Perceive me as a miracle, I m begging

I
In shy and wholly average small bedroom, amid of grayness and severity of things, is sitting in impassive set of walls distressed and lifeless pensive lady - Elena Vasilievna, a person, absolutely dreary, all time unbearably depressed and always permanently hopeless, engaged in irreparable conditions of changeless gloominess and pain, of constant wistfulness and daily hurting thoughts of something joyless, wrong and sullen. The time is noticable static, involved in laziness and similar oppression and tightly filled with bottomless forlornness. Window's frame is invariably hazed.
"Once again evening's dusk, once again thick and tiresome darkness... People's breed will unhurriedly go to sleep, and poor me without rest will sadly think of hateful being, of my eternal griefs and sorrows, which are inseparably nailed in each of days of dismal share. What for do anyone exist? What for, explain me, do I live here? For which of purposes and prospects, for what a sort of future days. We cannot surely predict them, can't change, make better or rebuild. In fact, we're able just to wait, to wait and to get slowly accustomed - to troubles, suffwerings and vainness, to constant aimlessness and murk, to lack of sense and growth of losses. It's truly scary even just to be - to breath and to belong to local basics. All world's envirinment is fruit of sick ocasions, of circumstances, sudenness and fortune – of something definitely wierd and unreliable. We live in fog, in timeless gloom, where all of routes are made of dust, where nothing can be certainly determined. We live in wrongness, in pure hell, in swamp of dreariness and horror. And these mad frames and scales of life, so unforgivably and zealously immense, are wholly mindless and exhausting. The only common is your pain, great pain of anyone, who lives here. Its taste has poisoned every brain. And not to pass in decent days, in brighter variant of being, if only hopelessness has weight. It's hard, it's dark and straightly killing. And this is deathless in new world, in cage of rubbish and deception, in long and boundless nightmare, which blossoms, deepens and gets strength. Too thin are sanity's emraces, too thin are faint and vague lines, which border realness from fiction. Where to go... What to do..."
Outside of wide colorless window has coyly hung vast blurred veil of perceptibly thickened evening. Hace crept hazed silhouettes of shadows. White lanterns, mixed with growing night, have let own sparkling into darkness. In peaceful sleepiness of places has shyly risen grayish moon. The day has joylessly got ended without saying of goodbye, andstrongly tired of thoughts' noise Elena Vasilievna has cautiously moved away of glass: "It's time to sleep, to lay in hollow bed's shelter, in new oblivion and silence. In dreamings, sweetness and best hopes."
Lady's pensive and desolate figure, having made few of short shaky steps, has hunbly landed onto bed and then unhurriedly leaned back – in hugs of sleep, tranquility and future.

II
"Don't sleep, we're riding to last station – the very one, which's equal to deadlock."
"I guess, they have announced my own life." - has sharply thought in frank surprise rather startled Elena Vasilievna: "How greatly quick is modern time! As if less than a minute ago I was sitting in bus. And now I have to leave it back."
The heroine has said goodbye to voyage and weakly moved in trickless path to blurred space of narrow exit and not without of deep skill made long and nimbly abrupt jump from shacky stairs to cracked pavement. And here it's chance to take a walk. Way's plot alluringly gifts promise to be quite peaceful, smooth and light, step by step leading forwardly up to pretty tempting destination – to long-acquainted heartful friend, Lydia Andreevna, lovely marvelous girl, who for huge bunch of fleeting years was irreproachably fulfilling own unremarkable shy role of most like-minded sort of person. By this completely clear reason, it's not a sin to speed gait's pace, with each unnoticable second slowly deepening gradual delving in pale dispassionate views' cage. Elena Vasilievna has got perceptibly much swifter and coyly payed pleased vivid look. Calm lonely outskirts of town, with dreary scraps of dim landscapes, are unemotionally meeting with tart and thick dilapidation of shabby buildings and worn roads. At any side and every corner – backwater of tranquility and gloom. The last inhabited of quarters. Directly deserted and empty. With faceless houses and lifeless naked walls, dumb endless sadness and hazed outlines of heaven, torn of and bottomlessly weightless. Brief voyage is familiarly plain and freed from visible excesses, involved in apathy, dark thoughts and devastation, with decent ampliness and lavishness of scales so richly boiling right in air. Time and mood are in equal stagnation, in ruling drowsiness of will and reigning dominance of boredom. Vast fatal constancy of faintness, dead dusty oldness and ruining, bleak bloodless withering and desperate forlornness – that's all, what's carefully given for meek consuming and acceptance within of weary meager frames of promptly fading helpless season. Meeting's place, as before, is pasific, wholly quiet and appallingly hidden - far coastal abode of small arbor, few times encircled by trees' thickets. Frail twistful route to such location is running up through narrow rocky path, embraced by bushes and tall weeds, inseparably joint with each other. Exhausted look of sleepy nature is staying frightened, numb and nude, perplexed and catiously fearful, reliably purified from brightness and filled with wistfulness and dusk. In such fragile and keen conditions you feel all unity with world, all priceless harmony and bliss, imputed, probably, from Eden. And now the point of denouement - bent rusted roof and waiting lady.
"Best greetings to my wandering cute stranger!" - has deftly noticed shy friend's figure inspired and perceptible cheered up Lidia Andreevna: "And which way have you coped with your laziness for to come in this desolate wilderness."
"Nothing strange. With bus route it was easy."
"Nice to hear so assured position. And let's spend time with use and pleasure – at first, we'll sit at cup of tea and then, when time will pass through evening, I'll gladly lead you to build rest: we'll visit walls of local tavern."
"Not bad, I certainly approve. And what about textile shop? Have they opened its doors?"
"They didn't even try to do it. They've nailed the title, that was all. At here all needful is postponed."
"Such type and sort of situation is greatly popular today – in every sphere and beginning and at each ever trampled land. What do we have in new existence – vast losses, freely growing troubles and greedy bottomless decline, as main distinctive dignity and feature."
"Backyards of being, you and me... Sad, dreary picture, if to look at..."
"I'll eagerly and endlessly agree, the picture is exactly not of oil. As you see, all is equally wrong – both frozen moving of life's action, low fallen souls and rotten minds. At here it's changelessly immortal."
"I know, and darkness of world's dying is much more black than any soot."
"We live in truly dreadful place - more lost and horrible, than any hellish abyss."
"And not to stop it, not to break, not to repair by some magic."
"Yes, it's utopian idea. It's madly hard to fix all flaws. And flaws are almost everywhere."
"I spend my days and each of them, in any tiny fleeting second, I try to contemplate this world, examining and studying its strange laws and always seeking for some logic, for right and sober purposes and reasons, for any shy and weightless drop of willful sanity and prudence. But all I obviously meet – one total aimlessness and filth, strong heavy emptiness and sorrows, deep vainness, uselessness and fuss. All I see – just distress and disorder, exhausting hopelessness and gloom – with nothing meaningful and great, indeed immaculate in essence or frankly innocent and pure. We have no fruitfulness, no prospects, no even single faithful source of wide success and timeless values. Only hatred and dirt, pain and vices, cold scary vagueness of future and boldly blossoming deceit."
"I can proof, current model of life is most cheep and most confident ticket to dreary hugs of always hospitable noose. All we do – just gain resultless expectations and keep own sufferings and weakness. I've never felt my person happy. As well as never was in luck. But I repeat my shy attempts and pay whole passion and persistence to slow embodiment of hopes. What's sadly fair, all efforts are fully barren."
"I'm also far from optimism or joy. I know this hurting feature of desires – to stay torn off from implementation. I know this burden, know this pain, but still believe in something better..."
"And I am far from such sick faith. We're born for torments and omissions. But I still want to hunt for love. This poor evening, for example."
"True fortune works as average casino – makes you moneyless, bankrupt and nude with priceless generosity of roulette."
"Looks like you bet on wrong of numbers."
"But who'll suggest me names of correct..."
"Throw glance at horoscopes and magical predictions. But if to say of me myself, I don't believe in any forecasts."
"Me too. As well as don't believe in God."
"I've gone much further in depression - I don't believe in me myself."
"It's broadly worse than clean atheism itself."
"My soul is evidently so – too much unsuitable for gladness. I can't be different, you know."
"My soul is equally the same. But do not lose your inner thirst - for bright, remarkable and graceful. Our street, after all, one day will also lit new lanterns."
"It's inappropriate comparison, my girl. All of lanterns at here were long ago completely broken. Such ones in workable condition are much more rare and infrequent than forest spirit, passing by, or ancient evil, playing tennis. Extinction is most notable of states, most obvious and visible of features."
"Main grief is hiding not in this – heart and soul aren't alive, exhausted, deeply spoiled and killed. That's why it's easier for brain. And if to say of broken lanterns – I live with them since early childhood. In town's center – vanity and fuss. For us, the ones who spend own lifes at home, there is no difference at all."
"If to be absolutely honest, I feel more comfortable here, more cozy, blissful and relaxed. In local abode of oppression, it's even nice to fall in sadness, to have dark thoughts and breathless mood. You look at general distress, and thought of suicide and death does not seem so straightforwardly stupid."
"If to die and get inwardly lost, then with unshakably fixed smile and full of ardor loud music! Come on, let's step in way to me – just for to listen to some lyrics, I've bought one interesting cassette – with blessed voice of Valeria Tayskaya. She's also child of life-long longing."
"Let's go, for me my grief at now is kind of basic daily food."
In wholly deserted and colorless small room of Lydia Andreevna's apartments, is meekly reigning static peace. Directly modest and impersonal ensemble of shy interior's background is neatly framed by faded walls, enclothed in faceless old wallpapers. Under bottomless grayness of ceiling are pensive eyes of old huge lamp with one unworkable plafond and two reliably working others. At window – fully wilted flowers. Behind of sofa, right in corner - encaged by lavishness of dust forworn voluminous torchere. On table - heavy tape recorder with pretty heap of various cassettes.
"Come on, proceed to making disco."
"Okay. At least, we're having electricity in house. It's truly awesome in such region. The last of pleasures, I will say."
"As at best factories of distant 19th century! Triumph of progress and not less."
"Pure piece of greatness and development, be sure."
Have slowly chosen needful composition and promptly switched the music on. Melodic notes of loving sadness have swiftly leaked from weakened speaker.
"You have given me roses, I have given you heart. You roses have wilted, sorry. My heart has got broken in parts." - shrill female voice was piercingly repeating.
"Your music box is realist, I'll notice." - has quite regretfully remarked Elena Vasilievna: "Each search for unity is path to certain sorrow. We have no happiness at planet, no place for blooming and frank joy."
"Maybe, places still are... But again not for us."
"You are my pessimistic optimist, my rescue. I am of similar of thoughts. We both are totally unlucky..."
"But who is lucky nowadays? Each one is running, hastening and rushing, supporting quarreling and finish-less betrayal. There are no happy ones at earth. Only skillful in shows simulators."
"It’s madly scary to admit, that our rotten filthy world with all of endless flaws and horrors will stay securely alive for pure eternity of years – without ending and time limits and any possible escape."
"But this is only for world. For us – shy half of century and only."
"It's even better, I'm supposing. Longevity is equal here to curse."
Music session has slowly continued and then unhurriedly got paused.
"Eh, now I'm feeling even drearier and sadder." - has coyly and indifferently sighed Lidia Andreevna: "What a terrible sort of machine, what a joyless and mournful invention! If it will suddenly stop working, I will be definitely glad."
"Don't be angry at things, they are friends. We ourselves have chosen and selected both mood and essence of the songs."
"I can't retort, it's truly so..."
"Where are you going me to drag?"
"In hugs of bar – the first of places, among of which you always know, you are exactly at life's bottom."
"You mean old tavern latitudes, I'm guessing."
"As lots of times in blurred past I mean right them, my dear cutie."
"Let's move and taste all tastes of shame."
Lydia Andreevna has gradually coped with plain makeup, then carefully gathered small bag, pulled on new branded pantyhose and skirt and, having made few pirouettes and bends, majestically frozen at hazed mirror: "What a shockingly marvelous beauty!"
"Let's fall in fairy tale of route?"
"With sure briskness and swift fervor."
"For heavy piece of rare luck?"
"Who knows... But trust to my efforts – we'll try to get each given pleasure."
In dark and tightly crowded bar, in reigning idleness and vices, is freely getting rampant rest unconstrained and unbridled cohort of deftly whirling merry people, nimbly swarming in turbulent dance. Thin floor is suffering from heels, dense air's mass is eagerly obeying to harshly dominant thick smoke. Just ordinary classicism of swamp. In great degree of scales and force.
"What will you say of such a horror?" - has asked with interest and fright Elena Vasilievna.
"Not so disgusting, even nice."
"What to do in this blooming of flaws?"
"To correspondent to all others."
"To pour own flesh in human flock?"
"At least, to try, to take a risk..."
Having mixed with vast boiling of bodies, the heroines have clung to common rave, but being rid of large and hefty luck, were left without trophy of acquaintance.
So, at unfortunate vain now, after hollowly ended feast's time, two upset disappointed ladies with tons of apathy is hearts have meekly gone away through narrow exit. At shaky gates of fruitless institution, was noticed small strange company of youths with separately standing lonely young man.
"I see, that someone is alone, it means I have to come and try." - has vividly reported Lidia Andreevna.
"Okay. Success is full of waiting."
The heroine has proudly stepped forward and gingerly proceeded to shy dialogue.
"Hello, free boy, my sudden comrade. Are you also alone – just like me? What's of relations, warmth and love?"
"Oh, bliss, new dose of thirsty meat. Where are you from?"
"From Zamalininskaya station. The last one on bus route."
"It doesn't matter in lewd deals. Say me better, which sex will we have at this evening – what sort of lust you're going to perform?"
"Which way to understand your set of words?"
"Most straightly, easily and simply. Pull up your skirt – I will evaluate temptation of your charms."
"Pay visit to whorehouse with such wantings."
"We'll calmly cope with this right here – in lavish plenty of thick bushes. They will reliably guard all secrets."
"Priceless offer, I'll say -  rare, fat, but I'll regrettably refuse - I am good actress, even flawless, but role of slut is not my choice."
"Then move away and don't look back. I'll find some other holdtress of free holes. You're not unique as well as not most perfect."
"Fucking bye."
Elena Vasilievna has hastily and fussily approached her offended and wounded friend: "How did you manage to endure, to overcome this storm of dirt?!"
"What else had I to show him and to add? To spice his mockeries with arguments or hatred? For only to amuse him with confusion and to spend last of weakening strengths? Do not mind. Nothing hurting at all. Just ordinary little misfortune."
"You are surprisingly strong woman... I haven't even drop of your steel patience."
"But what to wait from current people... Such ones have turned today in shit, in worthless rubbish – vain and empty. Disgusting, valueless and dead. Torn off in equally sad measure from even partial possession of sober head, wide heart or blooming soul. At now it's frighteningly normal, albeit still nasty each of times. And in accomplishment of happened, as most enjoyable result, I'll really pull up my shortened skirt – at least, for pleasure to admire with myself in bleak reflections on shocked surfaces of puddles."

III
At thoughtful canopy of heaven, among of shyly thinning dawn, is carelessly brightening neat flame of growing morning. Sadly colorless watery clouds are weakly trudging through of haze into sleepy and passionless distance. Lonely doleful views are slowly getting filled with rare tints. Unnoticeably freeding with each moment from previously reigned pale grayish fog, cold faceless streets of yearning quarter, reliably hidden in vast dusk, are powerlessly sinking into silence. First blurred silhouettes and muzzles of pedestrians are gradually starting to appear, unwittingly and tiredly upcoming from liquid border of bleak featureless horizon. At small and cautiously crowned with cloudy shawl narrow space of old blackening cage of veranda is peacefully and purposelessly sitting in predictable hugs of depression forlorn and pensive girlish figure of reflecting Elena Vasilievna: "How much disgusting, filthy and annoying was that yesterday nastiest case with my dishonestly offended, failed in heartfulness Lydia Andreevna... How greatly harmful, low and hateful can be moral-less essence of human, how much stunningly soulless and rude. It's rather painful to accept this, to see in highest of degrees at every step of new world's cradle, to meet in millions of copies into countless faces of strangers – the ones, you'll never understand. We're made of vices, flaws and dirt, of sure wastes and purest rubbish. We're born in uselessness and fuss, in total absence of true values, of weighty aims and fair tools. It's sad – we're unfamiliar with better. I know, each hope is madly vain, each further trying and attempt is nothing more than source of sorrow, of bitter crying and regrets. And even easiest and smallest of desires will never ripen in fulfillment, in right embodiment and plentiful results, in precious reason and ability to blossom, to shine with grace and bath in joy. I want one simple happiness and only, one ordinary tenderness and warmth of inner mutual devotion, of saint captivity of trust, of blissful reciprocity and frankness, of fondness, unity and love. I want this life-affirming expectation of something deathless, deep and tart... Of course, it's frighteningly mindless to ask for fire into cold, in place for sufferings and fading, for torments, losses and mistakes, but thirst for fullness of existence, of pleasures, victories and heights is much more stubborn, vast and strong, than any straightness of head's helping. It's certain rarity and luck to be in constant timeless need, to share care and support and to rely on days of future. We wait, believe, gain dreams and wishes, change routes, tastes paths and hurry up. And then... Then passively admit, that term of fate is practically finished, that only emptiness and grave are left by previous beginnings. And world keeps moving, rolling, rushing. With being arguments are short. Life's river never lose own water. Swift days, renewing own hazed pictures, deliver us most eagerly one murk, one killing barrenness and tiresome addiction to global aimlessness and limitless omissions. What do we really acquire with every coming of next morning – new list of meaningless concerns, of greedy grayness and closed prospects. True role of zeal, delight and ardor is something similar with dust. These ancient qualities have turned in sort of burden, in kind of personal damnation – most dreary, hindering and vile. And dark as instant thought of further being."
Perplexed and featureless landscape has amply stretched faint joyless fullness of pale and tiresome palette of weak infrequent ashy colors, dissolved in smoothly faceless boredom of vastly frozen meek pacification. Enclosed in static hopelessness and fogs thin liquid spaces of shy nature are slowly getting lost in thick forlornness, encaged in breathless strictness of nude season. Cold meager winds, exhausted and unfriendly, are wearily and wistfully proceeding to dismal song of sharp and restless howling.
"Eh, pain... My satellite and partner. You are the last of given feelings in current tragedy of world. In frames of dead and rotten now, each one of us is neatly alienated from even tiniest of hopes. Such ones at here are dangerous and stupid, short-living, hesitant and false. In modern swarm of empty living they serve as irreproachable example of free and easy fishing rod for sorrow, pain and inner wilting, for fresh frustration of sad lessons and for eternal heavy grief of unbearably hurting admission of deepest rightlessness and weakness. What for to wait from being's fuss, if even God will never answer, which sort of happenings, occasions and events will be demandable and needful at shaky path to vague luck."
The heroine has dolefully sighed and humbly looked in pensive haze of window: "It's time to go for some walk... At least, again in outskirts' embraces. In some new hospitable bar. It's still quite better than my loneliness and languor. Of course, much more disgusting, sick and loathsome, but undeniably more fun."

IV
And into midst of central quarter, remote from outskirts' forlornness, in identical small faceless flat and in repeating separation from world, its principles and members, is sitting modest pair of good friends – Arseny Dmitrievich and Viktor Anatolyevich, two young intelligent employees of local plant of building of machines.
"So sadly rare, faint and scanty are all of bright and purposeful beginnings, of pure and sinless aims and startings and high and honorable routes. In scary practice of today, we have one darkness, dirt and longing, vast painful barrenness and murk and greedy bitterness of losses. Of flaws, omissions and regrets." - Arseny Dmitrievich has tragically sighed, pathetically frowning dim numb eyes.
"Life's plot was never rich on faces, in all of periods and times it stably shows one flock of masks, of amply blooming hollow dummies. The ship of fate is made of holes, of cruel boiling of tart wrongness, of empty aimlessness and lie, so madly dominant and frequent in new broken and pitiful frames of this lost and inglorious being. At here deception is main winner. True madness always stays too friendly, too much alluring for raw soul. We seek for truth in cleanest falsehood, in cage of vices, sins and gloom. In such conditions all is vain – each sort of actions gains one rubbish, each next committing brings regrets. With headless people, brain is needless. As well as hopes in world of fuss. What's most sad and most hard for acceptance, human mind is fulfilled such a way, that its shy and unsteady positions each of times are completely defenseless before of fooling, tricking and bemusing. This fact, quite heavily determines, why life itself with all own splendor is nice and pleasant mainly by next death, by chance of throwing your past chains, of getting free from pain of presence."
"And so much meager, insignificant and rightless is each flame of mind's shining and progress, so unbearably faint, far and blurred are all high and magnificent goals, all tangibly immaculate ideas and inexpressibly profound weighty thoughts. In daily cage of restless ruination, in hellish ring of certain horror, in constant uselessness and murk, in vast indifference and coldness, in stopless storm of stubborn hatred and dreary permanence of pains, you cannot live with something prudent, with something worthy, prominent and bright, with something flawless and majestically blessed. It's too utopian, too great for being real."
"Life is perfectly good as controller, but as creator it's defective. It has definite rule over troubles, over countless griefs and destroy, but for thin gracefulness it serves as slave itself. Our world, so imposingly huge, so frustratingly freakish, is not an owner for own virtues. This life is game, which plays with all. And chance of losing is too high, too frequent, frightening and scary. That's why it's better to stay far, to be torn off from living's horror, from tons of madnesses and fuss. Such state is source of hope and independence, of eternally working protection and unshakably sure success. After all, new existence is dungeon, dark murky cage of sins and dirt, where mind and brain are toys and victims, weak helpless ghosts and not much more. Therefore – rejoice with what is given, catch luck and use it as last bitch, climb up and never gain regrets. True joy is utterly short-living, fragile and breakable as glass. You'll never see its presence twice. Be prompt, if you have plans on happy future, be apt – such opportunities are small."
"I also deeply understand, that life is not a lesson, but exam, that luck is clothes without buttons, which always tries to slide away, but at identical time's moment I'm rather painfully admitting, my heart sincerely believes in feasibility of better, in hidden ways and secret methods of getting inner consolation and gaining faith in soonest peace."
"I'll support, it's quite right to keep hope, to feel some optimism and warm oneself with joys. Without tartness of emotions, without shining into eyes and with extinguished lights and flames of expectations, you live and stretch not life, but pure nightmare. You have not even bad and broken copy of full and proper variant of fate, you have just trashy piece of rubbish. Without plenty of bright prospects, we are not more than corpses' mass. And world itself is not a stumbling block, but true springboard for dreams and startings. For real miracle days' chaos doesn't matter. Vast luck is such an elephant and monster, which is indifferent to circumstances' trifles. Don't be afraid to fall in happiness' embraces. Hope, believe, wait and think. When you've lost, you have nothing to fix, to save and cherish through of hardships and to encircle with own love. There is no sailing after bottom. With cutted past, you'll never delve in future. These laws are mercilessly stubborn."
"In such frames, we must constantly hurry..."
"Do not hurry, it's vain. Just be in time, that's all what's needed."
"But what for do we live in new basics, in harsh lack of right aims and ideas, in swirling swamp of teeming vices, of deepest vanity and fruitlessness of being and total emptiness of any local plots. It's greatly sad to get acquainted with such prospects, with killed affairs and dead plans."
"Such state of limitless despair depicts most correct portrait of new time. Without tasting of pain's plenty, you can't conclude, that you're alive, can't say, that you're involved in living process. It's sharply wrong to think of good. The more large and important is battle, the bigger volume of own losers it will bring. The more hot is saint flame of your life, the more small and more rare are chances to get really decently warmed."
"All warmth today is property of dreams, of something stupid and entirely mistaken."
"Each dream is shy example of escape, of short salvation from realities conditions. Such tool is bottomlessly precious, indeed unique and doubtlessly filled with certain part of pricelessly sweet magic. It frees from emptiness, from chains of incompleteness, from daily hell of flaws and fuss. Of course, you'll never touch dream's essence, as well as evidently never will be sated with last one's promises and fruits, but you, at least, will have some period, some term of warming positive delusion, of pleasant faith in simply feasible perfection and promptly ripening success. True sky is place for birds of angels. For us, inglorious lost creatures, this world has given only grayness, only tiresome vanity's cage – with constant uselessness and countless regrets, thick piercing hatred and vast dominant oppression, nude mighty violence and heavy timeless absence of any signs of soulfulness or mind. The end of problems in such abode can come exclusively with grave, with last weak breath and final trip to hugs of heaven. But don't give up, don't sink in sorrow, climb up and always keep resistance, keep firmness, willfulness and confidence of views, maintain heart's calmness and serenity's endurance. I'll say sad thing, this barren world, both broken, sinful and dishonest, in its currently actual state is greatly far from even minimal God's presence, but what's much sadder it's identically far from sure having of persuasively pure people, of frank and spotless human breed, which members aren't familiar with dirt, with meanness, lowness and betrayal. It's madly hard to see such wrongness, to feel its blossoming and growth, to be in pit of decomposing, of inner dying and destruction. We are pets of surrounding horror, of its nasty and frightening tricks, we haven't future, haven't rescue – just shit of now and pain's blooming."
"This is sad..."
"This is true..."

V
Forlornly deserted and formless, completely joyless painful look of involved in extinction landscape, overfilled with thick flocks of long shadows, was weakly staring with unlimited cold longing at quietly shy and inconspicuous pale places, reliably chained in dense gray gloominess and vainness, so much dimensionless and deep in own degree of boiling sorrow and dispassion. Insensitive and torn away of beauty, exactly purified from picturesque details broad endless vastness of pain's plenty was catiously losing last of tints, dissolving in embraces of confusion. Amid of carelessly trudging lazy wind, into ring of exhausted nude nature, were meekly standing clumsy weary facades, engaged in yearning and thin silence.
Looking up at oppressed ashy morning, initially totally distressed and firmly rooted into hopelessness and sadness, directly tired from pernicious world's frames, from rotten basics and sick givenness of present, Elena Vasilievna, quite glad with lack of any worries and disappointed by cheerlessness of time, was coyly meeting day's beginning with tartly reigning lavish boredom and steady dreariness of mood:
"What do I have except of pain - small right of thought and understanding, of bitter learning of existence and shy acceptance of its flaws. What is life – hateful cage of habitual void, of blooming burdens and regrets. Lost me and close captivity of walls. We're born for sufferings, it's evidently clear. We live for nothing, for death's moment. Not a fate, but an illness... And at now, with such sort of conclusions, I have to move to outskirts again. Otherwise I'll get sunk in depression."
The lady has decisively got up and, having covered own flesh with modest clothes, without flame, but with persistence involved herself in plain and faceless way. At  empty stop of daily buses, neatly plunged into vast shadows' flock, is staying perfectly pure peace. Not even singly walking soul from all wide territory's plenty. One gloom, forlornness and dispassion. With speechless time and wistful views. The highest peak of world's indifference and vainness. Soon smooth hazed line of gray horizon has given birth to loaf of bus. Sleepy looks have unhurriedly swum into windows, with regularity of pace humbly vanishing far in oblivion's thickness. Pale landscape has unwittingly and fully disappeared in fog, drowsy mind has got used to sweet noise of enjoyable rustling of wheels. One unremarkable short hour's plot of journey – and final station with whole loveliness has opened last dose of steps to waiting abode of friend's house.
"Warm greedy greetings to my changeless sorrow's partner. Once again my shy room keeps us both."
"All is certainly so, I approve, your words are bottomlessly fair. And I'm terribly pleased with this state. Such precious unity itself in fact is easiest of rescues from inner murk and daily fuss, from being's madnesses and flaws and unforgivable life's fading. What's more – you'll maybe also will replace me in some bar – in shameful blooming of impudence and lavish blossoming of sins."
"Of course, bar's horror is prepared and firmly ready to impress, but not at moderate today. Believe and rid yourself of doubts, lewd places are accustomed to postponing. And what of share of today – today it's time of exhibition – of glass and porcelain from India and China."
"Nice pretty offer, I'm surprised, wide charming prospect - fresh and merry, the one of most sincerely demanded."
"In our desolate existence each cause for joy is more than gift, than rare present – from infrequently generous fate, from its impalpable luck's soaring."
"I think, it's moment for to start – if we'll move into voyage right now, we'll cope not quicker than at midday."
"It shows whole beauty of this region: as soon as you have only got up, you have already to speed up, to build your route and be in hurry. Not for fun we are made, not for calm... At here, in reigning devastation, in bonds of poverty and pains, in never ending growing row of empty paths, in vainness, aimlessness and longing, it's silly step to wait for good."
"This static constancy of flaws gives chance to rid own mind from fears, to forget of frailty's curse. True despair is deathless, we've learned it. As well as wretchedness and gloom."
"At least, some bright longevity's example, at least some space for positive and faith."
"Fantastic case, I have to point. Purest mix of best feelings and hopes, so much unlimitedly leaking from any crack and every hole."
Having stopped hard and stubborn consuming of immaculate irony's fruits, the heroines have gathered own bags and proceeded to measured journey, having tricklessly wandered up.
And again boring bus and long ride and again peaceful finish of voyage.
In the midst of perplexed city's square are meekly yearning in festivity and noise vast gray pavilions of swarming exhibition. Above of low and narrow entrance is shyly hanging motley poster: "The newest Porcelain and Glass." Well, chosen target is already overtaken.
Inside, in ordinary boredom with decent admixture of crowd, are neatly standing wooden shelves, thickly crammed into different plates and decorated cups and bowls, diluted by few rare installations of timid painting, depicting short and skimpy plots of accomplished historical times. Among of flock of faceless muzzles, sticking out from general herd, it's madly difficult to notice and distinguish so much annoyingly infrequent indisputably suitable for love. It's not surprising and not new, humanity is picturesque at now – one freak is walking next to other, with the third, early one, onto hands. We have great lack of real people, of flawless natures and frank souls.
So, now, having sorted people's garbage, quite tired and exhausted with such deal, Lydia Andreevna has sharply dared on straight actions and, having abruptly moved forward, with usual easiness and flame and into sure inward ardor proceeded to erecting of acquaintance.
"I'll allow to my violent soul to risk and occupy your time – with my own person and attempt of new relations."
"Fine pretty business, I will say."
"I know, it's average I'll answer – completely trivial, but cute."
"One little tragedy – I'm having to refuse: by will of being and fate's plot, I'm married for not less than than ten of years and even have one lucky pair of promptly growing little childs. For you it's, maybe, piercingly annoying, but world is made by someone else and not each day fulfills all wishes, as well as not each day involves in joy, but I heartfully want all the best – both for you and all rest of warmth's seekers."
"Goodbye." - has numbly uttered perplexed discouraged woman and with fresh feeling of upsetness returned again to guarding figure of own timidly waiting companion: "Let's step. The play today is over. As always with one void into hands. New time to cry and to regret - life's feast was mercilessly cutted. Swift attempt, swift defeat. Just as usual."
And now, with deariness in eyes and on unreachably long distance from any previous delight, two wholly fortuneless doomed ladies have humbly trudged in gradual retreating from failed and finished loving hunting.
"One bare apathy, one pain. The only sediment of living." - has feebly sighed failed poor creature with disappointment in voice, without last of melted hopes refilling heart with usual sorrow.
"Once again new dramatic refusal?"
"Most straight and doubtless, than any. All meets and choices in this case were inexorably completed, and not just recently, but firmly long ago. True luck gets occupied in seconds..."
"One nude futility, as always, one tart vexation, vast and deep - as main of fruits, results and feelings in current tireless reducing of daily vanishing fate's weight, in swamp of uselessness and grayness, of reigning barenness and flaws, where joys are alien and needless, as something shameful, weird and wrong."
"Come on, such tragedies are endless. What's more, this state is rather old. That's why, let's step in walls of home, in inescapable sad hugs of timeless emptiness and languor, the only waiting of locations for undemanded straying souls."
"I'm still appalingly amazed with your mad limitless persistence, with unbeatable bottomless thirst for new adventures and relations."
"I've just got used to life's conditions. This world is something made of shit, of decomposing hellish abyss, what shyly means, at least for me, - don't hope and stably strive ahead."
"Anyway you stunningly strong... I've never been so obstinate and willful – for me it's surely unreal with my depression, timidness and fright."
"We're born for vanity, for nothing. Such coy acceptance saves from pain, from stupid deeds and expectations, be more free – all is killed. Killed or spoiled."
And again dreary trip into void. And again greedy bitterness' bloom. All you want – just to cry – more and more. But taste of optimism is deathless and, having fallen into pit of fresh rejection, full of sufferings Lydia Andreevna, with morbid stubbornness and matchlessly brisk ardor, so deftly seasoned with returned immortal craving for tempting dreams of cherished love, has easily forgotten of all doubts and, having masterfully noticed at own distance first vacant guy in huge brimmed hat, without hesitance in pace and with great readiness for chatting in fervid speediness involved in conversation.
"Good day and tenderest of greetings – with sweet infinity of warmth and keenest sea of frank affection, the very one I'm shyly wanting to get in order of response." - with leaking heartfulness has stretched soft trembling voice.
"Not bad, quite skillful undertaking. Rich, nice and flawlessly amazing, but I don't like your tawdry muzzle and don't appreciate such trash, what means shut up and go away. Leave this place and forget of returning. As soon as possible, I'll add."
At here confused dumbfounded lady, bemused by harshness of plot's growth, with hurting ponderous oppression, has limply and impassively retreated, having stopped next to shocked scared comrade: "Quite predictable scene, I will notice. Not my day, not my play. Nothing strange."
"Why are they all so madly cruel, so madly violent with you?"
"Believe, they always are the same - with all and everyone they know. New days are filled with human rubbish, new lost and piteous society is elementarily sick, it can give you one pain, one regrets, one pit of endlessly deep horror – without bottom or escape."
"Eh, fate, ill festival of losses. Eh, world, dead factory of grief..."
"Each life has taste of tragedy, of burden. In dreary hugs of damned modernity's nightmare we spend own shares just for fuss, for purest emptiness and void – with tons of bitterness and sorrows, so amply blooming at each step, and with frustratingly firm wrongness, the only dominant at now."
"So it is, I accept your concern. All of basics and laws are just broken, greatly crooked and transformed in disease, in hellish swamp of gloom and vices, so sternly chained by reigning fading and inappropriate for good, for inner blossoming of soul and sure easiness of thinking."
At this meek route has finally extended and fixed itself at gray bus stop. Few static minutes of calm waiting, and modest voyage has invited back to home. Pale boring city, weak and tired, has unhurriedly started to pass into faceless and dim square window. Lonely time has effortlessly stretched and got timidly lost in weels' rustling. Not the best of life's days, not most fruitful. Just the same as all rest term of fate. Unforgivable, vain and resultless. What for it moves, for which of hazed and distant prospects... Each day performs new dose of war – between reality and wishes, new dose of hopelessness and murk. It would be excellently nice to give free noose to every human, as most demanded and most kind of any types of help and carry.

VI
And again coy and silent apartment with wistful pair of two friends and drowsy measured discussion. Arseny Dmitrievich is sitting next to wall and, feebly looking right at Viktor Anatolyevich, without passion in own voice describing flawed and barren being, exposed as root of all worst griefs: "Still how much meager is true meaning, true weighty purpose, aim or sense... How sadly rare, shy and will-less... How unbearably far, torn and splitted from current course of our living, from daily deeds, events and matters, which form main volume of existence and serve as freely opened source of unrestrainable soon fading of any prospects, plans and goals."
"So it is, such affairs are timeless. Do not be fooled by expectations, this life is painful type of circus – without any of sane laws and with full bunch of hardest problems. We're left in chaos, in pure abyss – with endless permanence of vainness and deathless dominance of fuss, with taste of incorrigible despair, of heavy bitterness and absence of escape. But even here, in bloom of horror, we have to hope and to survive, to move ahead and fight with wrongness. Each fate at now is heap of losses, of swarming troubles and omissions, so madly lavish, tart and strong. It's inconsolable to feel it, to pass through thinking and through heart. But seeds of reason, mind and progress can ripen into any of conditions, even right into vacuum's thickness. Do not look at surrounding wrecking, at restless agony and merciless destruction, at amply blossoming mistakes and growing prevalence of evil. The more dark is night's murk, the more rare are lanterns. If you've indeed got truly lost, you'll never get returned to past existence, as well as never will be healed from curse of doom. Whole life is just an average delusion, just an uninteresting primitive example of not so skilful and believable deception, the very one, which, by the way, can be quite doubtlessly beaten – by force of friendship with own brain."
"What can be chosen as salvation, as key to personal perfection and path to harmony with fate, with course of days and play of fortune, so greatly alien and hazed in unpredictable crooked now, both shaky, valueless and dead, where faith in happiness itself is just a vague breathless ghost, completely helpless, frail and barren..."
"Do not be puzzled or afraid, if you're unable to believe in being happy, such joyless manner of perception is rather natural and normal in newly actual world's frames. What's more, for chances on luck's presence, you don't have even minimal need in beliefs into pointless better, all you really need for success – to believe in yourself and stay free – from sick and purposeless life's swamp, so tightly holding our shares in ring of uselessness and shit. That's why keep far from pit of living, from chains of grayness, dirt and hatred, shy away and maintain longest distance, be ashamed to belong to this system, to be imprisoned in its hugs and filled with common decomposing. Leave away any bonds of existence, slip aside from environment’s rave – prefer coy cradle of uniqueness, most pure, immaculate and sane from any methods of own rescue. Don't forget, any globalism's coffin is fixed by nails of independence. Cheap mindless unity with bottom is path to dying, to self end, to inner perishing and wilting, to slow transforming into dust, disgraced, dishonored and empty in any stories, twists and plots."
"It's rather difficult to sharpen awl of self in bag of commonly impersonal days' routine..."
"At here rely on own soul's features, on individual addictions and inward qualities of heart, on mental strivings and mind's weightness, essence and meaning. With truly decent needs and wishes and high impeccable requests you'll freely reach all possible of prospects. In such affairs, as you see, luck's scale depends on single firmness, on strength of zeal and width of plans. That's why be stubborn and stay calm, preserve tranquility and prudence always move ahead and up. Each storm, as well as any frenzy brings good fruits and results for emotions, for flame of fervidness and passion, for head it works as sure poison, most fatal, merciless and tart."
"Peace is weak, sadly short and deceptive..."
"What's more each longly lasting peace by some of bad offensive reasons one a day gets transformed into anxiety's bloom."
"But where to get at least a particle of chances, where to buy this saint marvelous ticket to further blossoming, prosperity and bliss..."
"Eny chance gets own roots from life's thickets, from rave and chaos of events and from diverse and motley heap of rambling occurrences, meetings and occasions, by random gathered in fate. But mind sometimes is also rather helpful – in role of catcher of sweet luck. Whole task is absolutely simple and unambiguous in primitive insides: all you have – to be straight and persistent and to stay undebatably ruthless to any falsehood, negative and wrongness. The thinnest harmony is needed not for figure, not for waist or details of your style, but for mind's working and for ladder of ideas. But brain is also shaky helper, as well as thought in own shy turn is such an awful irksome lady, whose moral principles are rid of any brakes. Good sense of measure, by the way, is at all something fully illusive, directly fictional and sorely unreal. What's inexcusably depressing, all other qualities are bottomlessly trifling."
"For me most sad is fact of vainness, of tragic absence of wide hope: the more experienced and prudent you become, the more dramatic are your cases of confusion."
"All is so."
"Such state is killingly offensive – till morbid trembling and hysterical attacks, what's more it's madly lavish and prolific on painful consequences, outcomes and worries, which so much frequently can butty all your prospects."
"Once again you are right - all is vague. Each fate is owned by one nude fortune – quite trashy instrument, I'll say. And only troubles are sincere, are pure and honest in own acts – much more than any one of virtues."
"I know, here tragedies and griefs are not just spices of this being, but its most main and heavy dish."
"What else to take from living abyss, from pit of garbage, fuss and sorrows, where any single seeking share is nothing more than pass to road in vast obscurity and murk. Such route through hardships and omissions, through fading, blossoming and mist of expectations is not a source of opportunities and progress, but vice versa just an endlessly hard burden. You can't replace sky's dome by scope of roof, as well as can't explain life's essence, can't detect all its genuine truths, can't curb with storm of centuries and seconds, which are unceasingly composing thin muted tissue of time's curtain, so deftly stretched on long infinity's horizons. Without lenient and hospitable share, profusely seasoned with great measure of thick luck, you'll never reach the best of treasures of fleeting cradle of earth's stage, as well as never will attain right understanding of even particle of previous events. But life itself with all own amply growing plenties is rather primitive and gray, it lies of miracles and heights, of real volume of true values, of promptly doable success, its inner principles are frighteningly simple, extremely meager and mechanically dead. Life's problem is a problem of big stone – it's hard to roll it, if it's lying, and even harder to stop down, if it's already full of rolling. You'll never change it, cut or fix."
"It's sadly hurting for acceptance, for humble packing into mind."
"Bright mind is medal of three pounds. For reckless birds, as all we know, even sky is not more than small cage. If you will guess of all of secrets, you'll rid of last desire to exist, it will be interestless, tasteless. Both life and death are sorts of product, sometimes quite needful and expensive and sometimes fully trashy and vain..."
"How much bad is this lost sinful world..."
"This all is only for better, I'm supposing. World is not simply bad, all is deeper, it's straightly horrible and scarily disastrous, illustratively wrong and unfixably broken. Life's frames will barely be worse, such ones are spoiled so much firmly, that no of possible nightmares will ever shake some local basics. Here pain and emptiness are air of existence, you cannot skip them or ignore, can't chose some other living soil. In such regrettable conditions you have no reasons to expect, to bloom inside and build plans' towers, you try to be most fully ready to any sorrows, injuries and losses, but life is outstandingly neat shooter, who always staying tightly close, in tiny seconds masterfully burying all rests of splendor and success. At first, you wait for something worthy, preserving heart in keen anticipation, and then your plans in one of days get transformed into average rubbish. All things are cunningly two-faced. All steps are dangerous and vain. Each truth is doubtful and foggy. For poor citizens dried river is a grief, and for geologists – a present..."
"But it's so tempting - to believe, to wait and hope with whole soul's force..."
"Each hope is quite experienced seducer. It works as magnet into abyss, in tart and crazy pool of rave, which's always watery and barren. And then one emptiness... One sadness. With finished fate and wasted time. We all drag paths by single scheme – from small till great and back to nothing. Such a course gets disturbed by one death."
"It's madly scary to behold it, to stay in thickness of surrounding you gloom. To see all monsters of reality's performance, to feel all wrongness and all risks. To know, that any of short moment is terrifyingly important and full of influence on fate. It's so unbearable and painful to hold this burden of everlasting timeless duty, of sick necessity to act, to move through river of new hardships and breathe with morbid bloody spirit of constant readiness for struggle."
"This hellish presence of importance is fruit of inwardly formed faith. At here you ardently get called to keep own rightless forced involvement in one or other fatal play, you're called to suffer from compassion, to take new risks and sacrifice your life, to give free help to lost in troubles and to ask to pay help for yourself, you're called to die at needless war for fates and happiness of people, who have themselves arranged war's start. They call your will-less trustful soul to gain fresh pointless beliefs and spend all strengths, efforts and strivings for wholly false and empty values, for something endlessly deceptive, but mistakenly taken for true. All you have – only bunch of convictions, only vague and breakable ghost of shortly actual assurance, which's always indistinguishably hazed and amply seasoned with environment of crowd, of fully heartless hungry herd of rotten, fallen, crooked and brainless. You have to get quite firmly learned to give most merciless refusals and to be flawlessly equipped with immense scopes of purest hatred. Without talented possession of these majestic priceless skills you'll promptly find yourself at bottom or, what's much sadder, in own grave. Forget at all of any kindness, throw off humanity's damnation. And don't believe in all around. True luck is fruit of accident and fortune, of one invisible nude chance, most unreliable and disloyal from all world's things, phenomena and spheres."
"But chance is also not too splendid. It can't fulfill all vital wishes, can't please all widening requests, can't make you satisfied and sated, as well as can't protect from griefs."
"It's sense of life – to bring us panic, to tease, seduce and leave in fools. So it works, so it's built, formed and managed. You'll never fix it, never solve."

VII
With sadness greeting homeless winds, forlornly wandering around, were meekly staying tired lands. Thin heaven's veil, depressed and dreary, docily spreading long pale tent of deep and pensive liquid grayness, was slowly plunging in fog's clothes, quite coldly breathing with despondency of wilting, enshrouding nature into morbidness and chill of unemotionally fading spoiled weather, so tartly filled with joylessness and gloom, nude shameless twilight and extinction, encaged all latitudes in pain of unforgivably burned season. Downcastly and indifferently yearning in bleak coy dungeons of small room, right in midst of habitual emptiness, was gently melting in oblivion and thoughts lost Elena Vasilievna's person, exhausted, wistful and unhappy from daily loneliness and permanence of routine: "Eh, being's bitterness, world's sorrow. What for my mortal seeking soul has been so hopelessly forgotten in nasty thickets of life's swamp? What for has I appeared in this horror? In place, which's unfamiliar with light, with pleasures' ampliness and prevalence of better. So much wrong, so much sick is fate's game. So much rude was that yesterday's case with my pitiful Lydia Andreevna, so much filthy and low, I am shocked. Do we have any chance to be happy, to feel own weightness, sense and rights, to live for miracle, for greatness, for something absolutely good, for days of prudence, flight and blooming, for frankness, purity and love, for vast fidelity and keenness, for deathless unity of hearts, for inner blossoming and fruitfulness of plans, for global easiness and brightness. I want some source of expectations, some strong sane reason to exist... At here it seems as certain fiction. As just a set of barren words. At here, in aimlessness and torments, in dirt, deception and distress, we have one dreariness, one losses, one thick and endless sea of murk. And all you're able – just to sink, turn in nothing and get buried. What's sad, it's really most sweet. I have to cry again, I'm guessing... Eh, fate. Eh, hellishness of world..."
The heroine has taken lonely sigh and finally dissolved in inward languor. Nothing morbid at all, just free thoughts.

VIII
Apartment. Dialogue. Gloomy speech. Arseny Dmitrievich is full of shy broadcasting: "How madly rambling, separated and disjoint is this dead, cracked and alien world, how indescribably divided in disconnected bunch of parts, which are incapable on unity's supporting. Have it sense to exist in such abyss? In so much fatal vainness' pit, which's inexcusably remote from any weightness, depth and prudence."
"This world's disunity, I'll say, is mainest glue of our being. Of course, at first it looks as nonsense, but, if to pay more apt attention, you'll rather easily agree, that such conclusion is quite sober. Among of myriads of splinters, each sort of aim is not for long, each storm, each tragedy or horror is just a tiny fleeting case - the one of many hundreds others, as well as any source of luck is also just short temporary matter, which can't be copied or preserved. And only dominance of fuss, with constant vagueness and hurry, will save own permanence forever, for more than centuries ahead." - has sighed with sadness and dispassion meek and soft interlocutor's voice.
"How to think of prosperity's making in so improper burdensome conditions, how to move and go up..."
"When you are obviously dying, you must be easy and relaxed, be concerned of appropriate music, right smooth background and free mood. If you are sharing being's bottom, you are already rid of future and turned in breathless piece of dust, in something definitely hopeless in stern inhospitable frames of cold and alien life's abode. Be more wise – do not wait for own better. Don't climb by ladder of mistakes, of self-destruction and regretting, by route of sorrows, pains and griefs and row of torments, dirt and losses. Do not rely on nude persistence, do not rush, if it hurts, act by head, faith in mind and deny madness, shy away from tight brainlessness nets, bet on growth, on development's treasure. In storm of fate it can be hard, but mind gets used to being beaten, get used to dominance of failures and lack of sanity and grace. The very marvel of mind's presence is close to presence of umbrella – it can be helpful into rain, in squall of downpour's disaster, but not in period of flood. The only remedy from all is warmth of friendship with luck's care, which, by the way, is also scanty and not each day accepts your prays. But still don't stop and follow further – believe, you'll never end your life by immortality's attaining, what means, that troubles aren't eternal, that any problems will pass by."
"It cannot heal you, can't console, can't fill with light of inspiration, I have one darkness, one despair, one tart and stubborn taste of grief – in all, in any of my moments, and even memories are poisoned, defamed and blackened by decay..."
"Each of things can be easily broken, mixed with dirt and torn off from past bloom, all can die, all can fade, all can crumble. World itself is surprisingly shaky – much more than writings on wet sand or vague figures made of thickenings of fog."
"What's also sad all facts are false, two-faced and utterly delusive..."
"Each calm is leader into storm, skilled cunning of bait in next disasters. As well as any flawless kindness is just a wood for evil's flame. Escape's attempt in such a context is nothing more than purest act of brisk flirtation with own chasers. Each ship is lover of sea's abyss, of bottom's abode and dead depths. Each brain is brainlessness creator. This fact is terrible and fatal. But true degree of being human is much more stronger than world's cage. Much stronger than your fears or addictions. Be firm and never sink in doubts. Perplexion's winds, as all we know, can blow exclusively in opposite direction. Each fright is deficit's predictor. It come to rob you, to make rid – make rid of something valuable and precious. It comes to break you, to destroy. Life is tricky and cold, wrong and morbid, its swamp of losses works as hell: if it takes someone’s soul in own ruling, it never copes to leave it back."
"It's rather hard to live and not to shiver, to stay in frames of neat control..."
"Choose priceless principle of inward epicenter - spin whole world's scope around self. Don't look at lost and useless others, stay above of their purposeless mass,don't waste time with this meaningless herd."
"Such herd is measurelessly cruel, disgusting, low and full of hatred."
"Their scale of hatred shocks and puzzles, they hate all visible of objects, hate life, hate presence of each other, hate friends, companions and partners, but in the hugest of degrees they hate crooked valueless themselves. They are able to rot, to get worn, to spend own fate on filth and fuss, they can't belong to something deathless, to something spotless, pure and high, can't feel saint flame of exaltation, of frank necessity in flight, of thirst for greatness and perfection, for new unmatchably magnificent requests and blameless plentiful expressions. Damned people's breed in modern days is irreparably distorted, it's wholly mortified and burnt in every single inward corner, in each small area of soul, they are terribly wrong into all – in any startings, qualities and features, in each of deeds, attempts and steps – in work, in rest, in dreams or plans, in thinking's manner, in relations, in range of aims, demands and needs, in hopes' erecting and in faithings. The last ones are especially depictive and full of brightly picturesque details. God's viewing is the best of any mirrors, of any portraits of your soul. And God of people is pure monster, pure blown up bubble of world's evil, which's even barely not linked with something holy, with something merciful and kind or something innocent and sinless. The very way of God's perception gives most excessive of descriptions of real essence of heart's depths, in term of several short seconds without any of efforts revealing up for vast observing all hidden cradles, gaps and nooks of swiftly parted with all masks true face and width of person's nature, which most predictably is occupied by shit in current century of feasting decomposing. That's why shy off from showing pity, from gifting carry or support. Be rude and ruthless as vexed beast with nasty garbage of surrounding society, knead with sole this sick nauseous mass, bring them pain, seed regrets and plant sorrows, gain worst griefs at each meter of land – do all, what normally does being and treat with humans right as life – with greatest violence and rigor, and never justify their flock. They all are absolutely lost – whole immense bunch of endless copies is firmly putrefied and dead. They can't be suitable for good, as well as can't be changed or rescued. They can be buried, killed, erased, but nothing else and nothing better..."
"Quite ugly creatures, I agree."
"Just as life, which maintains thinnest balance – the one oppresses and destroys, the other ones keep obedient endurance."
"This world is definitely mad."
"It was the same from first of moments. And believe to my grievous words, its main of basics will stay steady. Here lie and cynicism are firstly meeting fillers of any sort and type of moral. As well as laws in own wrong turn are biggest lawlessness creators. Life's blooming bounty of rights is most abundantly and amply overweighted by lavish prevalence of duties and by thick tartness of sad truths. And God and devil, by the way, are not companions or workmates, but straight contestants for free souls. What's most deplorable, result each time is one – full total victory of evil. So be in always doubtless assurance, that sprouts of vices, sins and filth will calmly ripen and get spreaded at any variant of soil, even deeply in midst of dead vacuum's cradle. And any flawlessly pure heart can be transformed in perfect shelter for worst  atrocities and crimes. In fact from all of things of being no one can cope with role of timeless goodness, of final reference embodiment of greatness, of highest correctness and bliss. It's rule of work of earthly abode and root of biggest of regrets and of most sizable of sorrows..."
"How to hide own shy fate from this hell..."
"At first, at least, do all, what's only able, for not to build this hell yourself. Keep in mind, any possible devil comes here exclusively as guest. As well as God is just a compass, a guide to suitable direction, which into pair with appropriate conditions has chance to lead your fate in better, in precious dominance of luck. If you'll succeed in this small art of daily following for heaven, you'll find own fate at one of roads, which have own finish not at bottom. But swarm of troubles is quite tricky and not with hardest of efforts can grab your share even there. That's why don't waste imputed time and try to stay in constant hurry – in rushing up to new commitments, to new attainments, heights and joys. Don't forget, priceless victories taste after passionless point of death will be left for unstoppable others, you'll never savor it again away from frames of this sinned being."
"It's rather difficult to guess – what's aimed to rescue you and save and what – to kill and to make useless..."
"Each devil has most angelic of features and always carries God-like face. Don't trust to anything you see, as well as never wait for better. Most wise of choices is deep panic, you can't relax here, can't get rest. Each peace is breakable and fleeting, each luck is frighteningly short. All you have – only vagueness, fog. And any sufferings and tears are fruits of inappropriate wrong laught, of empty thoughtlessness and stupid wishes. But what's more funny, time from time griefs' mass is also rather helpful: if you are going just for one – to shoot apt bullet in own head and to let shy brain's drops in swift dance, you'll barely will try to hang yourself."
"But this is horribly not easy to cope with hurricane life, to find some bridle for its storms and to get marvel of control..."
"It's nothing else than fruit of weakness, of extra timidness and fright, we always lose from own attention, that fate for us is not a player, but an average tameable toy. For smart of people such a state is undeniably explicit. But be more careful and thoughtful, stay cold to any of temptations. Keep in mind, in most deep of its depths, that devil offers you one sweetness, one bright prosperity and peace, the very one, which sows all wars."
"As I have burden to behold, this devil is the main God's child, and people - just miscarriages, not greater."
"I have to greet you with applause, such highly brilliant position is certain rarity and questionless straight treasure."
"It doesn't help to climb to truths..."
"At here you need in positive example. Each eye, which has been pierced by truth, will never look at lie and falsehood. If you've got flawlessly assured in feasibility of joy, of true tart happiness and pleasure, you'll never seek for something else. But into absence of this practice, you'll stay in horror of regrets, in static darkness and oppression. The more small and more shy is your boat, the more devotedly you'll act in bonds with sea."
"World's scales are absolutely immense, life's hugs are bottomlessly vast, we'll never curb this boiling abyss as well as never will get rest..."
"It's true, we're measurelessly rightless and what's more – all fate's plenties are locked. Each path is filled with tons of stones, time's pace is abrupt, rough and risky, all given miracles and heights are wholly valueless and dummy, any is forgivelessly short. But we still hope and try to faith, with morbid zeal and needless fervor renewing purposes and plans, which by sad magic of conditions will never manage to come true. We are addicted to be trustful, to be too gullible and limp, to fall in dremingness or doubts, to rush for uselessness and trifles and to get used to lack of sense. Sharp greedy craving for some logic is much more stronger than mind's flame. Sick piercing thirst for understanding, for having proper explanation of every moment, step and fact compels to strive for further knowledge, for precious taste of new attachment to being's secrets and days' laws. But last ones never show own essence, as well as never brings you luck. Anyway, if you'll cope with life's learning and get such rare priceless treasure of higher unity with world, you'll never lose this or forget – as distinct scar, affixed in body and glued at surface of its skin."
"I know, that happiness is mighty, but it exists not more than seconds and warms exclusively by chance..."
"Dream's candles never burn for long. That's why soul's dungeons are quite murky, forlorn and chained in coldness' cage. As well as limits of mind's abode are wholly joyless, dark and strained."
"This damned lost world is just unready to be happy."
"It's not unready, it's unable. We have too much of tools and methods for getting everything we need, for easy, prompt and flawless solving of any problem, need or task. But wrongness blooms at every corner and keeps own growing as before, we are apparently distorted, concretely broken and unhealthy. Or simply primitive and skill-less. Or even absolutely mad. I think, one day we'll find some reason. But do not think, we'll ever fix it."

IX
Among of damp and dreary winds, in midst of gray and lonely vastness of faded colorless landscape, right behind of pale bottomless whiteness of faintly grayish endless sky, so amply filled with reigning sadness, thick faceless heaps of pensive fog are slowly falling from heights' abyss with meek indifference in pace involving coy and sleepy places in static wistfulness and haze. Strict bloodless features of surrounding despair are getting clearer and sharper, encaging wet and murky district  in cold oblivion and gloom, so freely blooming in streets' void. By old and cracked exhausted pavement is humbly wandering ahead through swarms of dense and spacious shadows frail frightened silhouette of girl – of neatly lost in timeless slush, stuffed with boredom Elena Vasilievna, who is habitually walking by breathless boulevard's expanses.
"The weather has unfixably got spent. Eh, autumn, autumn, pain and weakness, harsh speedy wilting and rich rains. With no mood, or warmth or prospects... And once again I've dragged in wilderness' embraces..."
The heroine has lowered her gaze and smoothly stepped away across of puddles. And at small tiny point of now, few of bleak and unfriendly blocks later, she has approached calm vacant doors of first appropriate salvatory location – not roomy and not glorious cafe, with unremarkable shy pair of two pacific tasteless statues on vast voluminous pedestals of dense and heavy blocks of stone. Insides are hospitably warm, not rich, but pretty and laconic. At low and shabby whitish ceiling are feebly hanging into temperate keen waiting huge nimbly squinted ancient lamps with slightly twisty massive horns, quite gently strengthened and completed by dim and morbid yellow bulbs. Thin nets of numb and moveless atmosphere are mild and pleasantly attractive, time's river is surprisingly distracted, completely watery and far, with immense tons of purest sadness upscaled till absolute perfection in own amount, weight and force. Glad vivid visitors are rare, involved in resting with own food – the most demanded type of hobby in current tragedy of days.
The heroine has promptly gazed around:
"Again it's time of autumn's season. Of rains, nude apathy and winds. Again new fogs and new depression. New slush and old familiar despair – the most devoted and most mighty from all the row of inner states. With one desire to get lost, to melt in murk and disappear. And time predictably runs up, refreshing facts and changing plots, creating goals, requests and wishes and killing hopes, beliefs and dreams. Life's line can be exclusively straightforward – with greedy spending of own warmth and tragic moving in nowhere, without chances of repeating and with no prospect of return. Is this indeed completely real and undeniably most true, that all events of my short being are just a tiny weightless part of endless permanence of world, of indestructibly firm basics of global history of all, of something measurelessly bigger than trifling frames of human fate. Are all vast centuries of victims, of constant sufferings and pain without any greatest error fulfilled for limitlessly long, for whole infinity of future – the very one, which can't be tamed, disturbed or stopped or cleaned from horrors. Do all of deeds, events and stories take place in first and last of times? Have I not been myself before? Have I not spent few hundreds lifes in lots of ways and roles and manners... Have I not trampled this sinned earth in many previous of fates, have I not breathe with its sweet air, have I not look in motley faces of these chaotic fussy swarms of deft and restless swirling crowds... Am I not more than sudden grain among of universe's plenty, is grief quite possible and close, is every moment of mine living prescribed and written not by God, but by pure accident and fortune, am I not more than will-less drop of dead dried sea of this existence, am I not more than aimless flash in common darkness of wrong being, is all it serious and real... Is worst and dreariest just near..."
The lady has emotionlessly shrunk and sadly looked in window's abyss. Behind of thin and trembling curtains is stably reigning  joyless weather, with boring ring encaged damp lands. All is lifeless and wet, all is hopeless.
"New autumn torment gives own nets. New pain is ready and prepared."
Soon faint and calm, but friendly voice has interrupted act of thinking: "I'll let myself to steal your time and to distract your coy attention." - has sighed unknown youthful man with certain shyness in own tone: "I don't believe in games of fortune, but by some reason was unable to pass aside and miss your face... Allow to me to fill next chair and proceed to kind of talk..."
"Can it happen like that, I'm surprised." - has thought perplexed and gladed lady, who with firm blossoming inside has made short pause and then responded: "Yes, sit and tell me all you want."
"I am just sitting."
"All this is shocking and amazing..."
"For me the same. As you can see, I'm also timid, strained and doubting..."
"Well, pretty weakness, I approve you. Nice plot – two lost and needless shares and precious unity for both."
"They'll never break it, never part us..."
"Great, pretty prospect, I am pleased."
"Each soul is madly greedy magnet, most tempting, tireless and strong. If you've got trustfully attached, way back is definitely wasted."
"Cute charming givenness, seems lucky."
"I all my life am vainly looking for simple happiness and joy, for frank and honest reciprocity of feelings and blameless harmony of hearts, but all of times I get mistaken..."
"Mistakes are leaders into order, in next completeness and success. Sometimes we're needing just in them."
"What an infrequent fresh approach, and I was never even guessing, they are so useful for next share. I'll try to count each of them and to appreciate as treasure."
"I think, it's time to get some bliss. I'd like to order kind of juice and I am ready to consume not less than volume of full bucket."
"I would be also greatly glad to have such variant of leisure. Just name your favourite of tastes."
"The one, which's hidden in pineapple."
"For me it's also most exciting, you've coped to copy my own choice."
"What an amazingly cute sameness. Not less than personal fate's blessing of our further heartful plot."
"I'm also pleasurably shocked and even notably dumbfounded."
"In fact true magic is quite near, the only task to pay a glance..."
"All heavy take own roots from weightless. Without presence of luck's flame, you'll never fill own life with purpose, with real happiness and sense, the only priceless and immortal from all acquirements and states. We need exclusively in fortune, in little drop of being's smile, which serves as key from all of doors and helps to reach all types of prospects."
"Huge mighty matter, even scary... Your words are bottomlessly right. But two forlorn and thirsty souls are themselves stubborn source of keen twists."
"I agree, inward craving can smash, can stuff each nook of seeking nature and rid of every sober thought. And this mad power of involvement is not less dominant than God..."
"The best description of wild passion, you are immeasurably apt. Free is able just to love, for other deeds it's straightly useless..."
"It's so desired to be loved, to feel these bonds of pure delight, of shameless unity and soaring – above of everything and all."
"It looks as art – to get succumbed to any call of inner wishes..."
"It looks as happiness, I'' add..."
"Shall we try?"
"Yes, at ease."
"Take me all and tempt and catch."
"With invisible nets of seduction?"
"Yes, with them. And at once."
"Sweet storm keeps promise to be endless."
"Fine lovely story, let's proceed."
"With immense pleasure, let's go crazy!"
And now, in hugs of common pleasure, they've meekly fallen into hopes and trudged in fairy tale of dreamings, the only place where all is good.

X
Without fancy fading sky, most thickly framed with deepest boredom, has humbly and submissively enveloped whole space of pale and sleepy vastness of numb wet places of cold and faceless autumn world, so sadly frozen in despair and amply flooded with tart grayness and painful feeling of alarm, of speedy wilting and nude dying – of all heartwarming, bright and happy. Dense hateful thoughtfulness and sorrow have strongly caged weak breathless days, already ready to be buried.
Among this featureless assemble, in pit of hopelessness and gloom, is calmly walking timid couple – Arseny Dmitrievich and Elena Vasilievna, by fate connected in firm oneness.
"How greatly nice it really is – to be in pair with each other, in timeless harmony and bliss." - has stretched the hero with excitement: "You are my mainest talisman."
"It's rather tempting, that I'm main. But do you have some secondary others?" - has asked the lady with surprising.
"The main and one for all next living. Without copies or replacements and with full dominance in all."
"Then love and cuddle, pet and cherish."
Arseny Dmitrievich has happily embrace her and pulled himself to glad girl's face: "How madly sweet in your saint abode."
"Just taste this joy, I'm wholly yours."
The man has reasonably nodded.
"Pure flawless paradise, not less." - has told the heroine through pleasures.
And then way back in bonds of home - in bed and mutual enjoyment.

XI
And again tragic passionless picture of old and shabby dreary views of bleak and lonely faceless district of also similarly joyless and plunged in wistfulness and thoughts shy and doleful Lydia Andreevna. At each of gray and modest sides – one sharp oblivion and sorrow. Among of vastly blooming fading – long tired pillars of crooked lanterns, ingrown and noticeably worn, extinguished quarter of this century ago and keeping now not own light, but one nude symbolism of last one. Cold, promptly thickening wind's waves are briefly sending pensive greetings to sluggish watery landscape, so smoothly mixed with inner languor.
All day is slowly spreading chill.
By pale and tasteless line of street is coyly walking through of darkness faint weightless silhouette of wandering ahead meek and silent Elena Vasilievna, engaged in lazy art of thinking. Strained dead expanses of dim town are weakly opening numb inwards, so richly flooded with dense haze, involved all visible in fading and fearful readiness to worst.
Route's plot is quite familiar and trickless. With end at hospitable door of always waiting friend's apartment.
"Most warm of greetings to my dear. Now you're rare at here, why it's so?"
"It's fruit of being, of my share – the very one, which baths in bliss in these cold days."
"This is frustratingly mad start, so let's continue from beginning."
"I'll try, if Iwill cope to find right words. Both joys and miracles take place here and one of them has met my life, it's not so easy to believe, but I have managed to get happy, to rise till highest of fate's skys, till hottest point of soul boiling. Whole plot has twisted with great promptness, from fist of seconds having seemed as something magical and priceless, prescribed exclusively at once and for few ones of flock of humans. As soon as I have spread my sad wings and got surrendered to depression, some force has broken my upsetness and thrown in paradise's hugs. From lavish bonds of nowhere has unknown gently youth and paid me delicate attention, without special efforts having fully enslaved all my depths of seeking heart and thirsty nature, so badly needing in support, in warmth of care and in fondness. We've faithed in unity and built it. And dream has perfectly come true. As if this hidden dose of luck was planned and skilfully appointed to occur from far times' starting and not less. So all of nooks of my souls cradle are shining playfully and freely and sternly asking me for more."
"You've coped to curb with sea of passions, today you're owner of this storm. You've got best victory, best present... And I am changelessly alone with only hope in shaky pair."
"Do not belong to cheerless basics, keep flame of confidence in self. Believe, all great is staying forward."
"Cute advice, maybe, workable, thanks you."
"You see, I've also for whole previous life's part been made exclusively of pain, of hard regrets and sad omissions, of daily wistfulness and searching – resultless, tiresome and vain, but world has kissed me with own heavens and put in center of joys' pit, in certain middle of excitement and hottest point of bliss' peak."
"Where all has happened?"
"In cafe."
"You proof, that wonderful is near."
"And free for everyone and all..."

XII
Arseny Dmitrievich and Elena Vasilievna, so tightly circled by home's coziness and pleasures, are calmly savoring each other and bonds of unity and bliss.
"I want to tell you... Want to ask..." - the hero has quite worriedly begun.
"Yes, ask, you're free to do here all you wish."
"Perceive me as a miracle, I'm begging..."
"This is exactly how I do - from first shy meeting and till now. You are my heaven, my saint angel."
"You too. Your love is sacred treasure, you are my bounty, my gift – the only needed and important from all variety of life's play."
"Let's dive again – in hot immodesty of passions."
"In all-consuming holy heat of unrestrained and lawless lewdness?"
"Oh, yes, in restless lustful frenzy."
"Then I am free from any questions." - hero's eyes have seductively blinked and last thin distance has got vanished, with whole obedience devoting to swirling storm of carnal joys. Arseny Dmitrievich has boundlessly melted in lavish reigning of shamed craving for something delicate and keen, without any hesitation and with full willfulness and zeal removing thirsty greedy lips to most alluring of locations of his awaiting nude beloved, so amply teeming with sweet wetness of freely spreaded blooming flesh, already calling and inviting in keen and rakish piquant hugs of promptly growing feelings' flurry.
"How madly good." - has breathed the lady at denouement: "You are pure paradise. Pure jewel."
"Life's term is period for pleasures, for dashing permanent delight – undying, bottomless and flawless."
"Your truth is sweeter than all sugars. Be just mine, be all time and each second."
"I will, I definitely will..."

XIII
In stern and faceless heights of dismal firmament's expanses, as small addition to despair, are sadly swimming heavy flocks of cold and pensive rainy clouds, so much depressing, faint and lonely at bleak and colorless background of dead and passionless remains of vanished sensitiveness masses. In thick indifference of dampness are shyly sinking murky pictures of pale and tiresome relief. Deep static emptiness and silence are numbly hanging over city. Large shaky heaps of vague shadows are meekly gathering in pairs coyly dragging by dark streets in trickless traveling ahead in hazy  abode of horizon. Through views of featureless landscape is humbly walking coy and wistful, delved in thinking Elena Vasilievna – with hope in heart and into covering of gladness.
"How sharply good to be beloved, to be just needful, owned and noticed in midst of barren living abyss of pains, omissions and mistakes. Without miracle of love, of holy blossoming of feelings, you have one emptiness, one dust – gray tiny handful of vain trifles, completely fruitless, dull and dead. Without unity of souls, of two forever joint partners, transformed in monolith of fates, we all are freed from any meaning, from any slightest weightless sense. In daily fuss of rushing routine, in pit of waiting and regrets, we have one tragic incompleteness, one changeless aimlessness and wrongness of any striving, step and deed. But here, in blossoming of care, in ring of fullest understanding and in affection's beams and rays, I'm truly blooming with each corner, with every smallest inner string – till constant trembling and hard shiver, till peak of possible delight – most bright, frustrating and immortal."
The heroine has hastened own pace – it's time to move own route to home – again to pleasures, peace and warmth:"It's even strange, that I'm not single... And my shy Lydia Andreevna is one... Not all get kissed by lips of God. But stop... I'm having an idea. My dear sugary Arseny has been saying to me one big fact – that he is having one great friend, who is also alone all his share. It's time to couple them in pair, to bring new happiness, new joy... And then we'll certainly be equal – in most unreachable degree."

XIV
Having skillfully skipped over winter, wet vivid latitudes have met with early spring. Green mellow vastness of landscape is gladly breathing with young freshness of new returning back to life, and daily things with zeal and quickness have stepped in outcomes and fruits. Small cheerful company of people is calmly sitting in large room in deep and passionate involvement in swift and active conversation of last political events. In farest corner, on armchair, right next to square window's space – the first of two relative couples: Lidia Andreevna and Viktor Anatolyevich, who both have notably succeeded in gaining unity and love since lucky bringing in together by supportive and careful hand of Elena Vasilievna's will, and couple opposite them is made of similar shy lovers – of the very Elena Vasilievna and her faithful unchangeable satellite – most close and bottomlessly native Arseny Dmitrievich, whose person has firmly glued to his beloved for time from point of acquaintance.
But theme of dialogue at this time is not amorous or playful, but strict and definitely stressful – the talk discusses preparations for future laboring rebellion, assigned to occur into April.
"I'll say, not easiest idea, quite dark and frighteningly hazed." - has shared with opinion and mind perplexed and thoughtful Viktor Anatolyevich: "We'll barely achieve some real things. But your mood brings me optimism's seeds."
"You're right, I'm not talking not of prospects. I simply cannot sit in waiting, when my thin salary gets cut. I cannot sit and realize, that at one day I'll be unable to pay at least for water drop. I can't accept this fact of robbing. I'm tightly filled with disagreement, with cleanest hatred and tart anger, which grow with every working week. I do not want to look in wallet, as in dead wasteland, freed from all. What for I need to keep weak silence, to keep obeying to this hell. I'm sure, that passivity is fatal, that it's straight road to soon end. We'll go and show them all world's shit. And no one will ever stop us. We go to struggle to for gold, but for bread's piece and cup of pottage. And I am ready to next hardships, to any punishments and pains. Do not forget of main of basics – all dreams are fruits of some efforts."
"Priceless words, I'm approving." - has stretched firm answer Victor Anatolyevich: "I will participate with you. But I'll confess, I'm less assured in prudent outcomes of this."
"Each riot is thing, which can't be healthy, but other variants are blocked." - has slowly added after pause coy and cautious Lydia Andreevna.
"I agree. We don't have other way. Without strike we'll see no progress." - Arseny Dmitrievich has talked: "But I still faith in decent prospect and into dominance of truth."
"We'll do all planned, I give unquestionable promise. And at unoccupied fine now let's take own route in one location: in walls of cinema – for film." - has made a little merry offer to loafing circling of own friends becalmed and smiling Viktor Anatolyevich: "In any period and age we have to wear mask of brightness, of stern and deathless inner hope, which, if you'll manage to be frank, at sad crooked now is just wasted. Come on, Arseny, let's take way, I'm rather hungry for to move and feed the ladies with amusement."
"Let's, let's, we're thirsty for good joys." - the ladies have decisively responded.
The heroes have pulled their coats on and drugged ahead to evening show.
The hall is warm and full of people, relaxed and swirling back and forth. Each one is chattering and hustling, creating fuss and hurrying up. The program currently is simple, with one small comedy inside - "Hand in Tit", if to trust to the title. In whitish abysses mirrors are humbly hiding heaps of haze - impassive, tiresome and lifeless, enclothed in covering of dust, enshrouding space of each cracked surface. Old heavy furniture is worn, pale faceless walls are plain and modest. At shabby vastness of gray ceiling – huge clumsy chandelier with candles. In dark tight corners – short dry palms. Main door is mourningly creaky. At its left side – thin bald controller, of course, with glasses and in suit. So, all is trivial and usual, without any of weird things.
Each guest has occupied own sit and session's time was gladly started, having stopped after two cheerful hours of stuffed with twists and humor plot.
"I like it. Funniest of movies." - has shared Lidia Andreevna with others: "And which opinion have you?"
"Completely bearable impudence. And not without few of jokes." - pleased Viktor Anatolyevich has noticed: "At least somewhere we are laughing. Great priceless progress for today."
"With lack of irony we're hopeless." - Arseny Dmitrievich has nodded: "So, let's trudge home? Back in peace."
"In hugs of evening and small cares. From our group no one is lonely, we all are happy, all are owned."
"We are the happiest, I'm sure."
Owned happy company has clothed and walked ahead in growing darkness. At sides – dense murk of cold night street with rare eyes of blinking lanterns, under feet – rare blackening puddles. Thick dusk, oblivion and sadness. And no people, no cars, no noise or at least muted sounds. Only perfectly emptified wasteland, most deeply motionless and dead with tired steps from gloom to home.

XV
On freshly risen barricade, in smoke, is standing drunk fat citizen with torch and obscene shouting from mouth. Arseny Dmitrievich and Viktor Anatolyevich, with pamphlet's paper and revolvers, are hiding near into crowd - in midst of swiftly boiling frenzy hungry faces and strong fists.
"I fuck your mouths, dear rulers." - has screamed excited hoarse employee: "I work for you, unthankful devils, I work – in rivers of own sweat and for one piece of cheapest bread."
"Well, this is ordinary madness. One useless anger and drunk noise." - has stretched sad Viktor Anatolyevich with sorrow: "We had to organize this swarm. It can't be possible, I'm guessing."
"We have a pamphlet. Have own claims, have true requirements and targets."
"You are right, but in fact we are nothing. This mindless swamp is wholly lost."
"We must submit them, must get leading and say all actual demands..."
 "I'll try. My heart is full of struggling."
"Excuse me! Give me horn and floor. We have a pamphlet. We have plan." - Arseny Dmitrievich has tried to break the lowness.
"Where are you going, piece of bitch? I'm main at here and I'll get money. The biggest salary in life. They'll never pay to every worker, to silent idiots as you. Fuck off, you're poisoning my show."
"Get down. You're absolutely drunk. We have thick pamphlet, have right needs - for all and everyone of here."
"Oh, ram, you didn’t understand me?! You're lousy ship, I'll smash you, wait. This freak has suddenly decided to kill the strike, so let's kill him."
Drunk masses flurry has rushed up, unused revolver was knocked out, small scraps of pamphlet have flown down, rough dashing heels have knocked in face. One man has found weighty and thrown directly into head. That's end. Worst plot has fully happened.

XVI
In hands of bathed in bitter tears, weak and faceless Elena Vasilievna, is shaking fresh thin issue of newspaper "The vector of the age." On first gray page - large small-scale column "The artel tries to make a Strike": "On Nikodimovskaya artel, last day, most close to time of lunch, time near, has flamed an incident of protest - twelve lawless dozens of the workers have stopped the work and come for strike with desire of salary's rising. The organizer was retired. The size of salary was left without changes, but length of day was notably reduced – on 10 and 15 of the minutes in straight dependence on work skills. Month artel's profit stays with consequences' absence. And if to say of range of victims, we have to point harmlessness of act – three injured and only one killed: a highly qualified employee, Gorbunkov Arseny Dmitrievich. It is noteworthy, no equipment has got damage. The act has passed without police - local squad has effortlessly coped with own force. Administration shows deep sympathy for rulers of aforementioned enterprise and calls all citizens to meet them with compassion. Shocked worried clergy say the same."
"For what? For what? Explain me, tell... I've named myself completely happy, succumbed to this captivity of joy, to this almighty storm of feelings, of strongest passions, dreams and bliss, devoting everything of me to these most pure and saint relations. For what? Explain to me, for what? I have been living each my moment, each smallest second just for him. I've dedicated each my sigh, each my breath, each my day, all my fondness. I have been loving so much and now everything is crumbled. Today I'm ready for to die. Whole life is lying into grave, whole life is vain and aimless rubbish, whole me is numb and bloodless corpse. Eh, fate, you've killed me, killed and buried. For what? Just tell, at least, for what... "
Elena Vasilievna has trembled and burst in ampliest of tears. Past paradise has mercilessly melted.

 
AFTERWORD:
In cozy room, amidst of carpet, small funny baby spends free time, in yellow pantaloons with long and motley ribbon. At him sits company of three – mom and dad, Lydia Andreevna and Viktor Anatolyevich, and an aunt – Elena Vasilievna, imbued with child, as with her own.
"We'll leave him here. Will you sit for a while? We have to go to the post." - has asked shy Lidia Andreevna with softness.
"Of course. Run up, and we will wait."
Both parents slowly have left. The woman has unhurriedly payed look and gently tried to straighten thick child's hair.
"Aunt Lena, can I be trustful? Just with you..."
"With me, I never will betray you."
"Okay..." - the little one has fallen in short silence: "Which way it's better to describe... I love one girl... But I don't know what to say..."
"Just say – perceive me as a miracle, I'm begging." - has responded Elena Vasilievna and, having turned own head to wall, uncontrollably bitterly sobbed: "Even if not at here and not now, but my kindness will find future way. Who knows, why world is made just so... With joys and sorrows, bliss and pain. I believe, that I live not for nothing. Not for me, not for bloom of myself, but for needed in tenderness others, for someone's dreams and someone's better, for this small kid and for his plans. For something perfect and immortal from all this dusty earthly fuss. I live, believe and know - I'm human – alive, demanded, true and full."