Out of sort

I
Right at most far and distant edge of living area of city, in midst of outskirts and gloom, were calmly living in two similar worn buildings two meek and doleful of Stepans - Stepan Valeryevich in house, named 7a, Stepan Kirillovich in house, named 7alpha. Such way it ramblingly has happened, that for these two alike of persons, world's pier had sorely not coped to find more different of symbols. Both poor persons were of equally sad shares – with timeless loneliness and vainness and with full vagueness in future, which into practice was just absent - replaced on nothingness and fog. Main roots of tragedy were lying in barren of loving fields, which in both cases were including common causes and common twistings of heart's plots. By windy will of former days each needless hero had got fruitless bitter bonds, which were existing on one paper – in short and rare modest letters, transformed for powerless receivers in highest mercy, gift and joy. All things and facts of these relations were tightly full of dense oppression and constant tireless distress. Both plots were started from brief meeting, the one – at shore of local river, the other one - at exhibition, among of paintings and art's fruits, each case has got development and growth from instant falling in affection and next shy plea for writing letters as chance on unity's supporting, at least, in frames of constant distance and with no presence of some hope. What's more – as stern coldhearted lady of pensive dweller from 7alpha as her entirely full copy of wistful liver from 7a, still having finally agreed to send one letter in one year, has most decisively refused to leave them any information of so much greedily requested and so much needed self-address. All future messages, of course, were deadly meager, short and empty and rid of personal details. What else was certainly noteworthy – both of two passions, by some mystical hazed reasons, were of one common name Marina, nice, sweet and pretty, but as practice has performed, not in all cases reciprocal. And if to tell of other facts of fates of two rejected Stepans, it makes huge sense to add in body of description, that they had similar appearance and were acquainted with each other since rather early ones of days.
So at this carefree young morning, just only having opened eyes and promptly eaten modest breakfast of roasted bird and garlic's bulb, Stepan Kirillovich without of vain pauses has most straightforwardly decided to fall in path from home to home – to walls and corners of another pensive Stepan - for timid thoughtful conversations of life and meaning of its plots. He has made several of sighs, then thrown few glances into window, and, having put his flesh in jacket, trudged up directly to fresh talks.
In the midst of sleepy tired street, is humbly reigning warmth of autumn, still full and hospitably rich. Sweet pleasant air, dense and sticky, is tart, immovable and thick, constrained by laziness and languor and neatly soaked with last remains of swiftly ending fading blooming and of enfeebling summer heat. Old skimpy faces of downtrodden gloomy facades are deeply sunk in breathless peace and in forgetfulness and torpor. Stern harsh oblivion and wilting, not having time for self-postponing, are vastly occupying being with catchy nets of greedy slush, which by ensemble of strange reasons has look of something highly friendly and inly merciful and kind. Few steps, and meek demanded house – worn, gray and frighteningly native – till most unstoppable of squeals. The owner, what is certain luck, is by odd randomness of causes already earlily awoken and rid of any urgent deals.
"And I was going to start sobbing and even had assured zeal to drug myself in equal voids of your inviting lonely flat. And you've arrived to me yourself. What a nice happening – pure present. Let's go – to table and to chair. To talks and questions. And to food." - Stepan Valeryevich, whose pale and pensive lifeless look at once has instantly got vivid, has given hand and let friend in.
"Well, due to being here together, it's not a sin to fall in thoughts – of fate and days and of life's laws. If to delve deeper in existence, it's not too difficult to see, that each  of facts has certain source – each fact, each reason and intention. All gets beginning for some purpose, for next endowing of some role, not by omission or mistake, but as result of some straight will. The only secret - of whose one..."
"This is exuberantly true. Whole being's history in practice is just not more than one long game. One strange and meaningless performance, which is prescribed from start till end. Prescribed in each detail and action. From smallest drops on someone's clothes till hugest tragedies of nations. World's pier is rid of any trifles. All deeds get constantly controlled. And even tiniest of matters sometimes have scariest of fruits. Do not forget, that each strong fire, as rule, is project of weak match. And not to fix your course of living, not to disturb its further twists. This is sad givenness of days - fate's flesh is obstinate and stiff. And not so easy it's to curb it – at least, for term of single minute. No one of commanders of ships can turn in commander of water. You cannot argue with this truth, it's too much powerful, too firm. But still keep hoping and step forward. And not without space for faith. Sometimes old nails are also able to get acquainted with new hats. For weaklings hardships serve as burden, for brave and dashing – as springboard..."
"All things depend on share's going and on imputedness of path. If it's inglorious and aimless, then any tryings and efforts will be frustratingly in vain and rid of prudence, weight or value. Worn broken planes, as you are guessing, don't have good parachutes on board. Faint empty sound, what is changeless, is not a source of echo's strength."
"Again most hellishly fair. Closed circle never has self end. The shortest way to big mistake is an attempt to fix some small one. But being lost and cracked inside is by itself a sort of torment. If you've got faded with soul's essence, then all next chapters of life's voyage will last in darkness and distress. Hope's absence always ends with murk. While healthy bushes are afraid to meet with drought, dried shrunken one - to meet with water."
"Hope's fruits are close to wasteland's harvest. It's life – imaginary dishes, as rule, are free from real crumbs. And even outward perfection is not a source of inner grace. The more attractive is performance, the higher sorrows fill its twists. decency is not a grant for the senses of agility. The more beautiful the gloss of the scenery, the higher the sorrow of the plays. But state of weakness and upsetness indeed is path, which leads to hell. Sometimes a lot depends on mood. The ones of us have lack of air, the other ones – of need to breathe..."
"This also has to hide some reason. The more chaotic is mind's work, the greater harmony shows madness. Each start depends on single finish. There is no grief in chill of spring, if further autumn will be fruitful. Each current spark is spring of fire, each current fire – fruit of spark. But, what's most painful and most sad - not each life's lock implies key's presence. True state of happiness is absent – only parts, small and meaningless pieces. No one can have both beads and thread. Days' course is frighteningly aimless, distorted, stupid, sick and wrong. It has one tireless despair, one endless nets of grief or guilt. One trees don't have enough of water, the other ones - of soil's depth, ones else – of eater of their fruits. And not so easy to prevent it. But still stay strong and keep zeal's flame. If life perceives you as a garbage, perceive the last one as a toy..."
At this, both speakers have turned silent and firmly fallen into thoughts and then, few empty phrases later, got unemotionally parted – till new dispassionate of talkings in one of two of seventh homes.

II
Day is weak. Wind's sound – tedious and far. Dim pale landscape is wholly lifeless, full of tart haziness and frail. Among of cloudy roofs' vastness, are meekly creeping washy fogs. At blurred edge of nude horizon – tight mix of grayness, gloom and rain. Inside of soul – deep static anguish.
Stepan Kirillovich, dissolved in space of room, is humbly looking through of window at bad weather and melt in dreariness and thoughts. On smooth and shiny table's surface is shyly hiding tiny flesh of coy and modest pallid latter. From distant passionless Marina, who has been writting once a year. Text's length again is not too lavish – without any of details and with cold strictness in reporting. The lady lives with plots of present and has no need to delve in past and to leaf memories and stories of nimbly ended times of youth and of unneeded hero's person, who into currentness' conditions is as indifferent as dust. All other facts were simply absent.
Stepan has read text's lines again and sighed with tremor into breathing: "Most sad, that I don't even know – where is she living and with whom... How to guess – maybe, even alone. After all, she still writes, sends these mails. It warms my soul and feeds with hope. And if to stay as frank as physically given, I'm madly pleased and greatly glad – to have this precious sacred ticket in most unthinkable of dreams. My ways to happiness are morbid. It's not a thing you'll ever manage to make explained to someone else. What to conclude – I can't even explain it to myself. But with full sharpness understanding whole depth of bitterness of choice, I still continue to persist – to wait, to faith and to keep patience. For me such strange anticipation is sweetest form of inner bliss."
At this frustrated wistful moment, frowned lifeless hero has got suddenly distracted and payed offhanded fleeting glance at indistinguishable square of modest painting on room's wall: "Oh, yes, the very lump of luck. Not for my fate its light, I guess." 
Here it's noteworthy to explain, that onto abstract ashen canvas with set of oddly shapeless figures and numb indistinct river's features in bleak and faint background's depths and with small sign of lamp in corner. As picture's author, local postman Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, was assuring – It's not a joke, it's lamp of luck. It lights and people feel joy's presence – the very ones, who live in need - of care, happiness and passion. Some passer-by will buy my picture, will bring it home and see this lamp. And he himself will light with blooming, will start to hope and to believe. In love, in unity, in better. The very painter, by the way, was stably lonely and unneeded, as well as both of our Stepans, to whom his person was delivering shy letters from distant alien Marinas, who were unreachable as stars. At sluggish morning of today, Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, just only having made step in for to bring envelop with bliss, has promptly started to apologize and redden, that he has come without pictures, end even heartfully invited for tea evening and gladly gifted cup of plums. Stepan, of course, most vastly nodding, in highest hurry has begun to look for something, what had nice role of worthy trifle, which could be gifted in response, but, having found only nothing, was humbly forced to hand one honest pile of firmest promises to feed friend into tavern – till hardest gluttony and death.
And here, examining the picture and reproducing this short talk, Stepan Kirillovich has fallen in coy smile and said with sadness into voice: "What an incredibly fine person – always calm and polite, full of soul. But also lonely, broken, lost. He also faith and try to struggle – to fight with pain and to move up. Just right as me – in all of moments. But time from time you want to fade, to close your eyes and disappear – as most unneeded part of world..."
The hero has dejectedly stretched out and delved in waiting for rain's end.

III
In hugs of pale and grayish fogs, among of cloudy worn quarters, was meekly trudging faceless figure with tired look and sluggish gait. In role of figure was without any doubts Stepan Valeryevich, who now has gone out for idle walk without aim. In cracked and breathless bleeding soul is tartly huddling stern oppression. In thoughts - destructive ruthless pain.
"Rich day - no happiness, no weather. No single drop of good or new. Two days ago I've once again received fresh letter. And all two days I bath in gloom and in incessant rampant sadness. Once again no of facts or of feelings, no slightest promises, no charms. One static vacuum and coldness – same stiff indifference and frost. For her it's fun and entertainment – odd trifling game for laugh and smirks. And I indeed believe and hope, build dreams and die from separation. And she gets happier and sweeter, keeps inner blossoming, tastes joys, reaps splendid harvests of achievements and shares tons and tons of plenties of rich on ampliness life's feast. But maybe even after years she still recalls me time from time, not cutting out these strange bonds leaving chance on unpredictable returning at one of future better days – in role of miracle and treasure and with the only of intentions - to stay till ending of fate's term. But this is fantasy, delusion, sick empty rave, torn off from art of coming true. What to expect from given void, from nets of bitterness and grief and from eternal prospects' absence. It's strange – to hope or to await. But I still try. Of course, in vain, I with whole fullness understand it, albeit sometimes succumb deny mind's voice and let myself to keep faint faith and then return in being sober, admit reality's decaying and once again get inly lost."
The hero has dispiritedly sighed and trudged with apathy away – into slush, mist's vagueness and dusk.

IV
And again peaceful talkative bonds – of two Stepanovs, engaged in abyss of discussion in friendly midst of current night.
"Still what a swamp is being's abode – vile mix of ugliness and flaws. Of dirt, disorder and deception. Sick filthy fuss and wrecking pain. But even this mad nasty horror must have some variant of meaning, some sort of common global aim, implied directly by fate's flesh and implemented in its essence." - Stepan Kirillovich has yawned and feebly lowered his eyes.
"Such thoughts are pestilently barren. It's madly pointless and strange to judge of scale of vase's beauty by scale of splinters' lack of grace. This world is crippled and distorted. And even if it had to have some sort of meaning – at start of earliest of times, today such one, believe, just absents – as object, inept to exist. To live with hope at here is illness. Each better chance is just a myth. It's greatly odd to buy new oars, when you've already sold your boat. It's truly stupid to refuse from fire stopper, when you've agreed on matches box. If you've accepted rules of playing, you are already almost lost. There are no tools, no proper vectors. There is a way to disappear, to fall for not to rise again. If you don't cope to be an eater, you'll be most likely used as food. You can't survive, can't get escaped, can't fix all gaps and holes of share. No slightest matter how much risky you behave, or how much trustful you to route, one small mistake – and you're numb corpse, with all of previous achievements and all of formerly reached heights. If you've been made in prudent manner, it doesn't mean, that you are similarly able to be repaired with no flaws. This is main soil for oppression – for fears, tears and regrets. If you proceed to fight with errors, at first - do not defeat yourself."
"Life's path is close to labyrinth or thickets – if you have stayed there for too long, it doesn’t matter anymore – from with of points have you started, you anyway will never manage to get out. This is the dreariest of truths. With older years, we don't sob at small defeats, but also don't exalt bid winnings. All heights are temporary, fleeting – till new of troubles and of pains. And you can't guess – which thing will kill you, which step will hurt you and destroy. If you are rushing from huge stone, you rather easily can slip on tiny fluff. There is no logic in believings, in faith in properness or luck. With lousy music and worn shoes, do not await for perfect dances."
"This is unboundedly true. But real senses hides much deeper. And it's much worse, much more wrong. If you is rid of wound's maker, you'll hardly cope to find it's healer. We all are having two of options: you either try to give refusal to your headsman, or get accustomed to refuse from having head. What's more, both choices can't be helpful. The breed of losers get offended by the rules, the breed of winners – by game's prizes. Life's days are made of constant risk. The more fragile is cutting tool, the more resistant is blank's body. This world is morbid, broken, vain. You can't submit it or make tamed. If you suspect, that fishing rod has stopped right working, at first check out workability of sea. And, even knowing laws of fate, you'll never guess of its next turnings. All is too difficult, too dark. Both drops and waves sometimes are equal. This world is rid of small of games, which can't provide you with huge losses."
"If you'll renew your set of wounds, your salt can also get much younger. This main principle of time. But it's too sad just to give up - without proper scale of struggle. It's vain to hope, but what to do. Soul's flames are hungry for fresh fuels. If you have finished to await for gingerbread, please, don't begin to pray for whip..."
And once again few sluggish sighs and back in endlessness of silence.

V
In empty colorless apartment, among of oldness and thick books, is coyly sitting pensive postman - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov. The hero was enveiled in pain and boreddom and drowned in hopelessness and thoughts. He was submerging into memories of past and feeding nature with despair. For whole life's term he was unfixably alone, detached from any forms of bonds and any cases of relations, not knowing tempting thrill of dates and languid trembling of first kisses. His only episode of love episode was implemented into clumsy strange occasion, which was experienced age of being 12, when the poor fellow, shyly standing into queue in local circus, has payed attention to unknown girl with flag. He had desire to call out, but due to frightfulness and fear, has kept full silence and ignored, for long examining with glance her unattainable blessed features and after endlessly regretting – for whole rest life till current day.
So here and now, once again recalling past, Boris Andreevich has fallen into sorrow and, sadly sighing, with unbearable annoyance made long and tearfully thin yawn: "Again alone, again with nothing – right as in past, right as before."
The hero has thrown walk from wall to wall and, having sat inside armchair, dissolved in hopelessness of thoughts: "What a life, what a merciless share – one endless emptiness and pain. No dreams, no happiness, no passion. No even will to change such state. Why I have failed with tries to dare, why haven't grabbed her and preserve. I had nice chance, nice opportunity of rescue. The one, which can be not repeated for whole remaining length of life. And here one vacuum and vainness. Stern stopless tears and regrets. With hurting constancy of void and heaps of broken expectations, harsh gnawing anguish and despair and with desire to get dead. I am already kind of corpse – completely faded, lost and aimless, as wilted flower in ill hands. What can I have except of silent decomposing – as bored uranium in mines or as rejected wrong idea."
Boris Arsenievich has will-lessly got up and, having thrown his coat on, gone into emptiness of street – to walk and bath in waves of pain.

VI
In bleak and tightly cramped hall is swarming usual restless crowd. Main sewing studio is always rich on guests. This day, the same as tons of others, of course, not turning in exception, has brought fresh motleyness of comers, with zeal and flurry amply flooded whole inner space of foyer's room, where slightly deeper in small chamber, among of bulky piles of silk, few huge machines and  stitching tools, was meekly huddling timid figure - Stepan Kirillovich, creator - expert in sewing and fabrics. By sides habitual work's fuss: swift flocks of hastening colleagues and tons of duties, needs and tasks. Each one is stuck in utter hurry – damned orders' volume has already calmly beaten all of expected frames of norms.
"Let’s decide, what to do – how to be: they ask for dress – made of best velvet, done in sky's color, with two long bows on place of back and with some catchy polka dots along neckline and on sleeves' surface, ask for cute skirt from scarlet chintz, for shameful ribbon for night stockings, for hat of cotton and guipure, for linen pants and for brisk fashionable scarf in pink and lemon. It’s certain nonsense to fulfill - all of this crazy mindless wishes!" - has cried returned from breed of buyer Yegor Andreich Chistomoev, low puffy manager of  sales.
"It’s not first time, such hell is known." - has sighed the hero in weak tone and pulled thick stack of bright fabrics.
"I've almost died! It's true nightmare. Whole bunch of orders in one time."
"Again not new and not surprising. Lay orders' list and seek for next."
This has brought temporary peace. But soon the last one was disturbed – has rushed deliverer of tissues Khvostoklyuev, who has begun to blame plant's work: "No proper linen, no beads, no metal rivets. I feel someday I'll kill them all."
"Do not waste time, fulfill it now." - Stepan has sighed and slowly stretched: "It's my own problem – how to cope, both with this lack and with your howls."
And once again blessed relaxation - shy playful rustle of fabrics, calm sleepy sound of swift needle and fairy whisper of threads' rolls. Serene and sacredly saint process - with secret miracle of labor, most amply full of purest art and of bewitching hidden beauty. If you will heed it – you'll discover certain treasure. Enchanting, charming, frank and true. But world is ugly, dumb and empty. It doesn't cherish such allurement. It's made for idiots, for dirt.
Meanwhile it's lunch. And then young evening.
"I'm dried and tired as squeezed fish. I'll go to tavern to hook whores. Are you with me? Or in flat's walls?" - has asked with sneering Khvostoklyuev, with slightness hitting shoulder's hump.
"In walls..." - has said Stepan without strength and started packing of belongings.
"You are weird. Maybe sick. Don't get vexed." - Yegor Andreevich has smirked.
"The day has passed. The life still not." - Stepan Kirillovich has sluggishly got dressed, closed the lock and limply moved away.

VII
Among of narrowness of walls of small and crowded apartment, spends time tight company of three -Stepan Kirillovich in chair, Stepan Valeryevich at window, Boris Arsenyevich at door. All keep meek torpid conversation and drink dark liquid of strong tea.
"It’s real luck to be together – inside of hospitable place and with excess of food for talks." - Boris Arsenyevich has yawned and with coy mercifulness smiled: "I guess, we'll sit till rays of morning."
"No frailest doubts, you are fair." - Stepan Valeryevich has made long blissful sip.
"Well, great and splendid, let's get begin." - Stepan Kirillovich has nodded, proclaiming start of dialogue's depths.
"How did this world cope to enslave us, to catch in nets of fuss and trifles and to transform in will-less pawns. And even being built of horror, of dirt, despair, pain and lie, it still has managed to submit and to attach to frames of living." - Boris Arsenievich has frozen and put his gaze in window's gap.
"At here we are guilty ourselves, what's incorrigible and timeless. The more intensive is whip's hitting, the more assured are beliefs in immense tastefulness and sweetness of all forthcoming gingerbreads. For us it's better to get choked on spoon of honey than to get sated with tar's keg. But this is frighteningly rarely – left for one fairy tales and dreams, when you don't suffer, don't regret, don't get deceived and don't pour tears. Long stable harmony of share is as unreachable as moon. What's more, strong dish, as practice proofs, is always rid of weak of poisons. We are accustomed to imprudence, to having hopes and drawing plans. The very presence cup's splinters gives instant birth to hottest faith in obligatory existence of breed of healthy pristine cups – without scratchings, cracks or holes. But such a state is just a fiction, you can't attain it, build or meet. True life is horror and nightmare, mad hellish risk and constant pain. If you keep friendship with a fire, be each of seconds fully ready to start soon friendship with an ash. You can't avoid this sad truth. Can't fix distorted being's essence, can't part with laws of given life or lessen volume of its victims. It's deadly stupid to believe, that one, who did not see the shooter, will cope to see his letted bullet and to get saved from loss of head."
"Such things require mental sharpness, deep static sternness of mind's work. Afraid of rain needs in umbrella, afraid of fate needs in brain's force."
"In current time mind's help is useless. Each one awoken with his head prefers to fall in fervent dreaming of prompt perennial returning in past forgetfulness and sleep. Long being mindful is disease. Each truly tasteless gingerbread is greatly terribler and worse than any possible of whips. And breed of trifles is just fatal, caustic, damaging and harsh. It plunge in nothingness, in void, in storm of hollowness and fuss. Wrong lessons rarely get canceled. But way of thinking still can matter. While stupid poisoner arranges lack of poison, smart one arrangers lack of food. And in terms of pain, it looks as answer. Results depend on way of views. While ones request for list of prizes, the other ones, not losing ardor, stay glad with single fact of rules."
"I want to talk about people. Want to dissect their filthy breed."
"They are worst thinkable of shits. Vile, empty, rotten, rude and vain. Disgusting, morbid, crooked and ugly. Such ones aren't able to get changed - as food's diversity in hunger. They never stop to fix their previous mistakes, as well as never practice pauses in daily making of new ones – most firmly limping with left foot, they praise as possible the right one, and when it also starts to limp, they most sincerely get puzzled and fall in eminent surprise. And, even after tasting slops, they wait for aftertaste's grace. Keep most long distance with society, at first with idiots and fools. Their stubborn faith in incomparably strong power and flawless swiftness of own mind was always totally unable to give some notable protection from devastating painful fruits of most explicit last one's absence. Each single human here is wrong, unfair, violent and filthy. No slightest matter how you trust to someone bottomlessly native, to someone honest, close and pure – one day he'll suddenly get turned in nasty wastage with cold easiness betray all former bonds of seeming friendship. And even loving shooter's person, please, try to hide from bullets' flight. If someone's palm suggests you roses, at first remember with full tension –was not it handing you a bayonet before. What else to add of people's essence... They've coped to tame all sorts of beasts – dogs, cats, ducks, chickens, huge graceful ostriches and clumsy lazy rhinos, all ones, except of damned each other. They have remained freaked and barbaric, stuffed with sins, dirtiness and shit. And the more people are together, the more pernicious they are. Big joint crowd is much scarier than poison. One isolated single human and society are like a snowflake and snow – so madly beautiful, unique and gorgeous form of lonely snowflake, in combination with the others transforms in bunch of messy mash – dull, faceless, primitive and aimless, rid of obtaining with past greatness and not inviting in delight. In case with person - all the same: full of exclusive features human, just having barely got fallen in society, get promptly turned in empty shadow – extinguished, faded, lost and gray, with price of tiniest of pennies. Each one of small and modest pairs of worn gears hides into hundreds times much more of selfless usefulness and prudence, than whole humanity of Earth. And what's of bonds, of mutuality and feelings - this is main source of hugest tragedies and griefs. Today each search of future partner is most assuredly reduced to ill inglorious attempts to change old sleeplessness on plots of new nightmare and to leave puddle of sad truth by soonest delving into sea of sweety lyings."
"I most decisively agree. Till loud squeals and boiling tears. And most especially with  essence of last thought - of reciprocity of souls. Today each weak and vague promise of some fidelity or love is by itself already almost certain sign of its undoubted full absence..."
At this has placed long dreary pause, which, after few of wrecking minutes, was once again exchanged on speech, which, after several of phrases, was slowly changed on numb tea drinking, which soon was also changed - on pause.

VIII
In midst of lonely sleepy street was humbly crawling idle figure - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who, with no purpose, aim or need, has left frail boredom of home's walls and gone to look at life and people of local latitudes of lands. By sides – excessiveness of void, deep tart oblivion and fog. Dense coldish air is immovable and frail. Faint bleak environment is breathless. Dim views are blurred, gray and pale. From all available of states – one deadly barren hopeless peace - no fuss, no noises, no meetings.
"Again day's length, again street voyage... Again with apathy and vainness and with no flame or inner zeal. Nothing new, nothing fresh, nothing hopeful. No sweet acquaintances, no ardor, no fervid bloom of hungry hearts. No tempting chances on next unity and passion. No shameful promises of heat. One sullen rottening and wilting. No vacant souls, no waiting bonds. One endless uselessness and feebling, decaying, suffering and gloom. No joys, no pleasures, no salvation. No greedy keenness, no concern. But I'm still seeking, still believing, not understanding even why..."
The hero has revived gate's pace with quickness and, nimbly melting into distance, stepped up in liquid mass of haze, which was encircling white horizon in washy thickets of mist's veil.

IX
On old toy factory - brave hurry of swiftly widening workday - sharp noisy voices and enstrengthening tight rustling. Each one is clamoring and swirling, maintaining hastening and fuss and keeping rambling and disorder. At sort of distance from main rampage, in unremarkable shy nook in farest end of common hall – Stepan Valeryevich, toys' stuffer and also master of creation of ears, eyes,  claws' peaks and paws. The hero is predictably cold-blooded and irreversibly detached - from any variants of worries and from surrounding perplexion, caused by appalling incompleteness of always troublesome month plan.
"Horns! Who is maker of the horns?!" - Oleg Evgenievich Bezvkusin, engaged in panic estimator, inflamed and furiously nervous, as agonizing scalded beast.
"So many times I am repeating - horns, hooves and tails it's not my job. I'm doing stuffing, eyes, paws and ears with claws' peaks. I'm not involved in making horns."
"Oh, grief of griefs and curse of curses. I still persist, response for horns - at least one single working person!"
"Same thing as hundreds times before. What an unfixable disaster!" - Stepan Valeryevich has sighed and, slowly coming back in comfort, delved into thoughtfulness and peace, but once again was sharply hailed, right after couple of short minutes.
"Tails!!! What's of devilish damn tails?!"
"Of tails of devils?"
"No, of foxes."
"I'm not the one, who works with tails."
And once again meek silent calmness – till new of questions and new peace. Soon one of workers has brought several of squirrels- of course, for sake of further stuffing and for implanting eyes and claws. Skilled hand has fallen into labor, work's storm has sternly rushed ahead. So, after few of rightful hours, completely tired from stiff pose and from exhaustingness of work, without pauses having stuffed both decent dozen of small squirrels, two heavy deers and one hedgehog, enfeebled hero has arranged term of distraction and taken route for rest and lunch.
In midst of hall of small canteen, among of sleepiness and tables, few flocks of gray and boring crowd. In corner hole of distribution, in other – tap for washing mugs. Food is plane and persistently tasteless. But people like and even praise. So having squeezen through of shoulders and taken little coldish scoop of some unsafe and nasty slurry, coy languid fellow, having plunging into loafing, has sat at edge of middle row and started frail and sluggish sipping. One minute later, have arrived two grumpy women and firmly landed on next row, with zeal preparing to unfold large conversation.
"I'll tell you greatest of affairs." - has opened dialogue one of them.
"Pie! Take a pie and eat! I have been dragging it from other part of city." - has interrupted speech the other.
"I take it, take. Becalm and listen – I will describe you my past day: I have been treating my heart's nature – from irritating foolish husband, annoying, pestering and dull, that time from time I want to puke. So, being questionlessly smart, I've grabbed myself and taken voyage to next house – to my friend Mishka Kuzmichev, who is storekeeper in bathhouse. So we have drunk huge jug of wine and delved in abyss of excitement - like hungry mouse in cheese pile. We've almost broken oak bed – such pace of fury was performed. My hips were chained by waves of languor, and butt was ready to explode. We've stopped already into morning. So I, by will of some damned reasons, have caught some sort of mind's eclipse and organized him heavy quarrel – have thrown floor lamp and smashed few windows and then quite naked rushed away. And what you think - as soon as I have left his house, I've met my former classmate Peter, who had been chasing me since youth. I've gone to him and, as you guess, he was perceiving me as queen - has polished all my shameful places with his submissive sloppy tongue – as mix of dog and morbid whore. When I have left him, I was laughing for an hour. And then, of course, I have returned again to husband. This moron bought me bunch of roses, and with great tremor veiled in pleadings to stay home. Such fun is certainly unique. I'm so much happy – as blessed angel. Remember – craziness is gift!"
"What a damned hellishness and horror. I feel, I no longer want to eat." - has sighed shocked terrified Stepan and, having abruptly gone out, with disappointment trudged back – to ears, eyes, claws' peaks and paws and to vain searchings of tails' makers.

X
And again lonely room and pale shadows. Faint lamp and heavy oldish chair. Stepan Kirillovich reads letter - one other year is behind.
"By strange and rid of purpose habit, I send you regular brief sheet with fleeting summary of me. Again without of details and with no drop of loving rubbish. I, as before, am wholly fine and even excellent in moments. No griefs, no hardships, no regrets. I'm glad and lucky, hope – you too. At this enough of aimless writings, time to say bye and to let envelope in trip."
"As always nothing great or new. No warmth, no unity, no care. No keen permissions, no sweet hints. One inconsolably stiff coldness and steel indifference's nets, which hurt, frustrate, annoy and wreck. And once again long painful waiting, time to reap sorrows and regrets and to bath soul in gloom and torments. For whole next endlessly long year I'm left to spend my daily being in same past hopelessness and fog. I guess, my share is just broken, torn off from usefulness or luck and rid of any distinct prospects. Not to get out of fate's shackles, not to escape its worst of twists. Just to admit all given burdens and to get finally destroyed. But maybe once we still will manage to couple hearts and lines of lifes and to forget of separation. At least at one of last of days. But it's just aimlessness of dreams. Whole my vain century I hold them. Whole hazed resultless earthly term. What for – who'll ever give an answer... Who'll ever cope to heal my griefs... Till end of route I'm pawn and slave. Till grave I'm prisoner of void. It's close to horror, to true curse." - has sighed with helplessness the hero and, sadly plunging in thoughts' abyss, put gaze in depths of window's blur.

XI
Among of walls and joyless vacuum of room, were calmly sitting few engaged in thinking figures - Stepan Valeryevich in abyss of armchair, Stepan Kirillovich at door.
"What kind of people do we live with – one total idiots and fools, both in decisions, views and talks, in all, what demonstrates mind's essence."
"It's part of time, of main world's basics. Days' truth is always sick and wrong, disgusting, valueless and ugly. And even proper of ideas can get maintained by fullest nits. There are no smart and weighty words, which will escape cheap stupid mouths. You're either broken or distorted. Ones wait for saving for oneself, ones – for destruction for the others. Being bad, don't forget to seem good, and being good, do not forget not to agree on learning badness. In current madness it's too actual, too fair. Is greatly silly and imprudent to overestimate strong qualities of self, the only sillier and vainer – to underestimate weak qualities of others. Not to untie it, not to cut. And search of causes is just doomed – each canvas starts to blame paint's oil, paint's oil starts to blame hand's skill, shoe's sole sees guiltiness in road, last one – in legs and pace of gait. And the more mindless are conditions, the more we help them to remain - with passion clinging for rave's soil and getting abysmally pleased from being rid of need in brain. It's not an error or a negative exception, but just a simple sort of habit, which forms most frequent of traditions and shows most popular approach – to cherish wrongness, flaws and filth. And what hides highest scale of pain – each short indifference to plate gets indeclinably combined with longest care of its splinters. This is too steady, too unbeatable and true. It's greatly fine to meet with presence of right people, but deadly sad to live in world, where right humanity is absent. And even seeing world's decaying, still don't give up and keep persistence, be firm and obstinately restless and do not shy to share risks. For to preserve access to road sometimes we have to part with horse. And even if you've calmly managed to get escaped from hummer's fall, do not forget of equal need to hide yourself from fall of anvil."
"This is too tragical, to bitter. Like worst of possible nightmares, by will of horrible mistake, transformed in givenness of time. Not to survive here, I am guessing, not to get out from pain's nets."
"But do we need in some salvation? What does it carry and impute – except of sorrow, dirt and falsehood. Does life bring logic, hope or joy? Sometimes you're writing and your inks are getting ended right with phrases. Some lifes have look of something short, of something cutted just at middle. Each one pours tears and regrets, that person's way, fresh, young and strong, was closed and rid of any future. But had it chances on this future – on its smooth properness and grace. Frank answer cripples and destroys, oppresses, hurts and turns in dust. If you will delve in real essence of fate's plays, you will surprisingly find out, that you're most heavily determined not by amount of experienced and tasted, but by amount of avoided and escaped. Most glad and happy here are ones who've got less scope of filth and horrors. We live in fear, in disgust, in mix of ugliness and sickness, in grayness, aimlessness and gloom, where all of ways provide exclusively with void, with disappointment and grief."
At this both talkers have gone silent and plunged in hopelessness and thoughts, with limpness stucking in despair and putting souls in depths of bitterness and longing, frustration, helplessness and murk.

XII
Among of empty lifeless vastness, oppressed and somberly forlorn, was humbly wandering through fog lonely doleful ownerless figure – Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who was observing drowsy quarters, enshrouding every last soul's corner in sticky apathy and gloom.
"Again just vacuum and me, just one pain's endlessness and sorrows – caustic, merciless and stern, assertive, hurting and incessant. I have no happiness, no hope. No smallest joy or cause for gladness. Just constant aimlessness and fading – undying, wrecking, harsh and stiff. From youngest years and till now I live in tears and regrets. What a path, what a role, what a lot. No of love, no of warmth, no of care. One dreary permanence of vainness, dense static loneliness and fog. But, what's most tragic and upsetting – at least at once I had true chance: that precious time in queue at circus... If I had coped some way to dare, to call her out and to risk to fall in abyss of acquaintance, we perhaps could remain together right till this point of life's length. In fullness, unity and pleasure and into sacredness of bliss, with outlandishly rich deepness fulfilled in holy priceless bonds of inner harmony and blooming, which each of seconds of fate's term without pauses and enfeebling capture with bottomless delight all sides and limits of both natures - all thoughts, all feelings, all desires and all most piquant body's nooks, replacing heart in lands of heaven, where it will always stay unbreakably preserved from separation, pain and sadness, not knowing any other states, except of mutual devotion and stealing breath excitement's storm. But life has sorely refused from such of prospects and taken pitiful decision not to blossom and to prefer another course – with nets of emptiness, despair and forlornness and with incessant bitter burden of being needless, cracked and lost. And only me myself is guilty – my lack of courage and of will. And my passivity and weakness – eternal cargo, pest and curse." - the hero has dispiritedly sighed and, smoothly melting into distance, trudged up in lonely blurred thickets of hazy featureless landscape.

XIII
In midst of sorrowful sky's abyss, among of sluggishness of clouds, were meekly fading faceless heights, most tightly full of grayish fog and sticky dreariness and faintness. Cold lifeless latitudes were keeping devastation. Week and exhausted humid wind, serene, pacific and forgetful, was vainly passing back and forth above of outskirts' expanses, forsaken, deserted and naked and chained with bitterness and dusk. Submerged in steadiness and chill sharp and caustic air's masses were feebly getting inly flooded with abrupt prickliness and frost. With passion biting lines of lands, was slowly creeping growing sadness. Along of dismal faceless quarters, was shyly dragging through of mist perplexed and wistful timid figure, Stepan Kirillovich's, of course.
"Again I'm straying with no purpose and getting inwardly destroyed. Again am sipping tart despair and bathing soul in mourning's depths, which are more fatal and erosive, than all most dangerous of acids and all most sorrowful of griefs. But what else to extract from days' void – except of bitterness and pain. Life keeps past rushing and enlarging and sows complexity and tricks, world grows and boils, time flies forward. And my lost share stays identically broken, forlorn, futile and devastated and plunged in hopelessness and gloom. In nets of fading and frustration and into mash of barren dreams. Without progress, hope and chances on any changes or updates. I have one vagueness, one waiting – oppressive, tiresome and long. With tragic absence of salvation and with stern constancy of pain. No frailest joys, no shortest meetings. No drop of meaning, weight or grace. Just one numb perishing and fainting, one hidden dying – way to grave. To bonds of nothingness and void – the same as currently I have, what is especially ironic."
The hero has vexatedly clenched fingers, which have already agonizingly proceeded to achy covering with hoar, and feebly yawning, turned around and sent legs' pair back to home.

XIV
Inside toys' factory – day's rampage: noise, swarming, hastening and fuss. Stepan Valerievich, involved in witchery of stuffing, is calmly sitting in work nook – with bonds of loneliness and thinking and with plump squirrel into hands, without vividness or zeal and with no interest to living. Time's pace is also frail and flaccid, mood's style - downtrodden and upset, drowned into boredom and prostration and activeness and flame. No slightest cause for inspiration, no weakest reason for concern.
Soon, not permitting to proceed to long and lingering awaiting, has most predictably arisen engaged in fervency Bezvkusin, who once again has caught necessity in tails and deadly fallen into search of guilty person.
"Damned you!" - has looked he at the hero, and then, with instance having suddenly becalmed, switched off intensiveness of tone: "And you, as I perplexingly remember, is not the one, who works with tails..."
"You are right, not my job."
Bemused employer has vexatedly got silent and started staring with both eyes in angry seeking for responsible for tails, but once again not having found any guilter, without passion gone away.
"I guess, quite soon he will return. And even bet on breed of horns."  - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and plunged in peacefulness of work, where he has lost few pensive hours, and then, replacing back to rest, delved into thoughtfulness and sadness: "Eh, life – futility and vainness. Mix of despondency and pain. Of fading, sufferings and losses. Of waitings, tryings and regrets. Not to reject it, not to pause. Each path is doomed, each chance is false. All roles are equally predicted, prescribed  from starting and till death. All fates are pitiful and useless. All days are barren, worn and gray, soaked with decay and imperfection. And to survive here is worst grief, which brings one troubles and omissions and rids of last remained of joys."
The hero has dispiritedly sighed: "Where is damned simpleton Bezvkusin... With him it really was brighter – with his hysterical attempts to find and nullify tails' makers. Without him indeed too sad..."
And once again work day is over. Without happenings and trace. Stepan Valeryevich has sluggishly got up, put on his jacket and unhurriedly directed to wait for coming of last tram.
At stop hard loneliness - no faces, no jams, no sounds, no fuss. In tram unbearably tight crowd. At misted window sits pale youth, with timid eyes and sunken cheeks. On narrow distance from his person – full of impudence flashy girl, with shaggy fashionable hair, in brisk short skirt and with silk lace. Both characters, of course, are not acquainted and rid of any sorts of link, remote and mentally distracted and wholly busy just with self, but at some sudden awkward point, enfrenzied lady, having falling in harsh anger, has taken bashful guy by scarf and firmly slapped him into face: "Where are you staring, nasty pig? Am I a worker of pole dances?! Or life-size puppet? Or showcase? You, ugly scum, where are you shovingyour sick eyes? Roll out, deviant dull moron. Don't feed your demons with excitement of my flesh."
Shocked poor fellow has proceeded to coy mumbling, to explanations and excuses, but slapping act was pretty instantly repeated, and at next station youth was ruthlessly kicked out in opened abyss of door's gap to common loud laugh of crowd.
"What an unthinkable nightmare!" - Stepan Valeryevich has fallen into stupor and, turning out, closed his eyes: "Here, all of doings are forbidden. You cannot look, can't  think, can't dream. Can't even sit and stay unharmed. World's pier has turned in feast of madness. In nest of hellishness and filth. Such life is crippled and distorted. It's not for blooming, not for grace." 
The hero has immovable got frozen and lost in listening to wheels and into waiting for his stop, for to accomplish row of steps and to dissolve inside walls' abyss, which till upcoming of next morning will gift salvatory protection from ruinating horrors' storm.

XV
In empty colorless hallway, in midst of modesty and fading, were humbly standing two coy figures - Stepan Kirillovich in mantle, Boris Arsenyevich in coat. The cause of meeting - tiny envelope with lines from far unreachable Marina.
"Well, I've delivered, receive. Your fervid squall of passions' storm and your main jewel, prize and trophy. And I am boundlessly glad to see your happiness and bliss." - with indecisive liquid smiling and timid trembling into voice, has shyly handed thin gray package forgetful fatigued Boris and then insipidly continued: "You are so lucky - letters, care. I even fall sometimes in envy, not in too furious, but still."
"Some people people think, that I am lucky. What an insulting crippling joke." - has promptly thought drained letter's getter and then with flaccid languor yawned: "Believe, you'll also find your goddess, who, I am rid of any doubts, will make you equally obsessed, exalted, happy and excited."
At this, they've briefly shaken hands and, after little silent pause, told standard mutual goodbyes and unemotionally parted. Stepan has taken text of message and, with intensive flamy trembling, begun to read small modest letters of inconsolably short lines, submerging brokenness of heart in greedy heat of expectation, which due to triflingness of size of inessential cold writing has coped to last for less than minute and turned in anguish and distress.
"And someones even fall in envy, perceiving row of my pains, torments and vexations as something happy and attractive and truly able to cause joy. Can I indeed be named successful, be named demanded, close and glad. It's quite amazing, quite confusing. But into practice too much sad – to wait, to hope and to stay needless and rejected. It's too much fruitless to believe, to burn in fire of devotion and to remain away of love. With breathless ashes of desires and with harsh abyss of regrets. With constant bitterness and tears and with excessive blooming pain. What for to try and to move forward, if all will perish, fade and pass. Without trace from past beginnings and with one nothingness ahead. I'm slave of dreams, of vain illusions, slave of pure void, of full fog. And not to fix it, not to break. Life is too obstinate, to mighty. It's always bigger, always stronger. And not to stop it, not to tame."
The hero has pacifically sighed, looked meekly out of the window and, having frozen for a moment, begun to read text's length again - for to dilute one pain with other and to remain in its bead bonds for dreary term of whole next year – without outlets and pauses and with no single spot for hope.

XVI
In midst of doleful ensemble of veiled in morning lonely room has got awoken in bed's voids Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who was wholeheartedly involving in most destructive boredom's forms, endowing soul with ruthless sorrow and inexpressibly tart pain, in inexhaustible amounts produced by thoughts of share's course and of futility of prospects.
"Most warm and plentiful of greetings to all of new and old of guests of our regular broadcasting, you're having luck to heed to daily music program "The chord of timelessness and time." We're once again with whole assuredness repeating, that world and songs are truly endless, as well as similarly endless are turns and wanderings of fate, what into frames of usual rubric for sad people "In front of loneliest of doors." will be unquestionably proven by newly written composition with timid sorrowful name "Longing", which is already shyly waiting to meet your ears and apartments with set of dreariest of notes:
Once again I am lost into longing
Once again grief enslaves my cracked heart
Once again only bottomless void
As before amply blossoms inside

I will take this stray longing as jewel
And will hug as most favourite pet
Sleepless nights, till perfection examined
Will be glad to invite such a guest

I spend time into thoughts of world's essence
Send numb questions and fall in regrets
From all facts only one seems me fair
That true longing is thing with no end...
"Yes, rather helpful inspiration, now, after listening of this, it's more convenient and easy – to cut own throat or to get hung. I had intention just to fill my mood with brightness, to cheer me up and to receive some consolation. But, as I currently can see, such harmless innocent attempt has sadly turned to be mistaken. Right as whole course of my life's term." - the hero has inactively got up and, having switched receiver off, stepped up keep vain lonely walk.

XVII
In full of crowd sewing studio's cramped foyer – harsh noise and hastening of fuss. Stepan Kirillovich is busy and tightly lost in tons of work, with inexhaustible smooth neatness fulfilling tailoring of hat of pearly violet brocade. In spicy air – taste of hurry. By sides – habitual disorder: thick static permanence of roar, quick loud twaddling and stern chaos, without ending amply blooming at every single vacant spot. With vigor trying to survive, lost thoughtful hero is wholeheartedly persisting at shapeless piece of frail fabric, in fright deciding how to sew. Soon, breaking peacefulness of labor, has grown wild boiling Chistomoev: "They once again demand to kill me, want all of orders till day's end - all outstandingly tart madness: slim eastern-looking leather coat, sleek cotton suit with metal buttons, silk raggy jacket with wide ribbon and richly done plush woven scarf with tiny eyelet for to hang it, what will salvatingly freed up from irritating ugly need to put this item into pocket."
"Well, if they want, we have to make it. Let them wait, and all asks will come true."
"As soon as possible, my dear. Or they will definitely tear me – in smallest possible of parts."
"If they will tear, I will fix you, will sew as artfully as clothes."
"No, I'll prefer to stay holistic. And what's of you – keep highest hurry, do not postpone this stuff till night." 
"Believe, I'm far from idle leisure... And work so hard, that drown in sweat."
"It's right, all other ways of labor are unacceptable and wrong." 
"Oh, yes, most proper is till death." 
"My life is also not a honey, I'm here as squirrel into wheel." 
"Then do not stop – for not to fall and not to fly away of track."
And once again meek pensive calmness: shy silent process of neat work with soothing timidness of moves and sacred pleasure of creation. What else can be as pure and honest as things, produced by human hands. Each tiny stitch is key from heaven, each little knot – access to bliss. If you had luck to realize it, than you'll obtain with certain treasure – most fair, sinless, pure and frank. Meanwhile, day's length has reached own ending. Stepan Kirillovich has lazily got up and, having put all tools away, sent route in latitudes of home, right at the exit having met with till disgust well-known faces of two most hateful working mates.
"Well, what's of news, my godless fellow - of something crazy, odd and reckless and tartly teeming with hard shame. Do you have notable occasions within of frames of recent time?" - has asked plump lousy Chistomoev, with vivid bravery and smirking replacing gaze at Khvostoklyuev, who into every inner feature was also equally same nit.
"All is calm..."
"And what's of me – I, as before,  not losing restlessness of pace, am right in midst of brazen doings - in most hot point of sins' storm: one day ago, thanks to damned playfulness of fortune, I, boldly taking highest risks, was sharing bed with one incurably lewd lady, quite vastly famous for brakes lack, I'm of Mikhailovna, milk seller, whose scale of lust is truly awesome and rid of ways to be described. We were so active and forgetful, so madly careless and wild, that I have almost met her husband, when in breathtaking fussy hurry, erasing shoes, was rushing back. At least one single extra minute, and I, extinguishing regrets, would stand here mercilessly beaten - with swollen eyes and bleeding lips..."
"And I have parted with my wife. She has collected her belongings and, having left dumbfounded me without any explanations, ignoring questions, gone away..."  - has, after long bemusing pause, with fright declared Khvostoklyuev, by some unknown inner reasons completely pale and full of doom.
Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and, not proceeding to goodbyings, with utter promptness led his voyage in saving outlet of door.

XVIII
Among of street – thick static fog. Faint hazy houses are blurred, dim sleepy world is far and numb. Stepan Valeryevich, forlorn and firmly lost in depths of thinking, is meekly keeping silent walk, observing views of lonely streets and gaining dreariness and sadness. In all accessible of features – cold lifeless bleakness, tart oppression and coy ill apathy and frailness, with painful richness amply blooming at every visible land's spot. Each single corner of damp vastness is sternly teeming with exhaustedness and languor, most harshly reigning in wet frost of swiftly chilling air's masses. Heart's abode, what is quite expected, is also rid of vivid tones. Pale tired hero is dispassionately sighing, beholding deserted expenses and letting legs to write vain route without purpose and direction – just for to leave four naked walls and to return in them again.
"What a life, after all, what a path... What an improper sort of presence? Does my existence have some aiming or any cause to be excused? Does this appalling tragic set of constant barrenness and fading, of daily hopelessness and pain and of tart bitterness and gloom can be transformed in something fruitful, in something sensible and right. Long six months to await till next letter, for me it's close to purest hell, to certain endlessness, not shorter. And not to fix this dreary curse, not to reduce entrusted parting. And even letter, what's most sad, will, as each single time before, bring one upsetting dose of coldness, one extra bunch of fresh regrets. What for, explain me, do I live, if best of ways for my doomed share is nothing else than to get lost, to leave world's frames and disappear – not having need to cling for pointless survival and not agreeing to remain in nullifying role of wastage."
The hero once again has made deep sigh and, with frail sluggishness dissolving in fog's thickets, gone up to sleepy peaceful pier of hazy featureless horizon, prolonging unity with thoughts and devastation and getting risen to new levels of longing, anguish and distress.

XIX
At amply splendid shining stage – swift vivid marvel of performance: one of stray circuses, not huge, as well as not too vastly famous, is gifting rich flamboyant show. Small hall is tightly full of people, glad eyes are satisfied and bright, at one of sits in first of rows - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who with remarkable attention is learning motleyness of costumes, perceiving every single movement of feathers, ribbons, hats and legs, beholding bursts of flashy fire and meekly falling in enchantment with unenfeebling restless squall of poses, faces, tricks and dances, mixed up in common endless sea of outlandishness and passion. In every action – joy and fervor, in all accesible foe eyes – delight, exaltedness and bliss. Play's pace is brazen, wild and zestful. Heat's storm, with vigor amply blooming at each observable of spots, is  all-consumingly insistent and freed from limits, stops and brakes. Songs' rhythm is dashing, brisk and frisky. Whole set of colors, sparks and sounds is magic, grace and ardor is close to particle of heaven, to dose of paradise, not less.
Soon, right at peak point of increasing frenzy's boiling, in midst of process has arisen purest angel - among of abysses of smoke has grown small silhouette of lady in short lewd skirt and with long whip, who has come up with dancing program. Boris Arsenyevich has frozen and unintentionally limped - in distant features of this figure he has with fear recognized that girl with flag, so sadly missed at age of 12 right in the very hall of circus. Shocked pallid hero has got fallen into shaking and, promptly sinking confusion, clung with both eyes to tempting beauty of her body, intoxicating mind with lust. The plot of scenery has speedily rushed forward and, having ended with denouement of hardest thunder of applause, in most prompt manner met with finish. Then, after lurking, hero's legs have coped to find shy narrow door, which was providing with saint route to backstage's depths. Among of tons of lamps and plywood, in hugs of ribbons, racks and hoops, on red silk chair was relaxedly placed out so madly needed lovely cutie, with languor stretching some strange song.
"Good night... I've come for sake of you, of your enslaving honey person, not even partially guessing of my existence in this world. I've seen you once – at age of 12, so madly madly long ago, that not so tricky to forget. It was exactly in these walls. And what's most painful and upsetting, I haven't dared to approach... "
"I was alone that distant time, was into search of love and partner. Right as today to my deep shame. Of course, no slightest drop of love has met myself inside this abode, but I have found future job and left to swirl in dances' rush, what is enough to be symbolic."
"This is unthinkable, bemusing. It's sort of sorcery, of voodoo. I'm even out of right words..."  - the hero has departed in perplexion and strongly stuck in instant fright.
"Well, let me kiss you – for appropriate beginning. And then you'll answer what you want."
And here, when bliss of lips was tasted, last shades of confidence have gone, erasing any self-control and putting mind in shiver's abyss.
"I ... I ..." - Boris Arsenyevich was lost, was trembling, muttering and shaking.
"I guess, it's time to show myself, to splash all beauty, all flesh's heat."
She has with elegance and deftness placed up at edge of chair's sit and, having hastily stripped naked and lewdly spreaded thirsty hips, with utter lavishness and straightness revealing up for vast observing all humid mellowness and sweetness of her most keen and tempting places, so much alluringly exposed in such impudent piquant manner. The hero, endlessly surprised, completely pale and firmly puzzled, has shyly taken little step and, having cautiously bent to sinful blossoming of wetness, was wholly ready to submerge in yummy bloom of carnal fruits, when all around has dissolved and flown away, with hurting sadness having silently disclosed thick painful canopy of darkness - Boris has abruptly awoken inside of cold and lonely bed, among of numbly huddling void and faceless nudity of walls. Short melted paradise, of course, was nothing else than vain night dreaming, so unforgivably addictive and so unfeasible in life.
The hero has released downtrodden sigh and, humbly hiding in fabric of fluffy blanket, get lost in bitterness of cry.

XX
Inside of featureless apartment – coy pensive trinity of friends. Boris Arsenievich Bezlykov and two of Stepans by the sides. The hero once again has brought his pictures, and, having taken them from bag, was with devotedness explaining main meanings, secrets and ideas of complicated painting's plot: "Here we see vastness with no limits, what's proving endlessness of space. At top of canvas – era's flesh, made of decaying, blood and dirt. At vacant bottom – some strange sign, it's presence hasn't any purpose and cannot claim to be explained. And into corner – usual symbol of never fainting lamp of luck. It gleams, and everyone of us, who asks for love and understanding, gets chance on needfulness and hope, what, giving birth to faith in better, fills up with priceless confirmation of fact, that happiness exists. This is main remedy, main rescue, main source of soothening and peace."
"Well, proper point to get frozen and to loose mind in depths of thought." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and, coyly shrugging with his shoulders, delved in embraces of distress.
"Let's switch attention to food's eating." - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and, redirecting tired gaze at calmly waiting dishes plenties, invited others to the table – for common tasting of sweet buns. Boris Arsenevich has taken biggest bun and with inconfidence begun: "This world... It's stupid, broken, aimless, full of absurdity and flaws. For which of whims it was invented, for which strange purposes and goals? Not to reveal true being's targets, not to explain with sober head. What do we have, if to be honest – fuss, pain and boredom, nothing else. Mix of unending gloom and anguish, of timeless tragedies and griefs — without any of exceptions in daily set of given states. It's rather scary to admit, since farest youth, I am the one such person, who is in friendship with one thoughts. With one nude restlessness of mind, for tricky term of former years erased till heaviest of holes. And what I sadly have to mention, it's not the easiest of lots – to keep perpetual concern, without stopping sternly learning imputed principles and laws and always trying to extract most deeply hidden sense and essence of each surrounding event, arising up to highest harmonies of being and with annoyance falling back in all-consuming sticky pit of weakness, helplessness and fright. Such constant tension of perception, of every single mental string is close to torment, to damnation, which lasts since earliest of days and doesn't promise to be ended. It hurts and cripples, wrecks, destroys, throws into panic and oppression and leaves in bottomless distress. It's madly wrong not to be able to ignore what no one else will even ever cope to notice. But this is probably whole me. We write and send a lot of letters, wait for some answers, for response. And time from time it fully seems, that every line of every message with all its variable words was most indubiously known and most unbreakably determined – long long before of first created piece of paper. The more I live, the more profound is my faithing, that all of choices are prescribed, that share's going can't be tamed or redirected, that each of deeds is not a fruit of someone's will, but a result of fate's scenarios and plannings. It's deadly hard to save brain's health with so much morbid information. In world, where craziness is normal, remaining sane transforms in curse, which rids of any zeal to struggle and any thirst of having hope."
"What's both most frightening and sad, you are inarguably fair. Attentive heeding to first note can by itself report a lot of tone and loudness of last one. Of course, life's paths, made up of doom, as rule, confirm this dreary statement, but still don't hurry to loose hope. Try, strive and less faith in ideas – in last ones' power, weight and strength. True role of mind is not too huge. For smart of people thoughts are slaves, for others – commanders and masters. Take this plain principle for law, and being's portrait will get fixed – right into couple of next seconds. I know, how sticky and addictive can be devotedness to sense, to sacred heat of understanding, of constant need to seek and learn, but don't forget to stay yourself, your mind, remember this forever, is nothing more than just a pet..."
"We cannot catch all real reasons, can't find all mysteries and keys, can't calm days' pace or tame life's essence. Between of darkness and of light – one single step, between of human and his fate – not less than abyss. And world is truly quite unhealthy. You can't rebuild it, cannot save. Can't wrap in dominance of prudence and freed from pestilence of fuss. Don't try to fight with whole existence, it's vain to waste last strengths such way, don't rush - you can't make others smarter by more stern fooling of yourself."
"This is as frightening as fair, what for to burn, if flame is cold. It simply nullifies all hopings, all use and sense to be alive. And what's personal, of feelings – do fields of love have any chances to gift some notably rich fruits?"
"Same empty letters, nothing else. Without warmth and with one fog." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and sadly dropped his tired gaze at faded grayness of floor's surface.
"I'm in identical conditions – no hope, no miracles, no pleasures, one endless waiting and pain's taste – as well every former year." - Stepan Valeryevich has numbed and slowly fallen into silence.
"World is sick. Sick and dead. As worst curse. It's made for sufferings, for grief." - Boris Arsenevich has sighed and lose oneself in depths of thought.
"I guess, it's main life's explanation – that it was made for ours pain. For constant unity of hope and need to struggle and for perpetual regrets..."
At this both talker have got silent. Got not from lack of proper words, but from excess of pain and anguish.

XXI
Again coy company of three. The only thing this time much older. And even not without reason - Stepan Kirillovich not more that day ago has got a medal for fidelity to labor – for term of thirty working years, which ones have helped to get one fatigue and wornness, not having given any richness or any colorful recallings of any moment of long past. On lavish plane waiting table three crystal plates of foreign fruits, huge thick decanter of cold drink and two small envelops with letters - from both unreachable Marina's, which for whole life have not got closer and left identically far.
Letter 1: "One extra year have gone out, and I am writing you again. All my life I've been keeping such contacts. This time is probably the last. It's hardly useful to continue. What's of me, I was living quite brightly. Got swiftly married at the age of 25. Then after year we've got parted. Then was long period of seeking. I've even spent some time abroad, but still returned – I guess, not mine. Then, year after of returning, have given birth to two nice children, as it by fate's will has turned out – away of limits of wedlock. I wasn't trying to keep link with children's father, but it was probably for better – close to their going to we school I've got acquainted with another fonding man, who was with me for long ten years, then also something has gone wrong. Then also seeking, partners' switching. So I have met with my today. Too busy route is busy, too strange and twisty. I think, I'll barely be named successful, but in a fact I am quite glad. I guess, you're sitting into laughing. But it was solely your offer to write to be your trouble, dream and muse. At here goodbye and all the best."
Letter 2:
"Hello, I'm writing you again. As always. As each year before. I guess this time should be the last. My life was peaceful, nice and vivid. At first I was with flock of partners – was choosing, playing and gain sins. Then at my thirty I've got married and given birth to quite fine child. For long twelve we were constantly together, then have got parted and I married once again and keep this marriage till today. We live successfully and richly, at morning - pool, on weekends - movies. Life was surprising, kind and sweet. I don't regret, that not it's ending. I hope, you're also fully happy and even happier than me. So, thanks for fun of writing letters, it was the best of entertainments. At now bye. And thanks once more."
And this, both Stepans, having read each other's letters, have delved in silence, gloom and pain. Boris was also wholly silent.
"Love is most painful of beginnings. Both you and I are longing's pieces, piles of despair and regrets..." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and with forlornness squeezed his palms.
"No pier, no sea. One chance to sink." - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and sadly fallen in oppression.
"What a life, rubbish, shit. Hard to imagine more vain path than two of ours living courses. The plot, which's worthy of one grave. No slightest difference were born we or were not."
"Just to regret, to sob and howl."
"Until last moment, I was utterly believing – that fate will cope to bring together, that I will find her and make mine."
"I'm just the same. Each day and second."
And again static wordlessness' pit and row of glances at gray floor. Then hopeless silence of two Stepans was interrupted by announcement of Boris: "I feel your sorrow, feel your pain. This world is not for to await. I've brought some pictures – time to nail. For not to fade with whole soul's mass."
Indeed, this fuss has slightly muted taste of grief. They've eaten food, stay fully silent for a while, drunk apple syrup, discussed next days and close to evening gone apart.
Boris Arsenievich Bezlykov, inhaling sleepiness of air, has slowly trudged in hazy distance of foggy latitudes of street, expressing apathy and pain and realizing depth of doom: "They both are happier than me – even this wholly lost and cracked shares were much more colorful and bright: at least, they both were having someone, who had agreed to write to them, to be devoting part of self. Yes, it was false, was just for fun – for sneering smirking over feelings. And me at all was just alone. And all I have – just vague memories of girl, who had been missed by me at 12. I'm empty, useless, wasted, vain. What do I have to reach and make – to lay in coffin and close eyes. To leave this damned distorted being and to forget of useless self. It's even shameful to admit, to tell to this world's void, that I'm less meaningful than nothing, less than last garbage at road's side. Sad to say, I am out of sort. But what to do if it's my lot..."
His shaky silhouette has melted in midst darkness, slush and mist, like liquid shadow, passed away without traces. Landscape has started to to get emptier and darker. No single vehicle or face, just rain and haze. As if at all this world has never been acquainted with any single human fate.


AFTERWORD:
In small dark room, excited pair of two shamelessly young lovers. He's holding lady by her shoulder, she's looking up at blizzard's dance.
"You know, I'm so much glad, so happy – to be with you, to know it's true." - the young man has tenderly got clung to silent girlfriend, enshrouding last one into hugs of puffy blanket.
"Me too. I'm feeling like a goddess. I can't believe that all this happens with myself. Like dose of fairy tale, of heaven, which by some miracle have turned in part of life. Do you remember, day ago we've dragged strange picture – not to much special or pretty, but I was asking and you've bought. So, I have hung it and looked closer. And what I've actually seen, damn me, this is pure masterpiece, not smaller. It also has small lamp in corner. What for it's added, I don't know. Now I am looking right at last one, and, by some secret sacred reasons, it starts to seem, that it can gleam..."