The genius and the herder

I
In wasteful void of numb heaven, right into midst of its blue veil, among of thickening forlornness and barren heaps of breathless mist, are humbly swimming in dim distance thin lifeless flocks of shapeless clouds. In empty middle of old park, most amply full of golden crowns, was slowly trudging lonely walker, engaged in endlessness of thoughts and in unbeatable depression, so strongly stubborn and abundant in killing influence and width, so much incredible and immense. Behind of blooming devastation, deep tart impassiveness and dying, quite unremarkably and weakly is creeping river of meek time. Day's length is coyly getting broken in small chaotic flakes of murk shy perplexion, involving everything and all in static coldness and despair, most sternly reigning into air and in each single tintless shade. Full certain dominance of boredom, of weary routine and wilting, most badly leading in mood's bottom and to prompt parting with warmth's hugs. In every corner – pain and fading, in any sip of autumn smell. And at frustrating hollow now, by will of kindly lucky fortune, has deftly managed to take place one modest accident of meeting: an unfamiliar strained stranger, come from oncoming side of road, has sharply frozen next to hero and after smooth and weighty pause got delved in plot of conversation: "Please tell me actual trams' schedule - for term of almost one long month, the tracks' line gets actively repaired and valid scheme of current route stays kept is tightly hidden secret and only devil can invent, which way to send own flesh to home, at least until of night's beginning."
"All paths, as always, lead to bottom. You have to find some vacant cab, give dose of money and dissolve. Only legs can support, nothing else."
"You also need in damned 8th tram?" - has asked downtrodden sleepy walker, Stepan Grigoryevich by name.
"Your guessing skill is more than perfect. We are full comrades in this sorrow." - has drowsily replied Philip Petrovich - that was the name of other walker, who has relaxedly continued: "I was considering myself the only one so cursed and hopeless from all of sufferers and victims. Who you are, by the way, let me know – the same engineer as me?"
"You have mistaken, I'm a postman."
"The one, who brings to us some letter, but for forlorn and needless me – one static bitterness of tears."
"Not all of letters have one value – few ones are terribly awaited and most of others – vain and useless and rid of being in demand. Sometimes you hotly want to write, you have both pen and piece of paper, but do not have receiving person and sadly kill this barren matter without trying to proceed."
"It's called most frequently as fate. Let's talk of this while our walking."
They've turned to emptiness of road and stepped ahead by its free straightness.
"We always strive for some expressions, for something wondering and new, unknown, tempting, great and rare. We want to seek, to search and try. To bury boundaries and limits and to climb up to further heights. We're always hungry, craved and thirsty. We always need to move and act."
"It's part of hateful human essence. But lurking stories are quite short. One tiny error, and you're broken, one small omission, and you're dead. Deceptive profit does not smell. Keep calm and never think of future, it's not for better, not for grace."
"Life's plots are merciless and cruel, days' depth is full of pain and blood, of wrongest choices and regrets and of harsh lack of joy and reason. It's even strange to be successful in such appalling dreary frames."
"I'll sadly say you even more - it's strange to be alive at all."
"The only helper is mind's flame..."
"You faith in mind? What's bad – me too..."
"I see, again we are the same."
"Quite cute... For which of aims you're walking? It's not so easy not to ask so madly plain and trickless question..."
"Away of goal. Just wander forward."
"It's nice. In absence of plans' burden, mind's work, believe to my own practice, is much more prudent, pure and smooth."
"Right thoughts are dark. Such ones bring torments, bring sorrow, apathy and pain. It's rather hard to feel head's presence, to act according to its voice and to behold true face of being."
"All real secrets are at surface, all real real magic hides in brain."
"It's pity miracle, I'll answer. Or not a miracle at all."
"It's maybe fate, if to look apter..."
"Fate is such mockery, which buries. You reap at here what you are charged with. If you are sailing to the bottom, you ship or flag or your hope's rags don't make big influence on essence. Two types of dancing are in fashion – on acute rake and onto splinters. And if you do not see deadlock, it means, that you are into circle."
"Deadlock is minimum of road. The one of longest at today. And it's a sort of needed key – you can't reborn without dying."
"There is no sky without bottom, you are immeasurably right. We all are wanting to believe that all contains some sober logic inside, some grain of tightly hidden sense. That all gets done on some straight purpose. It's quite familiar for people and understandable for heart. Without lantern pillar rots."
"Don't look for rails without sleepers. You're also frighteningly fair. Without lock all keys are equal. Without sea all storms are dead."
"It's not for good and not for winnings. You can't make flame by adding water. True price of this is close to horror."
"The only thing, which is more terrible than horror is your addicting to its hugs."
"Just do not care and step further. You scope of bullets, by the way, will all the time be greatly less than even drop of hated people. And even thought will never help to kill this tragedy with reason."
"Each sip of tragedy is ocean. And any luck is just a crumb."
"I know, it's always only fleeting."
"But it's so piquant to take risks..."
"I am entirely agree. The best fish soup is soup of fisher."
"The more thick is night's murk, the more exhausted are lights' shining."
"Each smoke is fire's decoration. You can't find heat in heap of ashes. Burn wood - and you will get a flame, burn heart – and you will get own corpse."
"Each flame is craving for next ashes. To bloom in withering is sin. And here all given – pains and flaws..."
"The more of flaws are sadly tasted, the more reliable, firm and high is your devotion to the beauty..."
"Each beauty – ugliness's supporter."
"Each wasteland – seed of future fruits. With right approach you're strong as abyss. Don't try to swim, if you are practicing in sinking. Just look at aim and seek for tools. For clever fish each hook is helper."
"It sounds beautiful and soothing, but too deceptive to be true. If you are playing hide and seek, the mainest thing is to be found. You hope, believe, move up and wait. And life just simply passes by."
"No clocks can order to time's pace. No even matter how you're trying, without decent fate's support, you are more weak than dust at rain. If you are hurrying to get mind, believe, soon mindlessness is near."
"If you've lost color of the buds, then sharpen thorns and keep calm silence. In murk each spark is greatest fire. We live in horror and decay, where fact of rescue is just trifle, which doesn't bring you any help. For broken boat oars are needless."
"All things are measurelessly tricky. If two are breaking into door, then third is climbing through of window. And having killed here all well-fed, you'll never rid this world from hunger."
"Such fact is cause to decompose. But even seeing no shore, look for first shallowness' space."
"This is quite pointless and fruitless. Don't seek for heights, at least, at bottom. Life's term is cheaper than a penny. The more magnificent is circus, the less each single clown costs."
"It's also probably for good. For tangibility of passions. Brisk night is brighter than sun's shining."
"Without seeing real goal, do not spend your money, strengths or hopes. Without strings you'll play one silence. We need in sense, in saint luck's savor, which helps to rise to any heavens. In flying weather, even barrel is perfect sort of aircraft."
"Success is curse of ones, who're aimful. Believe, such gift is not for us. It's even stupid to persist. If you are looking for a fool, you'll rather promptly find yourself."
"Each plot depends on ending playing. If you are looking for a lantern, you'll calmly find both night and darkness. If you are looking for a noose, you'll swiftly find both soap and chair. The most main is simply not to rush. If someone tries to do five things at once, he'll not mistaken mistaken only in sixth one."
"It's hard to have both strength or ardor. Path's length is workless boots' supporter. What is time's aim, just guess and answer – to turn mistakes in next regrets. One bullet never kills your twice - one wrong decision, and your corpse proceeds to perishing and freezing - for fun of people, worms and death."
"It's also way to strange conclusions. Fresh corpse, as any mindful knows, is much more nice than rotten lifer."
"It works exclusively on words. All fate - one dullness, dirt and griefs. Without outcome or pauses. In truly low and nasty movie, good roles, as fact, do not exist."
"For wrong crooked legs straight paths are closed. We are too alien for better. For something hopeful, huge and great. If you choose crawling, flight gets cutted."
"Each one is lucky with luck's presence. With gun each beast is perfect hunter. But to keep climbing through of sorrows,  through dying, pain and lack of hope... It's truly difficult and hurting. But it’s apparently more smart – to part with life, when days lose purpose – for aimless line, most main is point. We live for nothingness, for worst. The more free is the cheese, the more painful are mousetrap's abode. Each chance is less than hollow smoke, you'll never catch and develop. You can’t catch taillessness by tail. But heat of faith is still quite deathless, as well useless, by the way. The hut is not a guests' creator. Fate path is not a magnet for success, which also barely can rescue. You cannot cancel rain's by simple presence of umbrella. It's mad to faith in share's care – traps never help to breed of victims. Such fact is evident and nude."
"It's way to hopelessness, to horror. The more small and more weak are your wings, the more it's easy just to fold them. And then one darkness, one despair, one constant vainness and regrets – with walls of pain and gloom. Lost sunken ships don't boast with voyage. It's sad, but having truly rotted, you'll never run to bloom and blossom. For wholly frozen heat is sinful."
"It's not a new. If you have flown from thorns and stones, you cannot land at fluffy surface. If you have parted with luck's abode, do not expect for something fruitful, for flame, perfection or joy's hugs. The more brighter is the light, the more far is its place. The very need to hope and wait is nothing else than scary burden and worst of punishments and pains. The more you're living in desert's width, the less you faith in water's presence."
"You have to tolerate and hurry, don't fall and bottom will not find you."
"With love to hand, don’t touch the hedgehog, it has been learnt till tons of tears. But no matter how much strong and how much durable your mind is, life's truth are equally appalling."
"But even deeply into torments, in pit of agony and murk, keep deathless easiness and smile. Ship doesn't sink without music. What's more, sometimes, of course, not always, having tired to sink, sails again. The more rainy is sky, the more nice is its rainbow. When skill to hope and gift of waiting are chained together, life's path is free reach all stars – the ones, which present in fate's abyss. But if prescribed was one tart  vainness, one greedy emptiness and dust, you anyway will stay with nothing. Big fish is not for small of rivers. Good tools are half of good result. The more aggressive is game's plot, the more indifferent is winning. But taste of coziness is rare – in complex games success is tricky, in misty weather paths are hazed."
"But even lost and broken fate, but with rich past made of one heights, is much more pleasant and attractive, than wholly gray forthcoming age without greatness, feats and glory. As I am surely supposing, even problems and griefs, pains and dirts are deadly from this being as from some heavy horrid curse. What can be done with pit of living. In silent movie, screams are vain. Life will win, you will lose, time will pass. Believe in coffin, not in better..."
"It's still quite good for struggle's sharpness. The more high is the fence, the more fine it's to climb. The more lazy is horse, the more stubborn is rider. But just to live is not a pleasure, not a feat or a cause to keep smile. Mind's wornness is too from state of wisdom. Not all is positive for share, not all brings equal dose of use. And if you're born to be unlucky, gloom's nets will find your life themselves. You can't hide firewood from fire."
"Such truth is also rather shabby and old as mountains and seas. No things protect from new of bullets as well as past ones, which were apt. Fate's burden, please do not have doubts, is much more obstinate than storm. Big ships are soil for big crashings. But world rely on brave and strong – on ones, who're wider than whole being. And weaklings' breed in living's play is just not more than simple garbage, unneeded, valueless and vain. Such fates get thrown in hugs of abyss without warnings or regrets."
"All this, including every trifle, from foolish start till tragic end, is fruit and guilt of our essence, of our worthlessness and flaws. Life's frames do not demand too much, don't ask for anything unreal and do not lead with twisted roads, at least, for seriously long. World's plans are far from super-tasks, but full of trashy implementers, who promptly bury all they do – just right at point of beginning, which serves for them as stumbling stone. Do not forget, most silly fishes, as rule, don't need in bait at all."
"At here I'm flamingly supporting. You can't let bullet with no gun, and cannot catch it with no forehead. It's rather bitter for acceptance, but only having been completed, fate's line gets understandable and plain. You cannot make new-fashioned clothing of worn and featureless fabric. If to be looking with cold mind, all ways are equally oppressive. True width of possibilities and prospects is more deceptive than spring's warmth. And if your route is full of pleasures, of lavish easiness and blooming and amply reigning taste of joy, than be most free of any doubts – pain's scales will also be the same. Life's practice tirelessly proves, large mechanisms don't ill with little breakings. But even knowing of this fact and understanding horror's measure, do not prepare to give up. Without bag, awl's role is modest. Burn up, and fading will dissolve."
"Such heat depends on what is given, on share's weight and future plots. Bad ships are inappropriate for all - for any variant of route and any type of navigation, and even sinking for last ones is task they rarely can cope with. If you believe in strength of murk, in its supremacy and sternness, you'll most predictably get lost. We can’t resist to inner dying, to heart's involving in pain's nets and meanly crippling mental freezing. Away of being onto boat, your faith in oars has no sense."
"What is today – strange boring horror, with nothing hopeful, bright or sane. The more needful is bridge, the more swiftly it burns. And all, what's given – just to cry, to gain regrets and to kill wishes – from most exalted till most small, which here are equally forbidden. An empty pocket, as we know, is not a source of money's plenty. If you have stumbled – you'll get crashed. If you've mistaken, fate will perish."
"Success is breakable, it's true. You can't divide it, cannot split – in any number of free pieces and any group of single parts, which will have similar of features and will be suitable for use. Don't rush to shoot without gun, it never helps in target's hitting."
"Not having taken full risks' dose, you'll never take thin tale of glory as well as never will get sweetness of so much tempting winnings' taste. For rain's afraiders world sends desert, for life's afraiders world sends death. Lost faded share is just rubbish, vain heap of uselessness and pains, of fuss, omissions and regrets, completely purified of prospects and of possessing of next grace. In shallowed river, as we know, you even sink with lack of ease. In such of cases, what destroys, all ways are tickets to soon coffin. Bad food is worse than good poison, it's sadly fair, if you're wise. The more unbearable is fate, the more awaited is its finish. For act of falling, be assured, we need exclusively in legs."
"At here I'm melting in agreeing, for us to walk without stumbling is close to singing with clenched teeth. From flight till splinters, as world shows us, is one plain readiness to risk. And what's in hundreds times more painful – the more effortless, prompt and easy is your achieving of success, the more unstable, short and fruitless will be obtaining of its plenties. The more affectionate and soft is fluff of victories and blooming, the more frustrating, rough and hard will be stone surface of next losses. And, as you have to be informed, from worthless breakage of defeat, you'll never tailor flesh of winning. And fate at earth is not a blot, but truest stain and not more pretty. And, what's most doleful and dark, it's too much difficult to wash it."
"Your fate is set of your beliefs. And, having fallen onto bottom, you'll still continue to exist, but only scantily and vainly and in disjunction with all great. Without treasure of luck's presence, you'll have no flame, no weakest spark of further blossoming and glory. In horse's absence, as we're seeing, each rider is an idiot, a fool. If life is spent, all you are able – to wait for death and to gain pain, with sobbing bathing heart in sorrow and amply reaping bitter harvest of freshly gathering regrets. The more you sacrifice, the less you can acquire. Not every mousetrap at now is full of really free cheese."
"For storms of fate, as last one shows, each life is close to sort of letter – they'll calmly send you anywhere, and you will will-lessly succumb. We all are slaves of inner weakness. Of mind's fragility and fright. But dance of forces, as you're guessing, is also far from having weight. Huge greatness' bubble is too helpless, too thin and breakable, too short. One small omission, and your share gets turned in pile of useless trash. You cannot change it, can't foresee. Life's plans don't heed to expectations."
"All things are frighteningly shaky, you look in essence of days' play. And straightest way to pain and horror is route, which's leading for luck's fruits. We seek for easiness and blooming, but get one fatigue and fading. Get lack of power and control. And then make minimal mistake, and find yourself in role of corpse. Each working fire lives for ashes, for feeding firewood with death. When fate is over, all is wasted. And any previous events, with whole past heaviness and vastness, will swiftly melt and disappear in constant fog of being's fuss. Each warmth at here is just cold's hook. You cannot bury and erase exclusively what's killed and what's not written."
"If you can't walking, learn to run. Sometimes your risk is your best friend. And even deeply into dying keep smile and elegance of movements. Each one, who has got fallen in nice manner is grave for ones, who uglily have flown. Hope's light is right to feel yourself, to stay alive among of pains. Bt in wrong games right steps are absent."
"Away of compass, ships are dead. Life's frames will never teach to blossom. If you will think of pure and proper, you'll start to want to lay in coffin. Each one, who has accustomed to whip's slashing, will never even look at gingerbread. For empty forehead, as you know, fresh fatal bullet is a gift. Each one, who is unable for to fly, will calmly fall, not leaving Earth. "
"Believe, no fire is afraid of firewood. Each one, who dances onto coals, as rule, don't worry of cold soles. If you are from to be idiot and moron, your risks will also have strict aim – at least, at early raw beginning. Please faith, big weaknesses will never choose small people."
"To run by edge without wings is not too positive solution. World's pit is cold to breed of victims, as well as winners cold to fools. Fields are not friends for woods and forests. And having stopped at least for minute, you risk to stuck for endless term. It's rather silly to hate fate - you can't fix  route by changing pace, right as can't reap some fruits from dreams. But for to keep your soul alive you need in miracle, in trusting, in chance to wait and to keep hope."
"Away of games, true players die. This shows full nature of each human. And the more far you are from tools, the more you seek for heat of purpose. Such state transforms life's route in burden – each one, who has got tasted greatness' savor, will never please oneself with fuss."
"At here we're prisoners of fortune. But even tons of naked luck don't serve as ladder to attainments. The more of paths you have for going, the more it's easy to get lost. The more of thoughts you have in head, the less control you're free to pay them in shortest moment of response. The more assuredly you sway, the more it's easy to unlearn, what does it mean to keep straight moving. If you have chosen to crawl, one day you'll see, that sky is locked."
"But risks are fuel of achievements. Success don't like to take small bets. Your strength depends on scales of passion. One truly hungry tiny ant will always eat immeasurably more than even hundred elephants, who're fed. Just faith, strive up and save past course. Do not be fooled by dust of trifles. Such ones are soil for one pains. The more aimless is victory's essence, the more bloodthirsty are war's plots. The more shy is haystack, the more reliably it hides needles. So be more willful, smart and strict. If someone wants to eat your body, then, into order to survive, at least don't sprinkle flash with spices. With whole persistence harshly knocking in most desirable door, at first make check, that it's not opened. Such truth is bottomlessly plain. What means, don't doubt in mind's power and into rightness of world's plans. The more unbearable are methods, the more impressive are results."
"These hopes are colder than north's blizzards. Grief's seeds don't need in soil's presence. If end is visible, believe, last step will occur. The worst of burdens is life's vainness. Such fate is heavier than curse."
"If you've not burned in hugs of fire, don't think you'll never drown in sea, but always following for corners and not remarking something else, don't be afraid to stuck in circles."
"If you have turned to be unable to avoid wrong ugly fact of being born, you'll hardly cope with skipping death. The course of time is always equal: from murk to murk through narrow now – most weak, impalpable and short."
"Best time in any one of ages is such a variant of future, which has already gone in past. If you have lost, your further share will never part with bottom's frames as well as never will bring pleasures. Such state is invitation in destruction. Crooked tree, as practice stably shows us, is not afraid to turn in stump."
"It's right, you're doubtlessly fair. But every powerless sick winner is into thousands of times much more assured, firm and strong than any healthiest of losers."
"The more convincingly you burn, the more disgustingly you'll fade. The more persistent is detail, the more severe will be hammer. The more strong is tree's trunk, the more rude will be saw. The more attractively looks city, the more appallingly it'll die. Most long of rains, as rule, bring drought."
"Good neck will never meet bad ax. The only thing, which can't be nullified and wasted is one nude zero itself. Good climber can't fall in bad manner. If you've got tired from own life, believe, you'll even die without passion."
"If you can't differ light from murk, then even pain will have joy's taste. Thin things get broken by themselves. If you can sail without oars, you'll never sink with any anchor."
"You can't get straightness by new bendings. Without amply reigning luck, all paths will lead in equal coffin. You cannot push from mental wall. As cannot dance on melted ice."
"But no matter how it's bitter, we're ourselves are cause of our problems. Having door, we are going through wall. From stupid head, as it's well-known, the only cure is kiss of death."
"The thinner is the thread, the longer it gets torn. This is familiar to all – till tears, pain and sorrow's taste. In all appropriate for meaning, just trust with highest scale of firmness, will calmly ripen and rise up each sort and variant of madness. And all activity, all fervor are not more helpful than dust's handful. If you are trying to get all, don't be surprised with having nothing."
"Life's vastness never leads in better. We need in miracle, in luck, in something small, but greatly weighty, what can support, preserve and rescue from hungry abysses of grief. The more of forces you are having, the more futile is their use. The more sober is mind, the more chaotic are decisions. But risks are remedy from boredom. The more predictable is route, the more indifferent is going. But all already is prescribed – from fuss till rarities and feats. And not on people life depends. Right place is maker of right time. All roots of future hides in past, in farest starting of existence. What means – just trust and move ahead. Good shows are free from poor tickets."
"But size of ship and size of sailing are not accustomed to be twins. The more delightful is the weather, the less of harvest it will bring. The more sweetly looks fruit, the more rotten it is. The more loud is rain, the more thin is roof's plate. The more nice is your night, the more wrong it to sleep. The more early are leaves, the more soon they will fall."
"The more strong is the frost, the more white are its snows. And even going in last path, do not forget of gait's perfection. With decent measure of firm courage, you'll calmly pass through any twists and any hardships of your share. The more strong is the grip, the more light it's to hold."
"The more sweet is your life, the more prompt is its end. Cat's skills are surely enough for certain eating of a mouse, but at the same surprising time, what's much more funny and amazing, each drop of mouse's ambitions will be excessively enough for lightest eating of few tigers. World's frames are horribly deceptive. And daily hunting for luck's tail, you'll most predictably get meeting with grief's body. Lost paths are not a source of happy findings. In grayness colors are short-living. You can't save roads by potholes. For wingless creatures sky is hell."
"Good soil – magnet of bad seeds. If you see greatness, try to cling. If you see death, prepare coffin."
"You can’t fix emptiness by void. Don't try to couple flame and water, such sort of unions is doomed."
"But time from time we're just unready for something seriously huge. Sometimes it's horribly explicit, but still not obvious for heart. The more tricky is lock, the more  simple is key. Big traps are cold for tiny victims. It's maybe bottomlessly childish, but rather actual and true. Indeed tall house, as we know, has no need in extra floors. The less you have, the more it's easy to take risks. With wholly empty cup in hands, don't be afraid to pour its liquid."
"Such knowledge rarely can save. For soul each healing serves as poison. Old circus workers do not laugh."
At this both've abruptly got silent, with sudden sadness having frozen in unexpected common pause. One half of wordless minute later, Stepan Grigorievich has shyly raised his eyes and, after period of thinking, most deeply looking right in eyes with pensive drowsiness declared: "At now I ought to make reporting – you are true genius, true jewel – without minimal of doubts and with full broadness of this role. Your view of world is so much sober, so much voluminous and apt. You are entirely unique. At here I'm blamelessly sincere."
Philip Petrovich, having hesitantly yawned, has delved in thickets of bemusing and then unhurriedly replied: "Come on, I’m average lost fool. I bet, you'll hardly ever guess, how madly stupid is my being. Till real tragedy and hell."
"It's fully normal for wise people. Don't even plan to be upset. You'll never get here something else, if you are inwardly exalted. You cannot change it or prevent. It's part of share, part of given. What's more – I also live the same."
At this frustrating cheerless point, plot's line of desperate discussion has stepped in mutual retelling of living stories and past days. Stepan Grigoryevich with joylessness has told, how at the very start of life he has been taken by his father from local orphanage to home. And here it's needful to describe both fate and person of this parent – lost lonely painter, wretched and poor, unknown with money, luck or care or even faintest taste of love or reciprocity and frankness. This fact has brought most firm of habits – to look at world without hope.
"My father always has been saying - I've come to live in too wrong time, I’m not in need here, not in winners, not in one company with luck and not in single pack with joy. I each my day was neatly seeking for right for unity and warmth, for truly pure and deathless feelings. I was in thirst for tender hands, for something holy, priceless and exclusive. But time was passing with no fruits and I was staying into void – with bitter savor of betrayals and with great lack of any faith. And then, in order to get able to gift my dream to someone else, I've taken you and not too richly, but quite smoothly led up from childhood till youth's days. And now you're free to be yourself — to seek, to wait, to burn, to bloom and to strive higher. And I believe, that years later you'll put your life in right conditions and get that rare priceless chance to meet your frankly loving couple and to give birth to common childs, most happy, wonderful and flawless from all humanity of earth. And then my father has got old and after few of last weak seasons was lost in peacefulness of grave. And I have stayed to wait for better. To look for bliss of understanding and to examine course of fate in hope to catch saint peerless treasure of trust, fidelity and love. So I've remained with this strange faith in soon upcoming of new time, which will be suitable for building of feelings, family and dreams, the very ones, which till today are not fulfilled and not brought closer." And then, in order of response, Philip Petrovich has identically told, how far in institute by will of morbid fortune he had got fruitlessly acquainted with freely wandering stray actress, who had already had few children and been in temporary pair with her apparently fifth husband. The lady had lef memory and promise to write short letters and to love, what have transformed in true disease for weak mentality of loner.
"Yes, world is bottomlessly big, but it's still horribly amazing, that so lost souls have common talk."
"I don't believe in happiness at all. This world is freed from lucky shares."
"I'll say you frighteningly more – of course, it's opposite position, but world is madly full of luckers and even have such rare people, who are accounting their breed. I have one comrade at post office - Boris Danilovich, the quietest. He lives between of two life's winners. The names of last ones I don't know. He also reads one thick wise book."
"What a surprising pretty trifle. Meantime one block and I'm at home."
"And till my home one and half. Let's meet tomorrow at eight, of course, p.m and at this place, with aim to move by district's longing and to discuss all other pains."
Here, after nodding, they've got parted.

II
In sullen boredom of room's prison, among of walls and thoughts of hopeless, with fair apathy in mood has idly yawned and woken up completely lifeless slightly plump and veiled in thickets of own weakness Boris Danilovich Yamskov, perplexed and pale impassive man, the very worker of post office, who have been living by fate's will between two happiest of people and had addiction to wise reading. The hero has performed few stretching movements and with unwittingness to haste looked out of hazed surface of gray window.
"Sun's light again. Most deep noon's middle, and I'm still carelessly sleeping. It looks as coquetry or illness. But what to do, if you are free for whole day's length and have no duties."
The man has slowly yawned once more and sat at pier of waiting table.
"It's time to delve is my wise book. To pour thoughts' shiness onto brain."
The hero has picked up worn bunch of pages, combined in heavy decent tome, and jumped in cleverness of lines, most thickly stuffed with aphorisms' abundance.
1) Good dishes do not need in poor spices.
2) The more invisible is mouse, the more remarkably it squeaks.
3) Bad law is not a sin to install.
4) Don't sweeten fruit if it's forbidden.
5) Each salary is mockery from labor.
6) Bad things aren't learnt ti change for better.
7) If you have soul, get used to sins.
8) You can’t remember something good, if you have memory, which's awful.
9) Do not try to do manual work with your feet.
10) In bad fur coat even summer is also part of winter's cold.
"What a terribly brilliant beauty. True feast of dominance of thought." - the hero has excitedly admired and delved in further scope of text.
11) The smaller is the apple, the harder to divide.
12) Do not respond on rave with reason.
13) The more thin is the knife, the more thick are its cuts.
14) Big mouse cannot choke with little cat.
15) To catch a hunger is still better than to be poisoned while of meal.
16) Wrong thoughts don't suit for proper thinking.
17) The more uneasy is the state, the more it's simple in attaining.
18) Bad taste and tastelessness are equal.
19) Repeating is not a variant of newness.
20) Don not get fat in narrow rooms.
"Oh, yes, it's really breathtaking. I'm over-flooded with delight."
And again into text, in mind's bliss.
21) With wordless mouth talks are endless.
22) The more you knock, the less they open.
23) One fool is worse than three fires.
24) Don't try to speed your horse with cart.
25) Without threads don't even think of buying needle.
26) Without foolness fool is vain.
27) You cannot wear unsewn dresses.
28) For daily standing rooted legs each step is pass in endlessly long road.
29) Indeed bad carriage gets slowed down by even presence of own horse.
30) Do stupid things in mindful manner.
"Oh yes, pure jewel of thoughts' magic. I'm even feeling, how brain's growing. Let's stop for tiniest of terms and get informed of neighbors' living."
So, having left shy chair's harbor, the hero has replaced himself to hallway. At here, it's right to make a pause and to describe both lucky dwellers, who were encircling our reader – the first, left door, strong brave youth Victor with immense joyfulness and zeal and greatest skill of greedy drinking, harsh risky gambling, wild loud playing old guitar and nimbly doing satisfying of never ending girlish breed, refreshing every single night and always blooming with mad ardor; the second, similar door right, one decade elder miller Peter, who was engaged in lovely bonds of silent family existence with nice young wife and two fine children. By will of fate, each one of neighbors was lost in temporary absence. The first, apparently, was sleeping, the second, probably, had work.
"I'll calmly cope without them." - has thought the hero with regretting and delved again in depths of book.
31) With bad umbrella, you'll get wet in any variant of desert.
32) Spring is most early start of autumn.
33) We do not have more easy things than to start moving with hard road.
34) With decent pick, key's role is small.
35) Each risk with mind is always mindless.
36) The more assured is the grip, the more intensively it weakens.
37) Don't ask for everything from nothing.
38) Each sort of slowness is also form of hurry.
39) One leg is not for two of paths.
40) Small shame is worse than big death.
"Most smart of things are here and now - at these shy pages of my book." - Boris Danilovich has sighed and, having hidden into blanket, dissolved in prettiness of sleep.

III
Engaged in weakly going swirling and drowsy readiness to melt thick thoughtful flocks of weighty clouds were shyly dragging over roofs in wistful gazing at cold bleakness of inexpressive dismal earth. Wet winds, in craving for free pipes, were humbly rustling in last leaves, with stress alluring heart in sorrow, in autumn dampness and despair, vast painful dreariness and smell of dying herbs. Pale faint sunset, embraced by fog, was also gradually fading and losing features and bright tones, replaced by facelessness and haze. Stepan Grigoryevich, in usual postal form, was meekly standing at crossroad in coy awaiting of friend's coming. Filipp Petrovich was in time and with strong thirst for talks and walking.
"Well day, my brother in dead thoughts. I'm glad to greet you next to me." - has said Stepan Grigoryevich with smile: "Let's wander up and gather thoughts, discussing everything world's made of."
"Let's move, not stucking in delays, fate's plots are yearning for attention."
"I don't possess with even slightest drop of doubts, your words are shamelessly exposing most brazen nudity of truth."
The heroes have let legs' team in walk and knotted thoughts with ropes of gloom.
"So madly breakable and fleeting is any share, chance and day, so madly shaky, frail and short..."
"Bad things are learnt which way to happen. Believe, they'll find both place and time. All games have start, as well as finish. And only pain is freed from terms. In endless songs last chords are absent. Best days are always veiled in fog. And do not lose your strengths on tryings, it's stably purposeless and vain - lame walker never turns in runner."
"Each one is prisoner of fate, of luck, intentions and prescriptions, which are above of plans and tools. All sorts and variants of rules bring help exclusively to winners, to ones, who're gifted with success and calmly able to get harvest of all life's plenties, joys and heights. Such roles, you guess, are not for us. Not for two hopelessly lost losers. It's even strange to look for bridge, which leads from nothingness to better. What's more each route in our days is just a variant of ticket to inescapable dead lock. All bliss at sadly known now is just a source of next regrets, of further pains and future torments, which never end or disappear, as well as never stop for long. Each light is ladder into darkness. Each fun is pass tears' showers. Each tiny victory is mask of huge defeat. Today's success is breathless dust, if last one's terms have length of moment. And even mind is not a friend and not a remedy from madness in tightly holding falsehood's hugs. The only ones, who're saved from fooling are just the very fools themselves. Head's tricks at here are weak and useless, as well as stubbornness or faith. The more impressive is bait's size, the more small fish it will attract."
"For many people thinking process is something close to straightest magic. Such ones are victims of own brain. If you're regretting of a little, you'll never come to truly big. In global you can  hide a lot, in trifles – everything at all. As well as into memory or lyings."
"At here you're measurelessly right – in thoughts long divings end with death. But life is equally gets sadder with any essence of mind's frames. One naked memory of cannon will never let you to make shot. And world keeps growing and enlargening in scales, with blooming, prudence and improving. With grace and tempting progress' taste..."
"But what it is – this vague progress... Sad hopeless longing for escape. For something different from given. Believe, it's doleful request. You can't make dish from single spices. But you get used to have such meal. The longer lasts time's length of torture, the less you feel the fact of pain. Frail ones get broken by rude force, strong one – by softly gentle weakness. And it's not easy to admit this."
"To live with reason is true torment. Each thought is frighteningly cunning: not even looking at the fact of being born in mental thickets, such one without of delays most firmly conquer whole mind's volume, oppressing, breaking and eroding past native innocence of views. No things can uglify as much as can it stupidness and trusting. Before of wondering what fool you were in past, at first throw glance at you in future. World's changing never brings success - you can't decorate bud's beauty by ample adding of new thorns, as well as cannot soften thorns by prettifying of buds' blooming. The higher is the cost of minds, the lower is the cost of madness. Days don't give poison with no food. With aim t teach you how to limp , at first they'll teach you how to go. The more you hope, the less you have."
"Fate's frames are cause to turn in stone. Thought's lamp is lighting not for stupid. Lie's seeds are sweeter than truth's fruits. And do not wait for good and soothing. Next days are scarier than hell."

IV
In static peaceful heaps of haze, among of rare shapeless clouds, was meekly thickening sky's grayness. Were gently blowing sluggish winds. Dark broken shadows were impassively replacing on freshly growing dusky dawn, pierced up with joyless dim reflections from far indistinct lights of cars. Old roaring roof was sadly ringing with metal coldness of own surface. Day's course, dissolved in midst of languor, was shyly lingering in fright, deep wide oblivion and fading, encaged each corner of world's width. Boris Danilovich, in company of book, was slowly keeping silen reading.
41) In trembling hands each weapon is dummy.
42) Tails are not taught to think of heads.
43) There is no better gardener than soil.
44) Don't spend big salt on little wounds.
45) You cannot spill without pouring.
46) You can't craft happiness from grief.
47) The more expensive is the bullet, the more less-costing gets the head.
48) Good mind can easily get old, good thought can easily get timeless.
49) For barrel spoon is not a mentor.
50) No one can pass defeats as winner.
"Oh yes, so wonderful, so flawless. Like honey's splashing onto brain." And again back to lines with conclusions.
51) You can’t fill emptiness with void.
52) If you have foolishness, await for meet with fool.
53) You cannot find particularities in common.
54) With poor food each hunger is pure feast.
55) You cannot tie long arms, if rope is short.
56) Each fool is evidence of smartness.
57) You can't eat badly with good spoon.
58) Right hand embraces, left hand robs.
59) You can't forgive your sins to foreign gods.
60) Don't try to couple scythe and stone.
"Well, what a marvelous delight, what an incredible perfection" And further into labyrinth of text.
61) You cannot spoil errors with eraser.
62) The more relaxedly you sleep, the more frustratingly they wake you.
63) Each war for peace is close drinking for sobriety.
64) Ship's soul is free from sins of pier.
65) You can't shock noose by adding neck.
66) The more you're faithing into head, the more predictable is fact of last one's losing.
67) New songs don't feel compassion to old strings.
68) The more thing seems, the less it happens.
69) Without hammer, nails just rust.
70) Nude people cannot be undressed.
"Well, I am glad and full of wisdom. What means, it's time for to get rest and to make visit to the neighbors."
And once again undying boredom – young drinker sleeps, old miller works. Life's plots are obstinately steady.

V
Behind of loudness and haze of teeming avenue's expanses, in midst of dullness, wind and rain, was meekly growing grayish thickness of pale emotionless dawn's width. Huge flocks of hastening cars' bodies were swiftly voyaging ahead through flesh of downpour and fog. Small frequent drops, torn of from roof, were nimbly landing onto eave of old and tired window's square, with boredom dancing strange quadrille. Disastrous heavy taste of pain were getting nailed in every corner of weak and joyless being's cage. In hugs of pensiveness of room, in frames of bitterness and sorrow, maintained by sullen bonds of walls, was shyly dying in own thinking Stepan Grigorievich's mind's peace. With tragic glance in hollow void and tartest apathy in eyes, the hero was supporting fading's process of promptly darkening lost soul. One unsuccessful week ago, he has attempted an acquaintance, which once again has brought no luck and got completed by strong bunch of cruel mockeries and laughing, what has destroyed last crumbs of hope and chained heart's abode in despair, so firmly rooted in crashed mood.
"And again life repeats that I'm loser, which's not appropriate for love or any other warming feeling, uniting motley people's fates. I'm guest of hatred and refusals, of constant needlessness and pain and of incessant sea of tears. I'll never hide from disappointment and vainness, from partings, failings and regrets. It's sad, I'm alien for better, for care, frankness and support. I'm just a piece of trifling rubbish, whose local share is to rot. Such state eats brain as worst of acids, upsetting, hurting, leaving harmed. What for to try and to strive up, if all accessible and given performs one permanence of torments, of sticky filthiness and dirt, with unforgivable excess most badly swarming here and there in any sphere of today. I have no variant of future, in which I'll ever cope with getting of any unity and fondness. I'll never fall in any love and never taste devotion's fruits. The only source of my salvation locates at point of my death - the only possible escape from bitter cargo of self-wrongness. It's not for me to be demanded, to bloom, to shine and to have sense – at least most doubtful and vague."
The hero has made weak and lifeless sigh and walked ahead through places' silence.
In midst of cold and viscous dusk, in thoughtless sleepiness and peace, were coyly swirling tired shadows. Along of wet and faceless roofs, were calmly dragging heaps of clouds. Faint pensive ovals of bleak lanterns, with tragic yellowness in dim and timid eyes, completing picture of world's sorrows, were sadly sowing weary light.
"What sort of people do we have... Lost aimless pieces of vile heartlessness and evil. They do not seek for reciprocity or care, they need in mutual indifference and hatred, in ugly balance of betrayals, deceits, atrocities and pains. They look for enemy, for foe, for one, who'll serve as further target for anger, violence and filth, for meanness, fooling and reproachings, new smirks and freshly woven blamings, which get repeated and maintained each nasty day of common years. They gladly sink in depths of sneering, in pit of morbidness and rotting, uprising inwardness of souls to highest scales of decomposing.  No even matter how much long will last remaining of my share, I'll never meet with frank concern, with true devotion and perpetual affection. This world is endlessly mistaken, at least, in current broken age. Meanwhile, all great, as rule, is simple. In fact, in most of living cases we do not need in tricky tools. And even more, as practice shows, sometimes excess is fully helpless – resultless, pointless and vain. In all – from miracles till trifles. Let's take some wholly banal matter - the same exchanging of light bulb. With even bunch of proper items, you'll promptly stuck in problems' sea – wrong voltage or unfitting size of bottom or any other stopping trouble. And even sitting in most genuine excess, with lamp, with bulb, with electricity in socket and with desire to have light, you firmly stay in last one's absence and do not know what to do. In even easiest of startings for to be able to succeed and to reap decently rich harvest of prudent outcomes and fruits, without any of exceptions, we must have miracle of luck - the only thing, which's free to fill with priceless relevance of tryings and with stern fairness of aims. In frames of actual conditions, in immortality of grief and in incessantness of losses, such precious rarities are drearily infrequent and outlandishly unique. It's too regrettable, too sad... I have to turn this in complains ant then to send in wordy form to  kind and careful Philip Petrovich's ears. Oh, yes, it's doubtless – I definitely have."

VI
In empty, doleful apartment, in nets of apathy, prescribed to be eternal, and in surrounding of freshly growing pains, brought up till scariest of scales by new rich dose of darkest thoughts, already gnawing flesh of brain with all own obstinate assemble, was humbly measuring day's length engaged in gloom Philip Petrovich. The hero was exceptionally sad and full of bottomless upsetness. One sad distressing week ago he has received so much awaited and so much hopeless loving letter - from Olga Pavlovna, the very windy actress, who had so heavily enslaved frail trustful mind of lonely youth. Saint priceless object of most ravishing of wishes has coldly given one nude sorrow, with skill collected in brief lines of numb and doubtful confessions.
"Once again, with all flame of my nature, I'm hotly hastening to greet you - to fall in blissful sacred bonds of this occasional short shelter for secret meetings of two hearts, for term of several next minutes preserved and rescued from life's fuss in gentle hugs of common abode for pleasures, openness and warmth. For dreams, desires, promises and plannings. I was most passionately yearning and truly wanting to return, so many  times with sadness bathing into memories and thoughts and finding moment for to write. I have got parted with my owner of the circus. At now I’m practically single... Of course, I have to be with you, but as you also understand, it can't be realized in practice. This is unbearable and tragic, but world is not a sugar's piece and life compels to choose another, what is, apparently, a lesson or an example of some check. Not of the easiest and plainest, but all around has own sense, that's why I hope, these little hardships one day will similarly manage to bring their dose of distant use. This long and steady separation, which with assertiveness and sternness was calmly proving its intention to pass through any one of troubles – without hesitance or stumbling and with assured deathless faithing in future unity of souls, in sweetest endlessness of feelings and tartest blossoming of love. And if to go back to present, I, as before, am full of seeking for some material support - at least, few hundreds bucks per month. I know, you always strive to help, but for my carefullest nature much more convenient is profit from new short-living carnal bonds. I greatly know, you do not like it, but do not hurry to have worries, I am forever only yours, my honey priceless heaven's gift. I fondly kiss your tender cheeks and neatly send you huge hello. Your far, but madly native Olya."
And now, having torn eyeballs from lines, reread with painfulness again, the hero, delving deeper in thoughts' gloom, was vainly trying to get used to swiftly widening despair: "Again I'm far from positive receivings... As always heap of dreariness, not more. Wasted mood, wasted hope, wasted chance on escape from grief's prison What sort of share do I have, what a strange inconsolable role do I play at lost stage of life's theater, so deadly crappy, alien and wrong. It's not so easy to admit, in fact I even don't have right at least to meet her with my glance at sudden merciful crossroad... What aim can have such type of living, what sense can be imputed in its days... In days of barrenness and void, of long and desperate awaiting for end of vagueness and fright, assigned by permanent alert, that my saint object of affection will start to match with someone else and, what is killingly more awful, that she'll agree to save those bonds and to forget of me forever. I'm will-less victim of beliefs, of strange and empty expectations and of incessant lavish tears above of cracked and breathless prospects of my unneeded lonely fate. What am I having for to do in inability to change my murky present and to reorient life's line on route, directing me to better. My faint devotion to hazed fortune is source exclusively of tortures, of disappointment and confidence's lack. But I still trust to hands of being and frankly seek for hopeful turn of common bitter parting's plot, which's wholly able to transform in plot of unity and fondness."
Philip Petrovich has got up and with thick languor made long sigh: "Stepan Grigoryevich's believings are the same... I have to go to complain him. It must diminish pain's amount by healing head from doubts' trash. Wise prudent remedy, I'll notice – most free, resultative and fast and most familiar and tasted, what proves – I'm having to complain."

VII
In midst of cold and gloomy night, with rigor thickening around, were sadly blackening and yearning nude lifeless vastnesses of city. From chill of lowlands, embraced by veil of murk were climbing up frail faceless shadows, with deepest apathy observing dark barren void of world's views. Long tired abysses of streets, with passion knifed till bleeding holes by bitter downpours' cascade, were meekly stretching dense oblivion and fading, in secret dressing distances in mist. Returning back from finished walk, Boris Danilovich was leading route to home - without any inner brightness and with no readiness for meets, but right at first his timid step inside of entrance's abode was unexpectedly called out by shaky silhouette with bottle of port wine, quite huge in size, but almost empty, in freshly torn old-fashioned sweater and with thin cigarette in gladly smoking mouth: "Most fine of greetings to my honorable fellow! Are you, sad brother, still alone – in heartful seekings and wise reading?"
"It's so, you're sharper than best gunners – I'm fully free from other things. And what's of your last innovations?"
"I'm still alive. Still chained to bottle. Day ago, into frames of night's lust, have been fucking one young swimmtess – she has been shouting so loudly and wildly, that I've felt sorry for her throat. I'm calmly betting all my money – her ass will feel  most strong pain's presence not less than for whole term of few next weeks. She tries to win some competitions, and I write memorable stories. We're both engaged in decent labor. And what's of you – don't be upset: large proud eagles do not ask for eagletresses."
"You're madly actual again – till deepest essences of things. But in my case all looks quite darker – I'm inly broken and downtrodden and firmly rid of any hope..."
"But I believe in your impressive happy future. Anyway, keep in mind, you're the best – from all my friends at this weird planet."
"You're the same, thanks for all."
"Thanks you too, native soul."
At this frank point, paths have parted, Boris has gone in his apartment, and Viktor has led legs in pleasant walk to tempting cradle of night tavern – for extra alcohol in gut.
"Healthy positive version of person - lives, smiles and has incessant fun ... He doesn’t know of regrets or of destructive taste of sadness. And I am piece of solid grief, which doesn't share any feelings except of dreariness and doom. I'm having nothing of fate's joys - no light, no care, no relations, no sacred passions and coy meets. One naked sorrow, one oppression... And heap of painful fruitless thoughts. My world is barren, crooked and empty, it can't be suitable for better, for blooming, cheerfulness and luck. I'm made of apathy and fading, of constant needlessness and gloom. Such state, apparently, is timeless, unending as some scary ancient curse. And not for me it's – to reap pleasures, to be demanded or to laugh. Days course is filled with risks and fuss and stops most frequently at grave, at dark and numb eternal nothing, which calmly eats your mind and flesh and leaves exclusively one void from all past moments and events..."
Boris Danilovich has tragically sighed and stretched at rookery of bed. His eyes have meekly closed themselves, world's image have submissively dissolved. Neat nets of sleepiness have folded weakened thoughts in friendly trap of peaceful dreamings. No things, no hopelessness, no worries... At least, until first rays of morning.

VIII
In dense surrounding of fog, under shawl of fresh dusk and young coldness, was humbly resting sleepy city – with passive laziness of boredom and with exhausted rare people and tired breathlessness of winds, infirmly freezing into wastelands. Frail rain was trying to be going, but wasn't able to succeed. Bleak hollow spaces of wet quarters were numbly heeding to oblivion's extending, with languor conquering last corners of promptly fading yearning world, completely tragic, dump and faceless – from blurred heights, embraced by wistfulness and sorrow, till ground's mush, with zeal diluted by rain's water, returned to shower day and night for sake of newly started autumn, forlorn and veiled in endless slush
Filipp Petrovich and Grigoryevich Stepan are slowly keeping sluggish walk with talks of past and fate's omissions.
"Sometimes you look at given being - at people, world and pace of days. And all is outwardly good, attractive, decent, calm and sinless. With heavy admixture of care, of friendly comfort and affection, but if you delve in inner essence, life's picture frighteningly changes - on horror, dirt, deceit and falsehood, annoyance, arrogance and vices, betrayals, filthiness and gloom."
"From the outside, each sufferer is lucker. Such truth is abysmally old. Please note, that cruelest of soldiers of most bloodthirsty ruthless times were also sharing their food and healing injuries of hurted battle comrades. They also were examining rain's falling and unintentionally shivering from frost, were loving cup of fresh cold kvass in sunny middle of hot day and were immeasurably glad to be awoken close to noon. It's madly easy to disturb your being human, if you don't even know, what it means. It's too much simple to approve deceit and evil, if all your life was made of sufferings and dust, of teeming senselessness and hatred and of incessant pains and lies. If even rare vague chance to feel experience of better is something certainly unreal and unattainably remote, if any actual world's basics are strongly rooted into dirt and veiled in meanness, shame and tears, then moral principles of bottom will pass exclusively with grave. With bunch of flaws, mistakes and losses, your path will never flame with greatness, as well as never will get weight. Without miracle of frankness, of inner purity and grace, you'll never find yourself in rightness, in bonds of harmony with fate and into unity with self. And vain ability to sorry or to burst out with regrets, to feel compassion and to sob, right as weird skill to be delighted – is nothing more than fullest rubbish, deceptive, pointless and false till most unthinkable of measures. It doesn't suit for deep decisions and doesn't gift you human state."
"This fact is cause to fall in sorrow, to hide inside and kill last faith – in any truths, escapes and prospects..."
"No of truths, I agree with whole soul. But time is steadily predicted and all of actions are prescribed and quite not once reliably checked before of point of world's start. You even haven't done your step, but life already is informed in which of places it'll leave trace and who will notice it in future. Life even knows when and how this trace will cope to get erased – by hand of wind or legs of walkers or by persistence of plants' growth. You can most easily deny predestination, deny conjunction of events and their initial completion, but anyway each of tomorrow days will happen and turn in yesterday, in past, and, no matter how much scary it may sound, but this is equally unreal and forbidden to change or to re-target last one's essence at any of preceding them todays, as well as few of months or years later..."
"It's also ladder into sadness...  In crying, trembling and bad sleep."
"We have not more than luck and chance, what's by the way is quite enough for any width of further strivings. Please, never throw away of mind, that you get transported and carried not by train, but by kind lenity of ticket..."
"It's too not more than food for pain – at first, you sadly lose your keys, and then deplorably discover, that you don't have past doors at all. Without wings there are no heavens. Without luck best thing is death..."
"Death's time is easiest and brightest. The very need to stay alive is by itself quite morbid matter. Request to be familiar with future is most unnatural and strange from all of possible desires. You still don't know taste of drink, but you already want to taste it. The only right and positive of wishes is wish exclusively to die – to leave world's pier and disappear – I've drunk all drinks and move away. But I will say you even more – you can't have happiness before of being buried. Such state demands full fate's completion and most assured end of paths – an ideal, which's free from next additions and saved from any further twists. For me best paradise at here is last one's  absence... And I wholeheartedly believe, that all imputed and prescribed for my shy mind, my sinful soul and mortal body will calmly cope to place inside of earthly share, I hope, that thread of my lost share will cut own going on forever and last of notes of my life's song will be too great and too unique for to be copied or repeated in any variant and form."
At this upsetting thoughtful moment, the heroes have fallen into silence and slowly melted in pain's hugs and clothed in newly sewn oppression. Numb route has stolen hour's half and stopped at mutual goodbying, which has most distinctly left static common feeling of highest hopelessness of all.

IX
In bleak and used to grief apartment, among of nothingness and walls, has got unhurriedly awaken already full of idle languor Boris Danilovich Yamskov, who by prompt opening of eyes has brought own mind from dreams to being. Day's plot was frighteningly changeless – to savor sadness and to think. The hero has made frail and lifeless sigh and, having stood at window's square, delved glance in writings of his book.
71) You'll never spit in mirror's surface, if you are beautiful with face.
72) If calmness' time can't bury memories of storm, than it's less useful than dust's handful.
73) The more thick is the dirt, the more fat are its pigs.
74) Eyes are pincushion for truth's needles.
75) Each rain is shelter from umbrella.
76) Don't patch you ship before of crashing.
77) Best skill of letters is delivering of postmans.
78) Don't judge of tree by fallen foliage.
79) Small ships don't like to meet big waves.
80) For poor needle even finger looks as thimble.
"Well, once again mind blooms and thickens. And brain gets bathing in delight. What else is needed for head's peace."
81) If you are barefoot, at least, you're free from laces.
82) The more unbearable is face, the more it loves to blame the mirror.
83) Burnt ashes never meet with warmth, still burning never meet with coldness.
84) No one can praise his honey as its bees.
85) If you've become an idiot, it's normal. If you've remained an idiot, it's sad.
86) With slim long legs you even limp in graceful manner.
87) Each rains is weeping for drought's absence.
88) Good stone will never choose bad head.
89) If all is broken – break yourself.
90) Don't ask for flame from times of chill.
"Strong, straight and marvelously fair - till most profound of truth's roots."
91) Free water – eater of fixed stones.
92) Don't hire ash for teaching wood.
93) It 's not so easy to mistaken, as hard to notice past mistakes.
94) Don't send slow feet in speedy chases.
95) Not one is fool, who always drops, but one, who never bends for picking.
96) It's tricky task to kill the one, who wasn't born, by shot with bullet, which is even still not casted.
97) Cracked cups are partners of spent liquids.
98) Refusal - partial agreement.
99) If door is opened, knocks are sinful.
100) You cannot meet smooth face inside crooked mirrors.
At this book's sentences were ending, but onto worn and greasy cover was shyly hiding from eyes' searchings one other short and simple text, made not by stamp, but with efforts of someone's hand: 101) Before to think, that you've gone mad, at first check healthiness of others.
"This one is my most favorite at here. As true and actual as something told by heaven. What means, that it's sometimes quite easy to shine with blossoming of mind. I'm maybe also firmly able to add few thoughts to this wise row. Well, let's proceed to act of trying."
The hero has has equipped his hand with pen and plunged in readiness to write, already looking for free paper, but by some mystical strange reason got rid of muscular control and harshly fallen on floor's surface.
"Cursed legs, pure punishment, damnation. I've almost freed my flesh of life. Mind's gaining - bloodiest of matters... But stop. Just stop and wait for minute... Yes, sure! Wonderfulest start!"
So, having passionately risen and gladly jumped with whole heart's zeal in calling abyss of creating, Boris Danilovich has deftly grabbed pale sheet and, having nimbly grasped pen's waist, begun to turn raw rambling thoughts in equal shaky askew letters and after term of restless hour and its received quite decent group of lines: "I guess, it's moment for to read."
102) Mind's gaining - bloodiest of matters.
103) Each sin is sinlessness' hello.
104) The less you're idiot and clown, the more you're feeling just like that.
105) Each storm is longing for calm's absence.
106) No one loves violence as much as last one's victims.
107) Don't ask you roof of deeds of cellar.
108) Good speed is not for poor brakes.
109) If you aren't learnt to see the best, than you will always see one void.
110) If you have bent to take one penny, don't even doubt – you'll drop two.
"For my opinion quite worthy, I’m fully happy with each phrase. It seems, I'm not a fool at all. But if it really is so, then why I'm constantly alone... Eh, world, you're definitely broken. Defective, purposeless and wrong – in every act and any feature of your oppressive dreary plots."

X
In gloomy abyss of frail city was coyly hiding liquid murk of promptly fading lifeless evening. By worn and empty sides of streets was slowly stretching hopeless silence, enclothing roofs in tragic veil of darkness, apathy and pain. Bleak dome of wearily pale sky with languid weakness and upsetness was idly sowing rare rain at static latitudes of soundless landscape, completely barren and exhausted by freezing, emptiness and winds, so much addicted to nude vastness of numbly dying breathless land.
Stepan Grigoryevich, with sluggishness in pace, was humbly stomping into distance by slushy wetness of sidewalk – to dim and colorless horizon, most stiffly serving as a coffin for golden curtain of sunset. Lost soul, disturbed by fresh rejection, was amply bathing in tart sadness with sternly boiling stormy waves destroying every tiny shadow of last self-confidence and hope. The very plot of failed acquaintance this time has been exceptionally short and quite expectedly got finished with smirking, mockering and giggling and with straight offer to drive off.
"Again defeat. Again frustration. Again damned loneliness and pain. It seems, I am less valuable than rubbish. Unneeded, alien and vain. Torn off from any sort of brightness and any variant of warmth. Forgotten, helpless, clumsy, cracked. I suit exclusively for grave, for cherished parting with this horror and for next peaceful trip away from ugly cradle of this planet. Eh, being... Heinous location. Appalling, primitive and dead. It can't be rescued, can't be fixed. As well as me, what's most deplorable and tragic."
The hero has indifferently sighed and into dismal wistful manner dissolved in nets of rain and fog, mixed up in smooth and constant cover of steady blurredness and chill, where all was sullen and extincted, exhausted, deserted and dead – right as forlorn and hurted soul, already absolutely wasted, but still encaged in rags of flesh.

XI
Among of walls and spreading pain, in lonely company with letter, was sitting lost and sad Philip Petrovich. Brief text, just as all previous, was empty – without promises or plans of common future and with one hesitance in every single word. So now, having joylessly reread each short and skimpy shaky line, numb hero was entirely perplexed and newly full of acute sorrow.
"Again no even drop of distinct prospect. No even shade of future hope. Or of some chance on distant rescue. One sticky vagueness and waiting – with endless panic, disappointment and fear to lose the last and stay alone. I try, believe and trust to share, to pace of days and will of sky. I faith in possibility of better, in further unity of hearts and soonest blossoming of passions. Life moves, develops and strives forward. And it's too easy to get nothing, to stuck aside and rest in fuss - without ticket to dreams' pier and into absence of luck's care. Where else to move except of coffin, if all my presence – dust and trifles, enfeebling, rotting and regrets. And never dying constant worries, most harshly gnawing and ruining my incorrigibly cracked soul."
The hero has put down his dim gaze and slowly looked inside of window: "True world, true life, true people's shares. And here... One joylessness and void. Damn timeless dreariness and pain. Without ending or escape of this stern permanence of plague, which lasts for whole my current fate. I'm just unable to be happy, to gather pleasures and taste joys. I'm made for sufferings, for sadness, for griefs and losses and for death. Stepan Grigoryevich has awfully mistakened – I'm not a genius, I'm fool – forgotten, purposeless and needless, heartbroken, rubbishy and wrong. I am unable to be happy. Not for my life this, not for me."

XII
And in another walls of tragedies and torments, next to dark hole of window's frame, - Boris Danilovich, cursed prisoner of thought, is sternly keeping wordy scribbling and sharing boredom of time's pace.
"Well, now let's see what have I done for mortal length of my vain day. Let's read own fruits of poor head."
111) Don't be afraid to crack crooked mirror.
112) We're getting used to good for minutes, to bad – for seconds or their parts.
113) Two shoes are pair, three – disaster.
114) The more you calculate, the greater you mistaken.
115) The more calm is the night, the more wild are the moans.
116) The more accessible is wine, the more indifferent is water.
117) True loser never dies as winner.
118) The only stupider than fool is one, who frankly hopes to change him.
119) Forbiddance – ladder in permissions.
120) With higher zestfulness you hide, with lower tension it gets found.
"Quite fine and even really noteworthy. At least, assuredly not windy and not too tiresome or plain. I'm truly empty of reproachings – indeed well-written wisdom's piece... Let's pay attention, what is further."
121) Disunity is also from of linking.
122) Don't ask for gingerbread and whip will rest unknown.
123) It's much more nice to fall in silence with a smart one, than to start talking with a fool.
124) You can't prescribe key's fate to picklock.
125) Sad plots are not for happy endings.
126) The more peaceloving is the nail, the more bloodthirsty is its hammer.
127) For others' eyes each life looks wrong.
128) For fleeting bird best nest is sky. 
129) Good hands are stable even trembling.
130) No things confirm your own success as much as someone else's failures.
"I'm pleased and satisfied - with all I have concluded. Eh, head – main source of hidden beauty. Of immortality and grace. Eh, thought – pure treasury, pure rapture. Enchanting, blissful and unique."
131) From mind to mindlessness – one moment.
132) Rails' absence never brings train's presence.
133) Don't ask for ocean from drop.
134) Trained cuts don't need in knife at all.
135) The only able to be met in empty pocket is ringing reigning of its grief.
136) Don't seek for end, if route is circle.
137) Bad face is not for good of portraits.
138) It's not so easy to start lating, if you've already come in time.
139) The more pathetic is the jester, the more frustrating is his fun.
140) If you build path from single winnings, await to finish with defeat.
"It's rather difficult to stop. What an alluring sort of reading, not less than truest mental trap."
141) The most unbreakable is cup, which wasn't made.
142) Right games invent own rules themselves.
143) Back side is always not for beauty.
144) If you have plans to faith in magic, don't watch performances from stage.
145) Free food is punisher of sated.
146) For aimless labor salary is sinful.
147) Create reliably decent bullet, and vacant head will come itself.
148) With raggy sail wind's zeal is morbid.
149) The only cause of any changes are ones, who ask for stable times.
150) If you're afraid to open mouth, do not expect, that you'll be heard.
"Well done, already round number. Still how much joyful and exciting to live in harmony with head. And now it's turn to walk for kvass – the best enstrengthener of pleasures."
The hero has forgetfully got up and, after taking oldish coat, directed flesh to hole of door. Then stairs, street and walls of store, preparing, offering, receiving, exchange of thankfulness and smiles, few times repeated by each other, then wallet, coins and way back. And then full cup of bubbling liquid and priceless taste of tartest bliss, so much unbearably infrequent in current givenness of days, but still relaxingly alive and inexcusably attractive. And then new cup and new glad sips – with soon accomplishing of bottle and next meek voyaging to rest.

XIII
And once again new wrecking letter. With sadness, hurtingness and pain. And once again hard bitter reading.
"I am again at here - with you, my sweet and gentle heaven's present. I was most tirelessly yearning for each of speedy motley days with only single aim and wishing – to get returned in our abode of warmth, sincerity and flame, with highest measure of affection encircling every tiny corner of amply blossoming heart's pier. And I am here - in this saint cradle of mutuality and bliss. And so much limitlessly pleasant it's to belong to your blessed love, to feel devotedness and care and to be sure, that you're mine. I am exuberantly happy with every second of involvement in our sacred hidden abyss of passion, frankness and concern – till teeming tears and harsh trembling in fingers, belly, chest and knees each time I sit and start to to write. How madly vexing and offensive are paths of lifes and frames of world, how sickly rightless and confused... And so much difficult, so hard it's to be permanently near or to have regular long meets. In fussy swamp of constant rushing, in hungry pit of lacks and needs we ought to learn to be accustomed to wrongness, partedness and pain. To lie, deception and regretting and to necessity to wait. It's not a fruit of people's choice, it's truth and givenness of living. With trifling laws and absent hopes. We'll never cut this, break or heal. Fate's plans and whims are always over... But I'm with you. I'm here, I'm yours. What's of my personal existence and of last happenings and news – all things are wonderfully smooth. I'm wholly fine and live with dancer. He is a Persian or Turk, but not from motherlands, from France - from eastern areas of Reims. He's pretty, generous and funny. And even suitable in bed. So I am absolutely glad – at least, with current state of matters. Who'll risk to answer, what is next... But we are here, away of worries and in tight unity with dreams. It's greatest luck to be together in spite of any twists of fate, unable to forbid us to stay close and to get burnt in hottest flame of never dying secret passion. You are my outlet, my treasure, my holy bottomless oasis of freedom, purity and trust. You are the best of all the planet. Of all its breed of men. Thank you, my sugary and honey, for every minute in your bonds. Yours sickly loving distant Olya."
Philip Petrovich has dejectedly enfeebled and, having crumpled bitter paper, got shrunk and grievously wept.

XIV
Boris Danilovich Yamskov, just having barely awaken, has promptly taken pen in hand and delved in usual dance of thoughts and in this peaceful occupation reminded steady till young evening and then, with feeling of relief, put out fruits of wisdom's harvest and, idly yawning from slight languor, left chair's latitudes and sighed: "Well, I am quite decently amused and inly satisfied and happy, what means it's time to get some rest.
Boris Danilovich has promptly wrapped his flesh in clothes and moved ahead to walls of shop with printing goods and useless trifles. Small faceless booth, most old and shabby, with modest title “Fresh newspapers”, by someone rid of few of letters, has gladly met new guesting stranger and swiftly spreaded whole vast plenty of brightly tinted motley covers, in sternest manner firmly catching not too much willful seeking eyes. On tightly flooded endless shelves, till death exhausted by sleek pages - excessive liberty of genres – from perfect lies to flawless gossips, in tons created by productive writing demon. But in accordance with experience of reading, the hero has decided to stay changeless and taken paper Daily Horror, each time surprising with weird facts and richly reigning madness' spirit.
So, having slowly returned through friendly calmness of street's boredom, with timid coyness washed by sun, Boris Danilovich has sat in usual chair and opened freshly carried issue: "Let's have a look at truths of days..."
The hero has forgetfully relaxed and delved in abyss of lines' thickets, but right ar first of heeded letters most strongly filled with tartest shock from ruthless squall of information: "Last week well-known local mayor, most vastly famous for huge mind, has signed an excellent decree – to drown in pots with boiling oil all ones, who had been voting not for him. The district, built one week ago, was crashed by reason of it's oldness. Each one, who's taught which way to read, will pass deep check on being spy. For every family with cat on obligatory conditions will be prepared vacant dog. By cause of differences' absence, till winter government and circus will be coupled. All ones, who're keen of drinking juice, will have to go on mass medical research. In future monthly bills for light will be included fee for darkness. From end of autumn and till spring, will work forbiddance to feel hunger. Since recent ban of eating salad, soup's price was gradually tripled."
Boris Danilovich has measuredly stretched and, moving out wordy sheets, engaged in unintentional perplexion: "What's wrong with essence of today... Pure madness – merciless and morbid. If all this really is true, I think, it's time to climb in noose. The finest feature of newspapers – they nicely suit for wraping fish. In any other sorts of using – full rubbish, shittiness and swamp."
The hero has impassively leaned back and, having carelessly yawned, returned from nonsense to own writings:
151) You can't fix sky by wings' repairing.
152) Big problems never come for short.
153) Forecasting - bait for future weather.
154) With proper anchor sinking - pleasure.
155) All lost of things one day will certainly be found, but not by one, whom they were left.
156) Moon's brightness never heals sun's faintness.
157) Don't notice kings, if you are following for God.
158) For learnt to wait all terms are equal.
159) First step is half of every road.
160) Big games don't tolerate small bettings.
170) First thing - don't ask. Next – do not faith. Third - don't forgive. Fourth is excessive.
"Again both pointful and weighty. Indeed quite beauteous and prudent. Seems worthy, sober, apt and solid. I'm full of highest satisfaction and of most doubtless delight."
And then new timid dose of walking by dancing letters of words' flocks.
171) In sea of madness coasts are absent.
172) Strong products never have weak prices.
173) Leave others' winds for others' sailings.
174) Flawed things are fruits of flawless reasons.
175) You'll never justify yourself by blaming others.
176) To chase for thought is as to run for flying bullet.
177) Wet wood is pair for lost matches.
178) In empty times do empty matters.
179) To cut fate's plans is as in vain as to cut water.
180) All short is seed of something endless.
"Not weak... I'm pleased and even proud. Till steady smile and shiver's waves."
181) Wise head will chew each sort of lack, fool one will choke with any plenty.
182) Kind bees – main sign of cruel swarm.
183) Don't ask for acts of brush from easel.
184) The only worse than mistakes of mindful heads can be one rightly taken aims of fools.
185) Each one, who was informed which way to burn, in practice is already sort of ashes.
186) Don't judge of prizes with no winning.
187) Repented one for firstly innocent is foe.
188) Long numbness also works as shout.
189) Each beaten person feels main hatred not to own beater, but to ones, who weren't involved in beating process.
190) You can't break shackles with submission.
"Right, pretty, graceful and profound. I have to put all this in frame and then to send to some museum."
191) Don't wait for boiling in own juice, if you get cooked at others' kitchen.
192) You cannot miss both train and rails.
193) Sick person is a trouble, sick planet is a grief.
194) The more of wounds, the less of salt.
195) Don't ask for light from darkness' sellers.
196) You can't build mountains of future of pits and lowlands of past.
197) It's not cat's care to guard mouse.
198) Big plague always tastes as feast.
199) Live at ease, work till death.
200) Don't be afraid to heed to liars, but be afraid to lie yourself.
At here, for term of minute having fallen in distraction, the hero has replaced his glance to window. Behind of colorless frame's gap, in peaceful sleepiness of quarter, serene and flooded with sun's warmth, was calmly trampling sluggish route plump laughing silhouette of miller - with wife and flock of swirling children and with unknown merry song - of share, homeland and work.
"Glad lucky person. Cheerful, happy. And me... Forgotten, needless, lost. Torn of from any fruitful prospect or any mutual response. I'm wastage, garbage, piece of nothing. And life keeps speedy going forward, each moment hastening and twisting and never practicing long stops. Time's pace is mercilessly tragic, it tries to break you, to erase – to send in emptiness of coffin and to transform your days in dust, without tiniest of traces, except of grave and numb pain's taste. It's inconsolably oppressive. Frustrating, scary, hurting, wrong. Such state is reason for upsetness, for staying sad for whole next fate."
So, having spent third hour's part in disappointment and sorrow, the hero has again jumped back in thoughts and clung to volume of lines' thickets.
201) The friendlier are buds, the crueler are thorns.
202) You can't meet tail, not meeting cat.
203) The longer you are talking with a fool, the more you are acquiring his status.
204) In cunning desert rains are daily.
205) Don't think, that price of past mistakes will ever buy you future rightness.
206) The only worse than indifference to friend can be one empathy to foe.
207) Strong flags don't answer to weak blowings.
208) On purpose you can burn your living quarter, by accident – few cities or whole world.
209) Each one, who cares of his forehead, as rule, gets shooted into back.
210) No wise hates stupidness as much as stupid hates and tramples wisdom.
"What do we need for proper future, for sharing happiness and luck and for saint bliss of someone's care, of warmth, fidelity and love. I have my mind, have flame of thinking, have bunch of outcomes of world, but I am absolutely aimless, forgotten, alien and lost – in constant loneliness and void, which turns whole being in vain trash, in heap of nothingness and losses, most tightly veiling you in gloom and promptly ridding from right prospects. It's strange – full head, but empty fate. What have I got from being smart... Except of permanence of worries and of sick habit to search senses and to explain each day and fact... Yes, all is doubtlessly strange... From me myself and till world's basics and from last lyings till first truths."
And once again in nets of writtings.
211) Rich flies don't look at poor honey.
212) You cannot cut big piece from little portion.
213) Good salt is always sweeter than bad sugar.
214) Each one, who does not cherish seeds, will never cope to taste fruits' savor.
215) Goalkeeper – magnet for new goals.
216) If you are loser – wait for losses.
217) Don't think of simple tasks with complex head.
218) Straight ones get curved, curved ones get broken.
219) Small hooks don't puzzle decent fishes.
220) Mind's presence may seem scarily expensive. Until you'll know how expensive is its absence.
"What else amazes as mind's fruits... But even last ones are too barren, too weak for bringing happiness or care or for acquiring of luck. If to be absolutely honest, from time to time I even think, that I'm unable to be useful, to be acquainted with success and to keep following for better. I'm too much alien, too lost, too inappropriate and broken. Such ones are made for single pain, for disappointment and sorrows and for unfixable sad distance with any variants of joy."
And once again to field of lines.
221) If time is speedy, clocks are needless.
222) The smaller is the forest, the larger are its beasts.
223) Each feast is preparation to next plague.
224) There are no better thiefs than guarders.
225) Don't hope to fix sick mind with morbid feelings.
226) You can't both faith in magic and perform it.
227) In desert flood has face of rescue.
228) For water ice is not a mentor.
229) In aimless war survival bothers.
230) Love is religion with no god.
"Who've made this world with all its horrors, whose unforgivable mad will... Each day is ticket in nightmare, each step is walking over edge. The more I'm living and beholding, the less I'm needing in survival and in awaiting of what's next. We spend existence for self-burning, for boring trip from birth to coffin, which never ends with something perfect and brings one tireless regrets and acute apathy and sorrow. It's not a reason to keep tryings and not an argument to hope."
And then again short thinking pause and further traveling through words.
231) Each target – monument to misses.
232) You can't forget of thirst away of water.
233) With poor memory each day is slightly first.
234) Strond startings never have weak ends.
235) Each decent laught is warming-up before of crying.
236) Bad waters never hide good bottoms.
237) Apt word is acuter than razor.
238) Clown's death is not a cause for circus' closing.
239) No matter how much hateful are mistakes, one day you'll eagerly repeat them.
240) Each heavy mindlessness begins from thinking's lightness.
"It's seems, I'm definitely brainy and tightly full of mental fruits, but fate has look of bitter joke, of ugly mockery and torment, which keeps for term of my whole fate and kills last drops of inner brightness and all past volumes of soul's strength. I'm timeless prisoner of void, of endless loneliness and pain, which will stay close till hazed grave's point in current givenness of days. All I can do is just to fade..."
Boris Denisovich has frozen and then again got lost in lines.
241) Wrong tools don't ask for proper using.
242) If you are going for to swim, do not build plans including drowning. If you are going for to drown, don't even even try to practice swimming.
243) Do not send pig for catching wolf.
244) To trust to thinking is a madness, to trust to feelings is an illness, to trust to people is a crime.
245) The only thing, which can be crueler than bullet, with zero wavering is head.
246) You can't change horse by changing reins.
247) Fool one gets angry over dog, smart one gets angry over owner.
248) The more weak is the hand, the more strong are its weapons.
249) Smart beasts do not depend on stupid hunters.
250) Each praise is just ladder to reproachings.
"Already quarter of ten hundreds. Strong, vast and powerful amount and certain cause for proud notes, but not in actual conditions of my appalling dreary fate, completely broken, vain and wasted and left for timeless staying lost. I'm lonely, meaningless and empty, torn off from better and from joys and unrepairably exhausted by heavy burden of regrets and inability of rescue. I look at flocks of happy people – with proper shares and fine prospects and with undying perfect mood. They strive, build plans and cherish dreams, develop, laugh and fall in love. The very Victor – drinks, makes parties, eats, sleeps and practices lewd meets. He baths in fun and lives at ease – spends time on pleasures and emotions and swims in laziness and lust. Or miller – family, glad children, peace, care, unity of souls - all main of blessings and achievements in hugest measure and at once. I sadly stay between two fires - between smooth couple and young loafer, two bright examples of success, attained in two specific manners. They freely bloom and faith in better, feed hopes and share bliss of wins. And me... What do I regularly do here... Just fade, await, taste pain and suffer. I'm useless wastage, loser, fool. I can't have value or be needful, I'm made for emptiness, for grief. For barren days and hollow future. I'm not for happy ones of plots and not for fruitful of beginnings. I suit for nothingness, for grave – the only possible of endings for my unlucky trashy fate."
The hero has turned off lamp's eye, made languid sigh and laid in bed. Away from void and oppression and from regretful mash of thoughts, completely joyless and frustrating and unforgivably upset.

XV
In dreary chambers of tart sorrows, in hugs of hopelessness and talks, were meekly sitting two coy figures - Philip Petrovich at the window, Stepan Grigorievich next to him. One week ago had come new letter, which once again has brought fresh pain and thrown heart's abode in despair. That's why receiver of these lines has deadly fallen in depression right after ending of text length and, not observing any rescue for few of further broken days, at now invited his best fellow for common struggle with pain's grip.
"If you have chosen bonds of sadness, then wait for voyaging in hell. All tints will tragically fade, all flame will vanish and gone out, all inner fervidness and strength, all joys and pleasures, all bright shadows, as if they've simply splashed away. If mind gets rooted in pain's depths, hopes' mass transforms in pile of garbage. Long stubborn apathy destroys – most promptly, scarily and toughly. True disappointment makes crippled - distorted, nullified and harmed. For ashes burning is pure torture..."
"I'm not for fire, nor heatness. I am not weightier than shadow, I'm timeless prisoner of waiting, of fatal nets of her sweet falsehood, deceptive promises and dreams. All my weak thoughts are tightly stuffed with one nude thirst to be together. To spend whole zeal on painful endlessness of searchings, but still to find and to get coupled, to cope to merge in deathless monolith of natures, most flawless, precious, frank and saint. I want to sow most full devotion, to reach most limitless degree of fondness, unity and care, affection, openness and warmth. I need in blamelessness, in heaven, in deepest harmony of all – of feelings, bodies, routes and plannings. I need in jewel, in uniqueness, in richest blossoming of passions and tameless trembling of insides. I faith, such miracle is real and she is holder of its keys..."
"I am persistently repeating, you are true genius – it's fact. Till most smallest features and details. And as we all most firmly know, each decent genius is damned to have some herder, some certain person, whose words will work as mainest law for whole rest part of given share. You'll start to live with only purpose – to get a meet and to stay close. You'll be most glad to stop all matters and to rush up with her first call, fulfilling anything she orders and keeping strongest immense fright to be repeatedly rejected and left for loneliness till death. For you your fate is just a penny without presence of her charms and encircling of one void. You're not unique in such a share, not first, not last and not most lost. If one a day she'll still agree to gift permission to approach her, you will immediately gather and let yourself in rapid chase. It's not an illness or a weakness, as well as not a mind's eclipse or an example of obsession. We can explain all sorts of actions, except of weirdest of own deeds. Love's nets are mercilessly sticky. Among of bitter pier of earth, they lead most frequently in abyss, in hugs of tears and regrets. Each one, who've chosen risk or sadness, can wait exclusively for grave, for soonest hospitable coffin – the only fruit of share's course."
"This elementarily kills, erasing hopes and expectations and veiling thoughts with thickest murk."
"You cannot cancel show's performing by simple tearing of ticket. At sinking ship, what's not a new, long sailing always ends with bottom. Love, hope and mind are worst of burdens – most painful, tragical and sore. But still keep strength, persist and try and less believe in vain yourself less - we are all not much more than victims and death is not more sad than rain and not more meaningful than pair of old boots in time of last one's pitiful disposal."
"I can't accent such role with heart. I know – I'm lost, but it's so dreary."
"Just take heart's flash and put away - throw out, ruthlessly and swiftly. Such one is absolutely useless and not more valuable than dust. It can't gift happiness or pleasure as well as can't bring any help. Dead lifes are not for hopes or rescues, such ones are solely for grave."
"I'm slave, you've surely confirmed this. All what is given – just to wait. To waste time's scopes and to keep fading. I look for needfulness, for loving - till greedy trembling and frail limpness and till hot storms of tears floods. I can't get used to static emptiness of present, so quickly killing all significance and sense, can't come in terms with future fruitlessness and void and can't admit next fate's direction in hurting parting with last luck."
"It's understandable and clear. You hope for better, for some light. But every genius is timeless shepherd's victim - without freedom, choice or rights. If she will call, at least, with whisper – you'll coyly fall in instant rushing through farest corners of earth's globe. And you'll most easily destroy, without tears or regrettings, all what you've got for your past days, for even smallest sip of care and of sweet taste of sinful bliss. You're certain slave, but is this shocking – if you was earlier informed and even properly prepared, then you'll be free from stupid worries or any questions of such state, you'll take this givenness as fact – most drily, skimpily and calmly – just as new trifling piece of fuss."
"I'm slave - what an enchanting peerless sorrow, what an incredibly cute grief..."
At this both have perplexedly gone silent and, submerging in wordless thoughts and unexpected muted sadness.

XVI
In midst wet and sleepy town, among of gloom of evening street, already ready for night's coming and amply teeming with thick dusk, was calmly walking in dark distance quite quirk and gladly breathing figure - Stepan Grigoryevich, directing path to meeting in peaceful abode of cafe – with one attractive thoughtful lady, not brisk, but definitely tempting and sweetly promising good time. The very object of these prospects was freely caught among of crowd by fortune's will as lavish source of timid talkings and sinless coquetry's attempts. So, having luckily left back last quarter's meters, the hero has faced up with needed door and, having frozen in hall's vastness, sent mind in seeking for habitual mild image of slightly fleshy piquant woman in lush dark dress and with offhanded glossy hair, torn off from influence of fashion, but frankly pretty, cute and rich and by some reason madly darling. Demanded silhouette was found not with fastness – rid of remarkable of features and tightly huddled in small space at distant wall coy modest lady, pale and plain, had lower visibility than shadow in common permanence of fuss and static reigning of thick boredom. That's why detecting of required appearance has folded soul in indescribable delight.
"With all most fervent and unbounded of greetings!"
"I see, sit down, start declaring. Which one of questions will we share? Last time we were discussing views of Marx and real essence of Stolypin's plans and offers. You also was quite pointlessly mumbling some empty things of course of lifes and of prescription of main moments – not too much sane, but rather funny. So, tell of anything amusing, I do not want to rest in vain."
"I do not have too huge of prospects, but I’m most skillfully prepared for any possible of speeches. From worst and dirtiest of gossips and till most fair living aims, but more enjoyable and needed is not this fuss, but something else – of both of us and our mutual existence in further haziness of days... Which scales and limits will we oped, which ones of fruits, results and finals will gladly cope to gain and gather at sacred field of feelings' bloom and which shamed levels of permissions will shyly dare to achieve..."
"What of exactly are you talking? Of which of variants of bonds? It's either I misunderstand, or someone bottomlessly stupid and overfed with childish dreams, has strongly fallen in mind's absence and lost last linking with control. Too nasty plot for proper ending for your unfortunate sick head. So I am waiting for some sober explanations."
The hero has got horribly confused and tightly chained with instant shiver and, having veiled crooked mood in hesitance and fright, begun to mutter rambling phrases: "I simply had one tiny wish – to bring together our fates, to solder twisting lines of shares in one straightforward blissful route of loving, trusting and concern, devotion, fondness, warmth and passion."
"Well, one another brainless moron. Perverted, morbid and disgusting. What are you thinking of, flawed dumbhead? Which ones of feeling can you cause, except of laugh, contempt, loathing? Ill crippled piece of useless trash, where have you got so morbid boldness for to try offerings like this? Lost needless donkey seeks for pleasures, for something sinful, sweet and wet. As you are seemingly informed, I work in local helping center – give treat for breed of lost and helpless: for homeless, injured, addicted and sunk in poverty and debts. And, knowing you and your intentions, I can most surely predict, that no one female of my of wards - without legs or with no eyes, downtrodden, workless, drunk and gray in even worst of her life's twistings will never let you any sex - will never even think of such agreeings! Roll out, goofy nasty slug, stand up and step with bullet's speed, without gatherings and pauses – away from borders of my sight. Both quickly, humbly and forever."
The hero has submissively got up and, having windily forgotten his gloves' pair, in full bemusement trampled back.
"Again new pitiful repeating of most unbearable of plots. I think, it's probably my end. I'm crashed in parts, in smallest splinters – most breathless, paralyzed and frail. Last drops of confidence and power have turned in ashes, dust and pain. Last faith in positive of prospects has gone away as haze of fog - without slightest ones of traces and with great rapidness in pace. What sort of fate do I belong to – no warmth, no happiness, no care, no even single shyest case of any mutual response. Again one dirt and scoldings' shower, again brief merciless refusal and acute presence vexation, so sternly gnawing flesh of soul. Disaster, tragedy, damnation. Best time to climb in coffin's cradle and never leave its peaceful frames. The only rescue is in earth, in cozy grave, most calm and silent from all locations of globe's pier. Away from hatred, filth and sorrows. In perfect nothingness... Or hell."
Stepan Grigoryevich has sighed and, slowly quickening his pace, walked back - loneliness and thinking, the only possible of states in lack of harmony with fortune and into absence of luck's flame, which never burns, when you await it.

XVII
This day, which have begun with friendly boredom and pleasant peacefulness of all, has coped to bring true storm of horror by scary pair of mad news, at once encircled each mind's corner with instant measureless distress and sharp unfixable despair, eroding covers of past calmness and sending head in deepest stupor and thickly spreading panic's nets. Boris Danilovich Yamskov has learned today of two wild cases – his brave and faithful neighbor Viktor not more than third of week ago was knifed with blade in own apartment at wrongly started drinking mess. And one unfortunate day later, most glad and happy miller Peter was found dead in bonds of noose - his wife has freely gone away and, having taken cash and children, which were, as it has suddenly turned out, not from him, left poor fellow into void, transformed in cause to cut life's route.
So, at dark now, having tragically heeded these two frustrating heavy news, shocked pallid hero, weak and frail, was sadly looking into window, with pain submerging in thoughts' thickets and in impassable dense gloom: "How madly stupid, false and foolish was my past presence in life's days. It has been seeming, that I live between two fires, that truest happiness is near, but swirls in others' lucky hands, and what by will of share's twistings has got appallingly revealed. Whole feast has turned to be just dummy, deceptive, fleeting, crooked and vain. In fact, I was between two ashes, between two voids – cold and faked. And even they had state of idols, of unattainable examples of something endlessly successful and greatly perfect and unique. Whole world, whole picture of existence, whole row of former being's nails, with all beliefs, events and plannings, at harsh and crushing current moment has shrunk in heap of trifling dust. Is if before I had no brain, no chance on apt and sober viewing of any values, hopes and aims. Which way to live and to move further, to try, to trust and to await. What do I have, except of dreary bitter prison of these oppressive faceless walls and of worn roll of barren writings... All tempting things, which fate was using for to tease me, in practice were less sacred and exclusive than pile of averagest wastes. My path was made of following for nothing. My dreams, my goals and expectations are simply nullified, erased. No truth, no purposes, no future. All given ardor is pure fog, short feeble flash and not more weighty. We move in vacuum, in abyss, in breathless timelessness of death, which from beginning of prescribed you living voyage has look of rather plausible illusion of something hopeful, frank and bright."
The hero has closed face with both of hands and unintentionally wept.

XVIII
On bleak and sizably wide table is shyly hiding letter's text. From queen of dreams and pleasures Olya.
"Hello, my sweety darling boy, I'm here again – in our shelter, in priceless pier of saving lines and of fordidden secret joys. I, as before, spend life in travels - with tour by countless arenas of our hazy motley lands. Swift days are pulling me ahead, I'm gladly learning something new, observing world and stepping forward. Two weeks will pass and I'll be acting in big colorful performance of share, unity and loving in calm and hospitable place – small local town, named Zalessky. At current point of my fate I'm for some term is fully single and it'll be bottomlessly nice to stay for few of evenings with each other – till next sad moment of new parting, of course, immeasurably painful, but unavoidably forced, as you are grievously guessing. Whole process will pass splendidly and richly  – in lavish walls of Culture's Palace with proud title "Crystal Sky" and, if I properly remember, with twisty path to water's line from one of secondary doors. I'm fully sure, that you'll come, and my devoted longing heart is amply teeming with awaiting of this immaculate saint bliss. I am most eminently yearning and sending longest flaming kiss. Till new keen bonds and soonest meeting of our natures, souls and lips. Completely yours sweet tempting Olya."
It's all text's length, all timid essence of coy and simple flock of words. Thank you a lot, small modest envelope, you've brought it, but better, maybe, was to drop.


AFTERWORD:
1) In front of white and empty ladder of shyly waiting heavy plane is standing silent silhouette of youth - Philip Petrovich, last of passengers for flight. Around - airport's expanses, inside - collection of dark thoughts.
"How madly right has been my friend... First call from herder – and I'm here. I’m slave – weak-willed, thrown off and rightless. And now luckily ahead – to waiting vagueness of dreams, to bonds of hope and to my herder."
Old chassis have proceeded to meek rolling and liner's body has effortlessly dragged up.
2) In dusky chambers, filled with passion, on crumpled surface of vast bed - Boris Danilovich Yamskov, enslaved by hugs of stunning beauty. With craving huddling in lewd space between of sweet and lushy thighs and swiftly melting in thick reigning of saintly blissful sticky dews, warmed shameless hero, having fallen in sinned abyss of keenly teasing lustful bonds, was amply reaping and consuming all striking harvest of forbidden carnal fruits of hotly trembling piquant places, so much immeasurably full of storming fervor, love and wetness. The process has untamably swirled up and, after point of denouement, with smoothness ended close to dawn and to beginning of day's growing.
"Will we be constantly together?" - has humbly asked pleased drowsy lady, with shyness cuddling blooming bosom to pale and humid partner's cheek.
"Well, I... I even do not know..." - has weirdly said shocked baffled hero and then got limitlessly stunned: At next short moment, floor and ceiling, in term of second having melted, have most decisively got lost. Whole room has promptly filled with fire, heart-rending screams and boiling resin. Then from the depths of swarming flame has come dark silhouette of devil: "Boris Danilovich Yamskov... Whom do I see in front my vision. What a fantastic fairy fool, full hopeless idiot and loser. So, have you heeded - what's your sin? Have realized it and repented? For you we have the only question – you've spent whole life between two ashes and what you've done in its last day?"
"I... I..." - the hero has got numb: "I have myself refused from fire..."
And all has most sharply disappeared. The hero has remarked himself in bed – with only loneliness in pair. All past events were nothing more than strange nightmare. And lady also wasn't real. The only true - bleak naked walls and endless emptiness within.
"For me, I think, it's even better – to be alone and not to try - I do not risk, don't get refusals... It's more convenient, more close." - has inconsolably concluded with tons of slyness into voice forlorn and helpless sleeper's figure and lost again in pier of dreams.
3) At old shabbily worn doors of empty orphanage's porch are meekly standing two gray persons, Stepan Grigoryevich and lean and pallid child, his son, who recently was taken from this dwelling.
"This place is serving as your roots. At now world is madly bad – engaged in evil, dirt and falsehood. It's not a time for moving up. For making family or loving. But I most ardently believe, that times can change and get more bright. One day new time will slowly come and you'll be needed, glad and happy – with all of possible attainments and with whole bunch of main life's treasures, with zeal awaiting for your fate. I'll maybe die till those moments, but you'll remain to bloom and act - for love, fidelity and care, dreams' fruits, discoveries and faith."