles and bliss, with abundantly marveling openings, already luckily upcoming. I so immensely love and so firmly believe. Exorbitantly, ardently and hotly. You are my everything and all. All I cherish and only wish."
Then were added few shy little quatrains:

No matter, it's winter or summer
No matter, what time on my clocks
I think of you, bilieve, desire
And dream without any stop

I still hope to reach you, my dear
To catch glance and to touch you with lips
I stil faith, that all plans will come real
And I will fully blossom and live

You are my world, you are my sense
My infinity, given by heaven
Your look is surely the best
The best and sweetest ever

You are my miracle, my God
My light, most bright and faithful
You are my road and my sign
My path in joy and better

Together nice is any hell
But apart even sky is not pretty
I wish to be with you all way
All way, where you're are leading

Each life is short and ours too
So was all time, all being
True paths are narrow and rude
And murky, harmful, killing

You are my star, my rescuing tool
My bliss and my enjoyment
You are so nice, you are so good
You are my healing poison

I live for you, I think of you
I write of you and only
You're so tempting, so cute
From now and for always

At this, the hero folded tiny paper, stepped back from writing and got frozen. Saint happiness is here – right in hand...
And then again to local post.

IX
Again bleak, sadly static unity has timidly united souls and minds of Denis Stepanovich and Boris Andreevich, with power of connective conversation, so peacefully united by calm talking.
"Here again, having freely escaped from the routine, we see each other face to face, getting joint by rarest miracle of scaringly exceptional like-mindedness. And pushing from this luckiest nice fact, I propose to have speech of most cherished and valuable thing - to touch saint theme of how to be happy."
"I agree, weighty topic, you've so aptly suggested such choice - to dishevel flabby chaff of deep yearnings of spirit. For people happiness is myth, entirely imaginary concept, determined by one miserable retreat from eternally dominant losses, not by inner request for prosperity. Any average person knows not more of obtaining of happiness than any ordinary baker knows of new technological process of industrial rubber production. True happiness is fruit of blurred dream - unrealizable and useless."
"You can't fight with this truth, I confirm. But exchange dreams on routine is similar to replacing heart on stone. Do not do it at least voluntarily."
"All is globally so. A dream is great protector from reality. Any grief was created at first for those ones who've considered happiness' sacrament for non-viable empty utopia."
"The worst thing that it's choice of majority. People justify flaws, admit own ugliness and hollow world around, they even try to give it some support. Such life should be perceived as pure disease."
"The world itself is kind of cup - past meaning was completely evaporated, free space was occupied by slops. Switch off mind's light, today it's useless. No sun can above of every head. There is no idol for all."
"Albeit the world was done for gradual creation, but everything one day gets broken down, meetings turn into goodbyes, friendship turns into enmity, strength turns in powerless impotence, love – in hatred and cold separation, weakened body grows old, soul shallows, wilts and transforms into purposeless ashes, mind loses sharpness, activeness and strength. We change one poison on some other, we try to find some ideal, some reason, to rely, to gain trust... To gain trust and get harshly deceived. It's just regular average practice, all fate is trip to next graveyard, all fate is journey through murk, where all charm of accessible luck comes down to success with fellow travelers, as all around painfully short-term and wholly temporary, fleeting and inconstant. It would be nice to think and say, that this life also beats all the others, but, as you're probably informed, sinking ship doesn't fear of storm: most of nowadays people are primarily rubbishy and useless, fully lost and entirely rid of all prospects, their enveloped with aimlessness shares are permanently pointless and wrong. They are totally rotten and filthy, they have nothing to risk or to waste. Modern life is a bottomless abyss, among which one there are only seeking for rescue and no one who've been really saved. Human mass stays at step to extinction, our desperate flight has to be one a day broken off, has to exhaust all previous resources and to disturb entrusted time, to benumb into spiritless breathlessness and at last get remainlessly drowned in forlornly upcoming oblivion. It's all what's given. Gloomy share."
"So it is, but don't bend anyway, don't surrender to perishing essence. Put own will high above over anyone else's, do not look at all other life's actors - God, devil or humanity, no matter. Don't succumb to the tricks of society, all its vast and innumerous volume is filled most frequently by freaks. Remember, social acceptances and fetters are not more lenient or peaceful to your person than entirely similar ones from dogmatic religious practices: admitted social foundations and class rules, their narrow frames and tedious traditions serve here as kind of aptly aimed conspiracy - sad snide conspiracy of freaks against perfection, the same conspiracy of fools against smart ones, low vile conspiracy of mean and worthless ones against all purposeful and honest, offensive torturing conspiracy of hopeless against of promising and hopeful, distasteful horrible conspiracy of dying against of barely begun to be alive. Shy away from them all. From all and everyone of people."
"You have no chance to run away – to get escape from each of troubles..."
"You have no need in such a run. Don't look at any of life's troubles, of endless pains and hollow facts, but listen thoroughly to reasons. Build stable sequences, grow up. If you're sitting in cage, be afraid not of rods, but of tamer: not harmful episodes of fate are so terrible, but paths and frames, which lead to their coming."
"We're plunged in weakness, in detachment. All this stubbornly frames our mind in entire dependence, in sick subservience and languor. In sad conviction in defeat."
"Conviction serves in our fate not only as retarding stumbling block, but also as uplifting springboard – be ready to be armed with counterweight, drive away all who've driven your person, burn each one who burns others. Don't look at people and their life."
"New life is not for observation – one sudden glance, and joy is far away. What's bright in life except of lanterns? Both you yourself go always empty-handed and everyone you meet brings air in handfuls. One purified annoyance in each moment."
"But each annoyance is specific. One thing, when it belongs to someone else, and completely and wholly another, when the last one is clearly yours. Any alien loss or defeat gets tranquilly perceived as something teaching, as some experience, as lesson, and not as true misfortune or sad oppressive pain, not as obvious trouble and guilt, and only personal omissions get perceived as undoubted tragedies."
"Therefore, it's usually more easy to help to others, than to save own fate. A star from alien far galaxy looks more appropriate, more meaningful and distinct, than your own shining sun, dazzling suffered eyes."
"It shows all agony of logic."
"But sometimes logic's presence is useless."
"No one of all possible logics will assuredly eat all world's meaninglessness, but here more actual and needful for each mind not to be eaten in response. The main thing, after all, not to fade - not to fade first of all with own brain, not to fall into mental eclipse. The world has nothing special inside: while any trivial sandbox stays not fully explored, it seems entire universe, not smaller. Life is skillfully made of deception. Of unviable shaky illusion, next smooth and natural regression of which one gets so frequently exposed as some development. All around at all is mainly only a fiction, a kind of huge and cunning matrix, where all you meet is just a fake. Any roots of each grief grow from soil of mind. Every cognitive door to the outside fears gets opened only by one thing – by some dwelling inside tiny doubt."
"Thought serves to matter, I agree. But it's rarely going harmoniously."
"Be more strong. Strong with mind. Don't believe in delusions. Don't be afraid to be twice beaten, be afraid to be single time broken."
"What for we keep own lifes alive..."
"If you want to see absolute future, look in absolute past. Human world builds own wandering trace by boring path of sure repetitions, retransmitting in further development both former feats and previous mistakes, both old fashion and nullified rituals – of course, without copying of events, but with constantly stable adhering to historical regular routes, to global tendencies and methods. And even roots of any innovations have basis of pure archaism, of pastness."
"But are some patterns, some clear laws?"
"Each chaos works by principle of mutual attraction, all identical things get slowly reciprocally united, being put by some force into heaps and divisions."
"And human here is just a pawn."
"But whom else can we modestly be... It's irreversible and changeless. We do not choose own role, we only work at acting skills. You should not even try to guess the genre: all is strongly two-faced and deceptive, all is flooded with fakes, black is tightly engaged in self-whitening, white – in permanent fighting with blackening."
"After all, even precious experience cannot save you or fix as well as can't be suitably applied: sometimes it is more difficult and puzzling to keep obtaining of you've got than to get it at all in beginning."
"That's why, warm up indifference and only. In last one you don't have to think, at least about aimless others. As well as you don't need at all to use or to admit blurred fruits of an alien thought. In loneliness you're acting as pedestrian, and in togetherness – as passenger and watcher: events are flying much more fast, but you have less control. So, be alone. And be afraid of doubtful startings. Each equilibrium – forerunner of imbalance: if person hastens to gift love, he can equally rush to seed hatred."
"It's greatly hard to meet some truth, everywhere is pit of deception."
"The world is huge, pure meaning stays to be exception. Each giant is a platform for some dwarf."
"What a vile, rotten world – one empty vanity in all. It seems that even all above costs also less than copper penny."
"At today all imputed assurance comes down to one measure of despair. Current world is ambivalent, marshy. That's why, most true and correct sentences of God can be probably heard right at bottom of hell."
"Our god is a kind of such character, who has somehow managed to lose in own personal casino."
"I agree with this torturing sadness, world has turned into hell. Only darkness has prevalence here, light stays lazy. But if you'll take a closer look, you'll understand that God is rather good – for example, as flawless satirist: he had created here three billions of women, but didn't give you even single one. And world is also equal with creator. The aim at here is not to get survival, but just to elongate the state of dying. One bare skills don't serve as rescuing beginning: not mad tenacity allows to be a climber, but modest presence of rock's surface. Outside of due tools and conditions, outside of appropriate facts and accessible chances, all your zealous willful efforts will be simply ridiculous. But main thing is to learn, to persist in beliefs and adjust their scope. Just believe and keep flame. Keep flame in spite of hardships' murk. Life's statistics gets fed with fresh flesh of dead hopes. And chance on happiness is less than chance on hitting – small needle's eye with huge basketball ball. No one of finders was a seeker. All good gets birth by pure ocasion. But biggest trouble hides not here: the more significant you are, the higher things you have to risk with: the peasant risks here with own stomach, his king – already with own head. Worst thing for guilty people is starvation, worst thing for guilty ruler – guillotine. Freak and genius die here unequally. Each life is different than others."
"It hits my weak perception like a stick."
"Just get used to be glad with sick forehead. At least, you never will regret. The best of spices is your hunger. If you want to be happy, you will. At life or only posthumously, no matter."
"As I see, all we do here - just suffer. Then fall in grave and get forgotten. After all, we are people and only: no matter how impartial you are, but, neatly working as a headsman, you never will cut off own head..."
"As well as you will never sew it back. Even being three times aesculapius."
"Trouble. Tragedy..."
"Life."
 
X
Sharp indifferent January wind, with prompt deftness of lynx has boldly bared icy street, detached and deserted by winter, fully flooded with twilight and bitterness, which have pensively bordered strict stingy features by gloomy roughness of coldness, of daily bottomless oppression and fussy grayness of pale views. All around contains melancholy. Lonely mourning blizzard, stormed all previous night, sadly sings dreary-sonorous song to reality, without shame, assuredly extended with peaceful asceticism of desolate surroundings.
Two lost wandering figures are effortlessly crawling ahead by slippy spacious embankment - Boris Andreevich and Natalya Vasilievna. Both are calmly enjoying with walk. Are unhurriedly talking.
"Once again our modest escape from day's boredom has enveloped both us with own generous unity, meekly hidden in bonds of community." - Boris Andreevich has quietly stretched out and then humbly continued: "One time all dreams will surely come true, all luck most often waits in hands – it grows, as fact, from bare expectations, from thoughts of bright and aimful reasons, of prudent ways and better future prospects."
"You are to far from human things." - has sighed in disappointment Natalya Vasilievna: "Once again will we talk of your dreams? Of most useless and pointless ones. Life does not go on in your head, it boils exclusively around."
"Okay, let's talk of daily life. Sometimes it also turns to be important, to be essential and deep. But thoughts are much more valuable, of course."
"Come on, perform your hollow bustle."
"Let's talk this time of our fates. Mad life has made us quite related. And it's a moment for such friendship to become something notably more - more weighty, intimate and deep, to become what calls shyly as happiness, with all it lavishly includes - with warmth of nights, with tart boundless sweetness of meetings, with recklessness of hot and sinless thoughts, with riot of bold and lustful dreams and with storm of immodest desires and fantasies, with keen intensity of graceful intercourses, with all making us pleased and alive and all restlessly ripening deep into souls from the earliest instinctive childhood."
"Enough this heresy for my tormented ears. Don't even start your sexual delirium, don't even try to feed me with such rubbish. It's definitely loathsome and inept. The biggest thing, I will ever be eager to gift you, is a short meager glance and not more. Nothing else – no plans, no sick fantasies. No! I've been always aware, that you're an idiot and only, but was never think of you so bad. And stop looking at me as at freely accessible woman. I will never agree to be sharing my bed with so silly  and valueless oaf. No pain and no torture will enforce me to do this disgusting and nauseous act. You must be absolutely thankful for the very impossible fact, that I've been talk with lost and useless you. But you've preferred to stay in role moron."
Boris Andreevich has sharply stepped aback: "I've believed, I've so frankly believed and entrusted..."
"Brainless variant, garbage! Tell me also with cries, you have been sorely deceived. Enough such spiritual shit. I do not need your money since this time. From now - no activity from you. Do not write me or visit. I'm rid of mad necessity in fools."
Natalya Vasilyevna has abruptly and hastily turned out and then hurriedly stomped far away: "And do not try to find me once again! I'll bring you rare scales of harm, if you'll still dare. Have you heeded me, dullard?"
Boris Andreevich has stayed completely silent. Yes, has heeded.

XI
Not more than modest week ago, on fully peaceful January street, had been calmly and tranquilly keeping quite mild and tolerable weather, as well as had been no dreary thoughts, but fate has an ability to change: fickle and mutable weather has got hurriedly spoiled, shaky mood has been taken away, even promptly discolored former landscape has turned filled with pale bottomless grayness. No warmth, no salvation. And only sadness in all things. Denis Stepanovich has measuredly sighed and unwittingly drowsily shivered. Sluggish indolent path was leading not in miracles or heaven, but in ill-fated, practically damned, plunged in hatred poetical alliance, disgusting, vile, but stably irreplaceable. And that is accurately why, having firmly decided to go, our hero was forced to step on, albeit ahead at gloomy stage once again should be met nothing decent.
"The only thing I have to do at now – just to hide my habitual shyness, to overcome familiar confusion, to crush fear and calmly survive. To cope most mainly with myself – not to stuck, not to fade in inside, not to get weak and numb. You can't think as smart one with tormented sick head. It's a rule."
But the way has already been started.
Into gloomy indifferent room - timid temperate murk. Light is timidly dimmed, shades are hazed, pale and shapeless. In bleak and heavily depleted, strict, impassive interior, all as always is dreary and lifeless, indistinct, monotonous and boring. All is deadly and ruefully stable. Framed from sides by renewed splendid curtain, lots of times sternly trampled by shoes tortured stage is predictably silent and small. On familiar featureless wall, going back, is meekly hanging dolorous and faceless, rid of lavishness regular carpet, thickly filled with some simple abstractions and geometric stenciled patterns, quite laconical, smooth and attractive, neatly suiting to other environment, also weakened, depressed and lethargic.
Meanwhile the meeting, right as always, has overstepped own tiresome beginning. After typical routine checking has expectedly come long indifferent passionless reading – wholly flameless and raw and appallingly, horribly far – from any depth and any hidden greatness. And again text by text in such manner. Just until modest fortuneless turn of our seeking, lost Denis Stepanovich. The hero has obediently got up, then rather bashfully and shyly made a pause and with restrained and pensive look addressed to hall with ardent recitation:

Don't be enchanted by own joy
And don't be sad from frifles
Don't try to save what is destroyed
And keep own soul peaceful

Don't think, that farness is so far
That closeness is so close
Hard road is in hundred times
More useful than cozy

Don't think than nothing will come back
But do not wait, when mindless
Don't say, that world is fully vain
Even if it's entirely right here

Don't be afraid, but keep self-care
Don't trust, but stay with opened soul
Do not admith that something is unable
And do not argue with life's points

Keep that is yours, not steal that's others
Collect all good, erase all bad
Be kind with all, who're cherishing and loving
And don't be patient to all mad

Don't cry at nights, don't waste own days
Do not forget of greatness
Don't stick to purposeless and gray
And faith all time in better

Breath calmly, easily, with peace
Don't think of wrong and empty
And don't get rid of any bliss
Such ones are always aimful

And what's of people - they'll not change
Will firmly stay abusing
All grief is not in fools or heads
All grief in our choosing

"Do you indeed reliably think, that your vain wordy garbage will ever serve as masterpiece or feat? You was reading your lines in such manner as if they break all history of world. Come on, rise down, let's move to questions and discussion." - has interrupted him the entertainer.
Denis Stepanovich, dejected and upset, has quite submissively returned to sitting place, and, having willfully decided not to wait, got assuredly up and offhandedly moved to the exit, where as soon as his feet reached street's surface, he was severely called out.
"Well, our idiot, hello. Did I indistinctly explain you my position? Then I'll explain more clearly, more straightly. Come up! Step forward to own problems." - at here Georg Romanovich, who has insistently and briskly moved ahead, has sharply pulled the hero by his shoulder: "Stay and listen."
"I do not care of your strikes. Do not circle around. I am indifferent to shaming. Grin your teeth with forbearing others."
"Heed directly in ears, keep in mind, I've got really tired. At now I'll talk in more straightforward language – are you indeed so brainless ram or truly wrong with mind or what?"
"I am, maybe, a ram, how to look, but not in such amount and degree for to choose you as personal herder. Leave me now alone."
"Don't be heroic. You are trying to argue. It will not be like that."
"Get off!" - Denis Stepanovich has ruched with trembling frenzy."
"What an oak you are? Your hollow head is definitely mindless. Return at earth. Who think you're genius, except of you yourself?"
"How long will you mock? Stop to spit in my heart."
"You have some heart? You're a quarter of human. Jerk and loser in all."
"Move away."
"You think I cannot handle with a madman?" - Georg Romanovich has swung and hit Denis Stepanovich in temple: "Life is so powerless in teaching freaks as you. Well, I'll do it myself. And don't complain, don't groan in future."
The action was successfully completed with few else painful cuffs, after which Denis Stepanovich has found oneself at ground.
"You'll loose whole health, if you'll return." - Georg Romanovich has wiped his boots of opponent and added: "Kill yourself, otherwise you will never be cured. See you next into coffin."

XII
In flatly smooth, transparent sky, neatly lined by unbounded hopelessness, were lonely hiding in perplexing white cold flocks of unwittingly thinning pale clouds. Into window's frame is staying noisy avenue – vast, fussy, are floating long tram bodies, huge and sluggish, with silver of abundant gleaming frost. The world is tiresome and bored, plunged in waiting for spring, relied on temperature relief and timidly forgotten in thick thoughtfulness. In the middle of sad, gloomy room - Denis Stepanovich, depressed and tied with bitterness - looks out of the window and missing.
"Throw a look at mad nowadays crowd, it's like a heap of rotating snowflakes, they scurry, rush and move ahead, get replaced with some new whitish particles, snow granules fly off, revolve, descend and soar, each time entirely renewing – just completely as people - at square, market or train station. They also huddle, push, make noise, and time from time get similarly changed, but sometimes you put glance at snowflake, sticked to glass, and, what is strange, it doesn't melt, does not deflate, with human mass all is the same – some person sink inside of soul and gets identically sticked, stick, and you'll never delete his faint presence, as well as never will forget, will never throw away from heart, and you're ready to run for whole century for just to see, to touch and catch, you are ready to beg, to take risks, change locations, there is a lot of other snow – whole snowdrifts, but that is surely this, you have need in this one tiny flake, not in others, it can't be faked, replaced or compensated..."
The hero has wearily sighed, and then silently stretched: "For whose will is this life? Will it ever be known..."
Denis Stepanovich has stared to the glass, then got hurriedly up and meekly trudged to check mailbox.
And not in vain. One letter in.
Has proceeded to reading.
"Hello, my boy, I have been missing. I had no opportunity to write. You have once more to understand – things are fatal. I've read your lines and strongly cried. You feel so much to me, you love me so fully and so warmly, you are so pure. It's so nice. So nice and exciting. After all, life's not so as we want. It's not obedient, not tender. I want to hug you, to stay near. I feel so good, when I'm with you. And that's why I'm incredibly scaried. I scary to offend you or to lose. Thank for love. You're the best. Don't be sad. I am near."
Here it's worth to describe all the tragedy. Irina Vladimirovna has been seen Denis Stepanovich just once, having suddenly met him by will of unpredictable stray fate and at the same haphazard time has fallen into bed to her companion. And then exchanging of addresses. The lady has been living in next town, not distant, but completely inaccessible by great number of reasons. The first of them was the fact that she ruefully had two young children, born by chance and with no attention of father. The second argument was hidden into fear, the main source of which one was the fact, that this fortuneless union had to be surely condemned by rude society, which never hurry to encourage morbid alliance of two of decades older  lady and dreaming student, filled with inner weakness. That's why no things were going on. Only and hopes.
Denis Stepanovich has slowly stretched out and bent over at answer:

I am speaking with you with these lines
No matter, that we're not together
That at now you're so much far
And I'm totally given to sadness

The ash of life is rid of warmth
Past dreams will never hug and cherish
You were my world, my endless sky
And now I am left to perish

All better lost, all chances burned
My soul let away all lighting
It's so painful with no goal
And minutes are so slow in lasting

My flat is cold, my mind is empty
My glance is abode for sad tears
I live with your, with past pure saintness
Of our hearts and common bliss

Deep sorrow turned in my new partner
It's friend for memory and fate
I'm lost, I'm rid of any calmness
I can't admit you are away

I am tormented, torn and broken
I need in you, that's all I know
You are the only life point
My cage, capturing from all low

And at now, in coldness of winter
I have no way and no escape
No joy in all hopeless being
So much short and so helplessly vain

And at now to post.

XIII
An indifferent, wearisome boulevard, fully visible out of window, which has removed remains of frost, is sadly deserted and lonely. In height are weakly huddling in oppression homeless acidly ominous clouds. Enslaved, enfeeble world is silent. Time's river is unhurried in moving. Mood is shallowed and faint.
Boris Andreevich is sitting onto stool, slowly sinking in thoughts and dense apathy.
"I definitely cannot understand how many and many of people still manage to believe to God, to ideology or even to each other. How, it, in principle, is possible and real to trust to somebody except of you yourself, to rely onto something from outside, on something differs from your person. We so much stupidly have tendency and feature to gravitate to something hiding higher – to creator, to tight close alliance with neighbor, to involvement anything more. But which way can you trust to them all? I know, for example, that I love. Love hotly, ardently, with shiver. But am I loved in shy response? What do I have in confirmation – only actions and words. But in fact... Directly me was never loved, and this is purely for better. But if to talk of someone else. His partner says, that truly loves, but maybe love is wholly false. But how to guess and to expose... Religion's case is clearly the same. Is it better for God from our endless thoughts about him? If people are unhappy, then their God is just disabled. I don't believe to any object. It seems to me, that world is useless bunch of ones who're totally unable to be happy, of ones whose only aim and purpose is to make me and others unhappy – to cheat, to hurt and to deceive, to promise all, but not to give. I can be sure in me myself and only. And, perhaps, when I fall asleep, God leads my enemies to bed and calmly, tenderly repeats: "At tomorrow, mock at him better. I support such an act. One a day we'll still punish this idiot." What if it's so? How can I proof the opposite position... All essence of reality is bubble, soap bubble and only, not more. In order to destroy this world, just look at last one's roots and inner basics: for two millennia we didn't reach full idyll, did not receive that precious flawless sense, which will be able to exist for many trillions of years, did not find global harmony, only technical useless excesses and packs of scientific typography. World's success is illusion, hollow pointless fiction, vain plot. Our world is a swamp. It's entirely sick. If somebody will lavishly suggest to my modest and meaningless person to become in one day the only president of world, I will frankly refuse. I do not want to head the world of freaks, for this it has own foolish mad creator. Life has taste of waste water. It's lost."
The hero has forlornly sighed, sadly spreaded his coat by floor and laid down.
Nothing else has appeared in thoughts for all rest of remained pensive evening.
 
XIV
Lonely lifeless, dispirited day, sadly keeping deep genuine grayness, was walking mournfully and quietly, breathing only with obvious bitterness and with gloomy and doleful stillness. Heavy piteous clouds were smoothly crawling into distance, freely dropping long featureless shadows, quickly melting in hazy surroundings. Pale and wholly impassable curtain of faint, hopeless sky veil was hanging movelessly above of static city. Languid, boring environment, thickly filled with bleak bottomless apathy, was staying measuredly lost into permanent watery tent of perceptibly ponderous fog. Vastly opened for wandering view, completely deserted landscapes are meekly faded, tired and exhausted, shyly added with soft dreary light and unbearably tragic oblivion. Denis Stepanovich again was on his feet – in gatherings for way to poets' alliance. Of course, in no kind of hurry. And with no special desire to take route. That's why, the path was keeping gap with promptness. In meantime, few of blocks were exchanged, having showed needed house itself.
Into hall all is looking as usual. The same dead gloominess, despondency and sorrow.
The meeting gets surprisingly delayed. Something strange...
Soon behind of the stage has appeared habitual chairman, unexpectedly vivid and bright and remarkably joyful.
"Let's start agenda with most vital. I think each one of sitting here has been repeatedly confused by Arbuzov's behavior, embarrassed by his conceit and manner of declaiming and hotly wants to rid him of the membership. Who agrees - raise your hand."
Tiny minute of fuss and all hands are assuredly raised.
"What we have, 29 for, and 0 against. Quite right. Denis Stepanovich, I ask you to leave out, today's session, you have to admit, will take own place without of your presence."
Dumbfounded Denis Stepanovich has stood indifferently up and limply backed away to exit.
"You have lost." - George Romanovich has satisfactedly stretched out: "Know own place."
Denis Stepanovich's wretched spirit has defenselessly fallen in tragedy. This is endless and absolute failure. What a rotten and torturing rubbish...

XV
The day is following like smoke. Above of faded pale expanses is motionlessly hanging sad sky's dome,  dispassionate and covered with wetness. Into distance, are angular silhouettes of many-sided lonely buildings, submissively belonging to chilled city modestly, meekly hidden in featureless shadows. Above of rare, faintly shining spiers, are wandering bleak contours of gray clouds, dissolved in thin and faceless veil. All is murky and damp. Dense air is notably thick, deadly lifelessly and hopelessly motionless. Life is tragic and surely alien. Thoughts are dark.
Denis Stepanovich is walking by old boulevard, also tightly embraced by depression, is looking far and floating into thoughts.
"At now, in century of wholly mighty weakness. Most strange of variants of moral revolution. No really fervent and bright revolutionists, and, what's more no morals at all. Only emptiness. Dirt and deception. In any sphere and transformation. We have nothing to show or look at, everyone is in absolute hurry, everyone is in deals. No pure intentions, no ideas. I want at now to get locked and never see, as well as never meet, any face of these purposeless people."
The hero has sighed and then started way back. On the way nothing new. But this is only on the way. And in mailbox – an unread precious letter!
Denis Stepanovich has opened little envelope and then instantly hungrily clung to the lines:
"Thank you frankly for verse. Very tender and awesomely keen. I'm madly satisfied and happy. I don't need something else. You are so unique. So sincere and true. Thank you frankly once more. Thank you deeply for love."
And once again the time of answer.
"Irina Vladimirovna, my sweetness, my most precious and valuable charm, my miracle and rescuing salvation, you are so tremblingly and endlessly desired, so much needful and darling. I so strongly want to this tart openness. In your nets, in your gentle captivity. I want in happiness. In heaven. Want with all my hot heart. Take me please, do not let me to fade, do not throw me in abyss of life. I adore your look, your faint presence, your abode. Adore immensely, with flame. I cannot live without you. Take me please, this is main of requests. Take and save."
And once again to killing expectation.

XVI
Into room there are only two - Denis Stepanovich and Boris Andreevich. Are discussing own fates.
"Something wrong makes with life, something dark. Dark and bad. No splendor, no joy." - Denis Stepanovich has ruefully lamented: "Such a pain. Such a torment."
"You are also in troubles?" - Boris Andreevich got instantly surprised: "Me too. Me too."
"It kills, it hurts and turns in dust. We are only vain pawns – lost and will-less. Each path exclusively oppresses and disgusts, harms and deftly upset."
"They again don't respond to you with frankness?"
"They don't give unity, one hatred and ignorance."
"My chosen one has sent me far away..."
"Where exactly?"
"Quite far."
"Very sad."
"As all life."
"Console yourself... No one will help..."
"Consolation is vain."
"Trouble... Grief."
"All help is hidden in inside. Any genuine God hides in will. Into power and strongness of spirit. Obedience is worst of any sins. Passive cowardice kills. Be calmly ready to resist."
"What's wrong with me and you – explain... Why all they hate us? Maybe, lack of big money."
"With money all would be the same. Money – meaningless trash, bridge between of the devil and God: you can get rich on someone's grief and donate all your profit to charity, or, on the contrary, enrich oneself on good and fall in revelry and rampage. All others also aren't too wealthy. Not lack of cash brings most of griefs, but extra superfluousness of soul. But don't succumb, don't bend own neck. Be yourself even rotting."
"And we already abundantly rot..."
"Others too. Others too."
"So endless emptiness inside."
"Modern case..."
"Misfortune..."

XVII
Into middle of bleak lifeless room, is staying similarly gloomy Denis Stepanovich. Not with no work - reads fresh sensual letter, this time unusually postponed and reluctant. But loving words, as all we know, not always try to hurry and rejoice.
"Forgive me here, my boy. I don't want to deceive you again, don't want to give you empty hope. I'm not ready at now, I cannot. I am pleased with your love and affection. But understand me and forgive... I elementarily cannot... I've cried so many many nights... I feel your pain, I feel it too. Forgive me, please. You are so much good. So pure. Please, forgive."
"All mutuality has melted." - the hero sorrowfully sighed and proceeded to answering writing:

If you are similarly sad
Then what is stopping your returning
You know, I'll give you all the best
And will let any types of enjoying

I'm as always - both tender and native
And attached to the stories of past
Do a step - sure step into better
Be alone - it's unbearably hard

It's so simple to come to my abode
Do not live with vain hollow life
Just be main all the time and be happy
Gift both soul and body at once

Time not heal, it's just making you older
There no reasons to wait
You are mine, I am yours - so was always
All I'm begging - just do tiny step

Be, as usual, desired and faithful
And so bottomless, mellow and hot
Just allow to submit mind to passion
Do a step and be ready for road

Take me back in your nets and your cages
Stay with me, I am asking once more
You at now are so much ready
To repeat all past madness and hopes

All past sins and all misteries also
Do not search for some moment or reason
All will be as in previous chapter
As in that full of careses season

Melt iside, come to me with - freely, boldly
You yourself feel so painful and lonely
Be polite, be more humble and opened
Don't transform all my being in torment

Do not perish my heart and my frankness
It will never forget your allurments
And will never get rid of so selfless
Dedication to our unit.
Has successfully sent.

XVIII
Boris Andreevich, unfixably upset, is sadly dragging far away through of pensive and colorless boulevard. Day is dreary and seasoned with emptiness. Heavy deserted firmament is forlornly and marblely static, vainly bloodless and gloomily gray. Pale outlines are washy and indistinct. People are alien, average, hazed. Thoughts are plain.
"People are trash, useless garbage." - the hero has emotionlessly sighed: "All their joys look more as curse - to deceive their neighbor, to snatch the last and to get drunk - till the point of absolute madness. Updated variant of monkey was called as human too much early. But the opinion of people of each other is most unique and interesting thing: they notice everything defective - almost instantly, aptly and promptly, but also never see all good, don't even want to see and to admit. What's more, invent some imaginary qualities and features. But we also are perfect investors, and this great quality is surely not coming, but truly permanent and constant: we are so ready to endure, to go through sufferings and pains, but all of this exclusively in case, if next will wait some benefits and profits, then we agree on anything and all – for at least slightest glimpse of soon victory. We are fools, but fools not trivial, not simple. But, nevertheless, the most clearly we're fools. Anyone is like that. Even me."

XIX
Room is hot. Air is warm, pleasant, crazy. Atmosphere is loyally mutual. Denis Stepanovich and Irina Vladimirovna, right amid of sweet kisses and smells, are sitting onto cozy and spacious bed, profusely covered with silks. All disposes to something immodest. To alluringly tart.
"Oh, my precious and measureless treasure. I feel so good with you, so nice. My dear angel, my salvation. My outlandish paradise at life. My fairy tale."
"Yes, my baby, just fondle, satisfy your fairy tale, as best as only you can."
The hero has dived in tight embraces and then tenderly descended down. The lady has voluptuously grabbed him with her hips and intensively quickened own breathing: "Yes, like that – with your lips. Do not stop. More and more. Yes, like that..."
"What a miracle are you..."
"And you! Go on, I beg you, go on! Take me whole. Everywhere! Right now."
"I am taking... I am."
And after barely begun mad squall of bodies, dead boring cage of lonely empty room has painfully and abruptly, as thunder, overtaken downtrodden mind.
"So keen and plausible delusion. As in sure and proper reality. Damn awakening. Curse!" - Denis Stepanovich has opened tired eyes, looked at watch and unhurriedly stepped to wash face.
The day, which had been luckily begun with tricks of fortune, has stretched quite smooth and close to dinner has given in addition one more joy, this time indeed materialistic: a new letter.
"My dear boy, forgive my soul. Just forgive – if it's real. From now I cannot write to you. Something global has changed. I think, that you yourself have understood this. Forgive me, please. In my mind, I'm with you. You are saint. Forgive me, I am stupid fool. Now goodbye."
Denis Stepanovich has unbearably gritted his teeth and then angrily sighed: "What kind of life's bottom! Earth floats in abyss from my feet, all past hope has dissolved. What do I have at poor now? Only emptiness, void... Who I am? Useless pawn."
The hero has got up and frozen: "Or maybe, all is just for better... If world itself has untied my weak hands. Well, now I'll show true innocence of soul."
Denis Stepanovich has promptly moved to kitchen and started rummaging in size-able cupboard.
"To sharpen it. I need at first to sharpen. What a day is today? Will any meeting take own place? So, let's look... Well, it's Thursday. Yes, it's Thursday. That's nice. I should wait for the evening. Just wait."
And then have come long hours of reflection.
And, after all, so long-awaited evening.
Denis Stepanovich has put his jacket on and flicked the key. Now let's go! Into hall, be it wrong.
Poetic Alliance is absolutely usual. The door is partially ajar, the meeting is already into process, someone reads boring text. The hero has looked more close and unmistakably remarked thin bony figure: "I have to hit him from the back, the scoundrels should be killed by their methods." Denis Stepanovich has coldly held his breath and calmly walked inside of hall, having deftly approached the required chair. And now the goal is right in front.
"Arbuzov, you? What have you mindlessly forgotten?" - Georg Romanovich, dumbfounded and shocked, has unexpectedly turned out.
"To kill you, fallen rotten bitch." - Denis Stepanovich has powerfully swung and stabbed the blade in hated throat: "Rest in peace, nasty shit."
"Catch him! Catch!" - other ones have disorderly howled.
"Catch me, catch..." - Denis Stepanovich has pulled away the handle: "Who else desires to taste metal? 29 are agree. Who'll be next?"
The hall has frozen.
"You are cowards inside..." - the hero has slowly turned around and gone out, having hurriedly melted in darkness. The further path was driven to Boris Andreevich, to whose door soon the hero has knocked.
"Good evening, friend."
"Not good. I've killed a man. Not a man, just a scum, finished shit, but it's not so important. They will find me quite soon. I will not even somehow hide. Take the keys from my daily apartment - from now it will be wholly yours, I'll return there not soon. There is no reason to explain. I faith, you'll understand without words, we're alike. Now goodbye."
Denis Stepanovich has firmly hugged his comrade and looked directly into eyes: "Don't obey to the life."
Then he sharply waved hand and promptly destined downstairs.
Boris Andreevich has fearfully cried, squeezed the keys and slid down.

XX
What is the devil in your mind? What does he mean? What a role does he play? Can you imagine him, pretend or surely descibe? Have you looked at his face? I have... In my personal modest worldview, the devil is the highest of the evils, the worst thing, which concerns every life. So each one has own personal devil. Right as well as own personal God. Into role of my God had been acting Irina Vladimirovna. But of her will later. One day this god has suddenly renounced. Has renounced from me, having left my lost fate with no meaning, with no logic, no sense and with no desire to be here careful or show some endurance. There are such moments in this life, when you have to commit a strong act. Such a moment has come for me too. And I did. I just did what I had to. World is huge. There are lots of bad rotten people. But each of them has points of application, has some environment and chain of own atrocities. And if you are the only who has power to interrupt this ring of someones' sufferings, you cannot stay aside and show passivity. You have clear duty of hard choice. And you cannot ignore this sharp challenge, can't remain in weak will. No one will reproach, all will stay into frameworks of mind, but in reality it's greatly more exhausting. That's why, as soon as need of care of myself has abruptly and fully disappeared, I've done the only correct act, predetermined by honour itself. Do I feel like a murderer? No. How do I feel? As wholly holy person. I've killed the devil, don't forget... And now I have a lot of time and paper. Still not tired of prisoner's chronicles? For a dozen and half of long years we will talk with excess. It also need to send a letter to Boris Andreyevich. Don't know of him? I will profoundly describe. Flawless Human from capital letter..."


AFTERWORD:
On snow-covered vast street, constrained by merciless harsh blizzard, is keeping vanity and fuss. Lively boiling crowd, quite densely surrounded the corner of post office, has tightly circled lifeless man. The poor fellow is thin, eyes, as befits to decent corpse, are closed, sheepskin coat is worn. Have called a policeman, proceeded to reviewing. From personal belongings only clothes, no watches, into pocket - two keys, what's symbolic – from 87th and 78th apartments. In bosom - freshly written letter with strange nonresident address and neat female handwriting:
"My dear, Denis Stepanovich, my miracle entrusted me by heaven. Forgive me tenderly for all, forgive most surely and truly. I've written you last time 12 years ago, a lot of time was sadly wasted, it's a pity. I have nobody else for to devote my sinful soul. I'll tell you everything and all. Like at highest confession. If to be honest, I still don't know what is love, but when you've suddenly appeared, it has been really kind of insane morbid passion. Apparently the one, which's called as love... But next... In nets of separation, in endless series of problems... All has melted and cooled, disappeared. I had to raise my little children. I have given myself to another. Even older than me. As much as I am in comparison with you. We've lived together for six years, then he predictably has died. It have been distant cold relations, but he has helped me with the money. I had no power for to write. My shame has been more strong than me. And now... Now I am able. My children are in neighboring small province, my life itself has lost behind, so I am totally alone. In all large world I have one you and paper. Forgive me, please. Forgive for no love. You've been endlessly dear, desired physically, needful... You are the closest here I have. But any chances are in past. Plans, ambitions and boiling intentions - all has entirely dissolved as shapeless smoke. As if just yesterday, I've been completely young, been trampling grass with childish feet. And now... Vacuum, diseases. Deep boundless hopelessness and pain. And death, which's practically coming. It's time for earth to say to me goodbye. I ask of only only thing – forgive me, please, before of my soon burying, I am most guilty of you've known. I do not want to leave like that. You are the dearest and best. Do not blame me - lost woman. I've been trying to love. To be happy. And, as it clearly turns out, did not cope. Forgive me, please, - entirely and frankly. You are the best I had in life. I am not worthy of your presence. You are my miracle. Forgive me..."
Eh, Boris Andreevich, such a letter and has not delivered...
_________________________07.02.2019ã__