By rules of fate

I
Among of sleepiness of flat, next to old frame of hazy window - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, an archive's worker and a passionate collector of all unusual trifling trinkets, made of fabric or clay, or copper and aimed for every sort of use, but by some pitiful sad reasons rid of belonging to some owner and of obtaining with demand. He is pathetically sighing and weakly paying lonely gazes at languid colorless landscape, most sternly purified from brightness and any other signs of life and irreversibly prepared to time of withering and fading, with whole assertiveness and zeal already frightening to spread sick mourning nets of slush and raining, dense all-consuming autumn sadness and inexhaustible distress. Thick humid air is indifferently freezing and getting tragically filled with bitter taste of rotten herbs and promptly perishing wet leafage. Vast silent passionless expanses, completely faceless, numb and faint, are slowly letting summer heat away from bonds of inner voids, with inconsolable despair inviting windiness and frosts to shackle lands with gloom and snows. In all accessible for eyes, from closest objects of the room till farest points of horizon – one single pessimism and doom, torn off from tiniest of prospects to get diluted with some joy. Andrei Efimovich is tediously longing, exploring rags of tired shadows, grouped up in steady shapeless flocks on vacant space of bleak nude walls, and feebly plunging puzzled mind in mash of apathy and boredom: “Still how much small is all what's given, how sadly modest, weak and vain – to wait, to ill with fright and hope and to gain volume of endurance. Each step is fruit of fortune's whims, each day from morning and till night is nothing else than just a script, detaily written in accordance with world's plannings and uncorrectable by will or by irrelevant bold faithing in higher chosenness of self. All is not firmer than delusion, long, static, stubborn, stiff, but faked. And even craving for awakening's upcoming is also usually not more than just a way to fall asleep, but only heavier and deeper – with getting rid of last connection between reality and head. All is too dummy, too deceptive for to be tamed by mind's control or by apt use of intuition. What can you actually take as always workable example of proper soil for next hopes, for fair presence of trustworthiness to prospects and for supportive priceless guarantees of prudence of each imputed path and deed. Day's swamp is bottomless, almighty, exhausting, ugly, sick and wrong. If you aren't careful, you're dead. You can't survive without rushing, can't bet on rescue as on norm. And the more wide is living abyss, the less you're trying to to resist. And even bursting into tears and harshly howling with no rest, you'll never change accepted rules, can't shake main essence of foundations. The most unbrekable of shackles are ones, which are assigned by fate. Such sort of burden stays till grave, till ending point of whole voyage.”
The hero has perplexedly got up, put on worn crumpled leather jacket and, overcoming inner numbness, led route in net of local streets – to hide from limits of room's prison and to get freed both from abundance of tart void and from excess of gnawing thoughts.
Here it makes sense to give report of inclination and specificity of views of our mentally inflicted, lost in incessant seeking hero, who right from term of farest youth has been most heavily infected with hardest possible of forms of disappointment in world, was deadly faithing in determinism's conception, with almost every single minute increasing measure of devotion to frames of given from above. “In game of life, no hesitations, I would wholeheartedly prefer to play each time in one same manner – in full accordance with fate's rules.” - this daily phrase was with the highest scale of aptness and with no needing in additional details depicting both his main position and approach. Such simple postulate, to positive surprise, was wholly cozy and convenient in use, not even nearly demanding to spend strengths and calling only to maintain shy calm beholding of self-embodiment of facts. The first of aims was not to hinder to life's going, not to forbid its plans and laws and not to try to interfere in share's mechanisms and twists, without minimal of questions with utter nimbleness agreeing with any thinkable of changes of your inconstant earthly plot, no slightest matter, how much burdensome and tragic it will unfortunately be.
Among of deserted streets' abyss – deep static silence and tart dominance of gloom. No motley passers-by, no noises, no superfluousness of fuss. Meek boring route crawls from home's walls to trading square – to look at products and at faces and to distract ill cracked attention from bonds of permanent distress. Inside of shaky wooden fence - vast set of barrels, carts, tents. Large, tightly loaded long rows are full of any kinds of rubbish – lamps, honey, ladles, rags, fish, brooms. Brave brazen sellers are frustratingly persistent, completely tactless and explicitly dishonest. Swift restless buyers aren't much better – same morbid obstinacy's flurry and same desire to deceive. One single dollar is enough for to be killed or torn apart. So, nothing rare, odd or new.
“Where are you squeezing? Stupid donkey!" - plump, slightly baldish wrinkled man with heavy bulky shabby bag has unrestrainably gone mad and given instant abrupt roaring, preventing youth from opportunity to move: “I've torn your ear year ago. Have you got tired of another? Where are you rushing, moron's piece - one extra step, and I'll destroy you!”
Shocked scared kid, not tasting luck, has in frustration run away, threat of fresh conflict has retreated.
“They once again fight, drink and shout. All as millenniums before. In lands of jesters you don't need to visit circus. Shame, sadness, bitterness, annoyance." - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, shyly shrinking, led his current voyage back.
And, as not more than just an hour's half ago, nude faceless walls and languor's pit.
“Eh world, not most appropriate of places.Yes, we can live, can dream and hope. But we're unable to fix being, to change its tunings, broads and laws. The very lasting of existence is less essential and weighty than smallest particle of dust. No drop of difference at all, how much insistent and assertive will be your tryings and attempts – it's not an option to reject what is entrusted y fate's plannings. I'm deadly fed with such delusions as faith in better or in chance or as relying on some prudence and on supremacy of luck. Let's simply dare to admit – we live for sufferings, for nothing. And what is even more exhausting – one day we all will have to die.”
The hero has got delved in bonds of blanket and, swiftly melting in deep sleep, gone into thickets night dreamings, with indescribable success at once not only having freed from any troubles, but also having emptified mind's abode from constant tireless reflexions of imperfection and distortedness of living and, what is even more upsetting, of wrecking needlessness of self, for whole imputed earthly presence torn off from happiness, or pleasures, or from intimacy and warmth.

II
Above of silent copper roofs – meek graceful ballet of sun's rays: inertly fading summer's heat is coyly paying frail goodbyings by lavish painting of bleak desolate expanses with last remainings of bright tints. On lonely bench two modest silhouettes of resters - Andrei Efimovich, with suitcase, and next to him, with fresh newspaper, Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin, his oldest friend and co-observer of life's display, well-educated thoughtful library's employee in local history museum.
“I once again am in concernings of existence, of given vectors, paths and roles, of frames and limits of reality's obsession, of its eternal flaws and risks...” - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and numbly fallen in prostration.
“There are no worlds without risks. And the more ample is their presence, the more eventful are your plots. And any fear, fright or shyness are just unjustified and strange. Without coldness of acceptance you'll never reap indeed huge fruits. If you're afraid, that some wrong force at one of days will break your branches, just keep in mind, that your whole tree could rather easily be simply just not planted. Each one of matters, things and thoughts is under prominent control. Both you, you doings and attainments are too adjustable, too pure. In truly wonderful of worlds, not only actions and ideas are assigned, but even every single atom is most exotically tamed, what is as stunning as frustrating. It's madly stupid and resultless to be afraid of speed of time or of excessiveness of crowds, such things are not much more noise – dead, useless, dummy, far and vain, it can perplex or disappoint just few last sober types of people as total idiots and kids. Best way to handle with small people is right implying of big numbers. This is the durablest of facts. But it's not tricky to lose balance or to get hurted and erased. The more immacuate is person, the more upsetting is his end. The more exalted is the cup, the more bloodthirsty is its hammer. And even coping with resistance, you'll never manage to beat fate. In incorrigible wall's absence, nail's presence starts to look as joke. Youre free to hurry and persist, but this is not a way to progress and not a key from better lot. Do not forget, as life confirms, in coffin all will be in time, and what's of other of locations, such ones, without of exceptions, depend on schedule of your days, which ones, ar rule, not too much frequently are lavish and full of blossoming and bliss.”
“Yes, world is ugly and unhealthy, disgusting, baleful and sick. Some ones with gladness pay for splinters, some ones with anger and annoyance refuse from free holistic cup. You cannot heal this, cannot stop it. We're truly capable to reach all sorts of targets, the only question – at what cost. Indeed good ticket time from time is more expensive than whole ship. Such state is scarier than horror. And not to answer - how to live, with what to start and where to go...”
“It's sad, but gaining of spark is much more difficult and tricky than next maintaining of a flame. Such law is almost all-consuming. It's greatly painful to build plans just for to see – how they'll be broken. No weighty matter which a way you'll write your vector, it will not keep itself for long. The worst of things is that not written text at all is also tragically able to carry abyss of mistakes. But still don't darken from despair – try, struggle, obstinate and climb. It's madly vain to talk of prizes without entering in game."
“But what to do, if all attempts are stably torn from any prudence. If each accessible of deeds is wholly barren and resultless. At twisted route straight legs are worse than their absence. And not to guess, where is seductively good poison and where disgustingly bad food. It's much more easy to be clinging for last trifles, than to agree on getting rid of last ones' presence. And what is certainly more awful, all weighty things are also temporary, mortal – as sudden trace on humid sand, made by one wind for to be blown away by other. But such ill state is nothing else than just a fog, frail and indifferent background. The more unsteady is the choir, the more assured is its singing. Laugh is belonging of one single stage of circus, and life is mainly lie and dirt. But is this really hope's end? Or cause to fall and start to weep? If so it happened, that some idiots and fools have irritating morbid habit of throwing stones in your peace-loving modest garden, then simply try to figure out – for which of heads these stones will suit.”
“This is most frequent truth of days – if you have learned how to enjoy with right on head, learn to enjoy with right on guillotine and noose. For sure presence of the light, one single presence of light bulbs is not an option; the most important here is absence of ones, who're trying them to break. Gloom and vexation are much stronger – than any arguments to hope. The less of chances on success, the more of chances at one moment to get accustomed to their end.”
“And what about flock of people – so much dishonest, sick and mad, bloodthirsty, cruel, dull and low, is there something not disgusting and not distorted in their breed?”
“Yes, current people are pure garbage. Worst of all evils and not less. For them it's usually quite easy to part with fruitful and majestic, but hard with purposeless and gray. No given tools can change their essence – pain, horror, power, all is helpless, they will remain to be the same. The more unbreakable is forehead, the less it hides of bullets' flight. Do not expect fix this curse. You can't turn guillotine in head. Ones, who are suitable for taming, for tricky art of education are inappropriate at all. For to get rid of faith in life, all you may need is just to born, for to get rid of faith in person, all you may need is just to notice, what whole humanity here is. This is too static, too undying  And even rare shy exceptions can't make some influence at rules. If you will add gold's drop in copper, you'll never cope to reap gold's piece. Leave faith and hoping for  weak-minded. Bad sound never brings nice echo. I'll even tell you slightly sharper - the more innumerous is group, the more improper are its members.”
“But how much proud all here are, how much persistent, harsh and stern.”
“The less remarkable is circus, the more unbeatable is arrogance of clown. We live at bottom, this is fact. It fills each wastage with inhuman inspiration by giving chance to any shit to get same cost as decent honey. Such truth destroys and floods with pain. The more dishonest is game's plot, the less essential is winning. You can't create such sort of thing, which will be freed from risk to perish. There is no place for real fire in artificial stove's vent.”
“Yes, the more promising is forecast, the less enjoyable and friendly will be in practice weather's state. This is most stubborn of life's laws. It's sad and useless to be burning, if you have no one to be warmed. Meek frank idea to make the sky keeps sense exclusively in pair with ardent hope, that someone else at one of days will unalterably be able of to invent such tool as wings. It's too much natural and plain to fall in faith in logic's presence. We think, that stably meeting nails, we have to manage to meet hummer. But this is fair for one dreams. And what's of frames of earthly being, at here same optimism is doomed. And the more harmless is event, the more frustrating are its outcomes and endings. The more defenseless is the match, the more destructive is its fire.”
Semyon Kirillovich has sighed and, having risen collar's contour, with silent helplessness reported: “World's pier is stupid. Hopeless, sad. And autumn season is at porch, what even more will strengthen acuteness of pain and thicken tartness of despair.”
“All is dead. Land and soul. Leaves and plans. No joy, no power, no belifs.” - Andrei Efimovich has faded and, clenching his palms, got lost in thought.
“And even trees are almost nude. Last dreary steps before of snows. At least, let's trample width of streets – for to find rescue in coy art of observation.” - Semyon Kirillovich has lazily got up and, into pair with his speech-mate, sent path in greediness of murk.

III
At local square feast of fullness: lights, tents, carts, crowds, music, fuss – brisk vivid act of fair's swirling is right at point of its peak:each one is rushing, laughing, dancing, consuming drinks and eating food. For ones, who're thirsty for some fun, takes place whole abyss of adventures: all sorts of alcochol and dishes, few vacant stages for legs' madness and stands with ribbons and balloons. Wild restless flock of motley people's is amply teeming with delight, rejoicing, swarming, squealing, smiling losing mind from storm of fun. Heels are destroying ground's surface. Hands are performing random movements.
“Looks rather similar to life... But still not catchy, not alluring. Yes, world around, being stubborn, with passion trys to stay alive – bursts, boils, widens, tempests, boasts, prolonging agony's maintaining for undisturbably long term and even filling such one's lasting with sort of ardor, zeal and heat. I'm not amazed with facts like this, from some time's point, thanks to share, I have become most incorrigibly unable to get enchanted or surprised with any thinkable of turnings and transformations of days' plots, as scale of trickery and horror and depth of lie, decay and dirt.” - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov has only ended to complete his sad downtroddening conclusion, as at lefthanded side from him, one of the passers-by, not waiting, has made short obstinate step forward and slapped another one in face: “Have you forgotten of last beatings? Or lost ability to die? Damned brainless scum, I have been warning your dumb muzzle, that if I'll notice you with Tanya, I’ll smash your forehead, nose and ears and then tear off your f*cking skin.” - strong, red from anger stumpy man has swiftly caught same one, but pallid, and hitted him in one of eyes: “You're lost. You've wasted last way out. Last chance to stay, at least, alive.”
Soon, right in midst of fierce beatings, combined in smooth melodic noise, has unexpectedly flown straightly into action some sudden screaming female figure, who has insistently proceeded to pinch and shake aggressor's neck: “I've been seducing him myself and was most thankful for agreement as for the sacredest of joys. And you, damned stupid scarecrow, have undermined me whole enjoyment, whole my forbidden piquant buzz.”
“You want your mug to be smashed too? It’s not a question to arrange.” - disturbed offender has reluctantly stood up and, keeping threatening, gone back: “See you soon, hold eyes opened: if I will meet you once again, you'll find yourself as corpse or cripple, don't even try to check this promise, I'm never joking - you're informed.”
“How are you feeling after knocking? - my sweety dear little thing. I hope, that mainly fine and save. Oh, what a trouble – face is broken, but still it's cutest of all rest. I'm most wholeheartedly assured, without waverings at all - you will get healed in term of days, no single shade of any doubts. What an incredibly sad pity – I, right as always, have to run – soon my Oleg will come to here – he has been sent to buy some food and to take children and in few minutes must return. And, please, don't miss remains of temper - don't fall to much in blaming Dmitriy. Yes, he has injured you now, but is this reason for to cry, he monthly sponsors my existence and helps in many other ways. Guess, quite enough for tiny chance to be forgiven. Right at this point I'm goodbyeing - love you, kiss, wish to jump in your care. Do not give up, all of your hardships will pass out – without notable of traces and with no soil for regrets.”
The poor fellow has stood up, hugged up his chosen for her waist and, limply hobbling, left away. And indeed, after couple of minutes, thin, tall, pale youth with product basket and with two little lovely childs, each of which ones with both of palms full of rich mix of sweets and apples, has as it was proclaimed by lady indeed successfully approached her: “I'm glad to soothe you - we've arrived. So, we are free to send route's going towards home.”
“Did you accomplish all of buyings? Hope, you have coped not to forget of need to gather every item. As well as coped not to forget to clean floor's carpet at the hallway. A what is wrong with son's panama - where has he crumpled it such way?”
Young man has fall in explainations and then with timidness remarked: “You looks a little bit disheveled...”
“It’s not a matter of your mind. Don't make me angry, let’s move home. I want to check what's with my tasks. I bet, you've failed in almost all...”
Here mentioned company has left.
“Oh, Tanka, brave flamboyant helltress. Such cunts reap fire with no scalds.” - one of old ladies has in vivid zestful voice with admiration told to other, with idle laziness performing half of turn to side, containing interlocutor's location: “And Oleg is indeed gift of fortune – so immense care in her sake, so deep devoting of attention. He has admitted her as wife, agreed to feed, warm, clothe and learn two juveniles from her first marriage and sickly fallen into heaviest of loves. And Dmitriy is a known scoundrel. He's keeping sworling next to her for almost thirty of last years, since distant times she was young innocent school-girl. And beaten one, to utter shame, is not familiar at all, at least, for frames of my attention. As I suspect, he is her newly minted boyfriend. I've never seen him in these latitudes before."
“This damned example is quite famous, it's jester Prokhor, local clerk. Last dulard, drunkard, jerk and buffoon. She plays with him for term of single recent year. I can't explain, what did she find in his lost person. Guess, sort of sorcery or magic, or mind's blackout - also cause.” - with instant quickness has replied her wholly equal in senility co-twaddler.
“This is exactly what I truly love the most in breed of mediocre people - that all their vices, flaws and sins are brighly displayed for the vastest observation. Ones, who are tricky and exalted, behave more hiddenly, more quietly, committing meanness and atrocities much smarter – in highly secretive and complicated manner and with no spotably straight evidence of guilt. But in main essence all is same – same endless rottenness, same lowness, same sneering, mockeries and dirt. New days' humanity is broken, it's poisoned, wasted, crippled, ill. The fact of birth itself is tragedy and sorrow. No weighty matter how you live and what you strive to, you'll never cope to find such things as love and pleasure, as understanding and support or as, at least, plain banal peace, preserved from sudden aimless failure. All is immeasurably vain - all of beginnings and awaitings. We'll never outplay time's going, as well as never will get chance to curb its plots.  Life is just meaningless, mistaken - as act of filling of cracked pot.” - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and feebly walked back into home, away from muzzles, fuss and filth, from wrecking hopelessness and anguish and from unneeded useless self, too incombinable with being - as key with door without lock.

IV
In midst of lonely faded room, in sleepy passionless dim twilight, was meekly sitting female figure, completely sunk in sea of sadness and lost in bitterness of thoughts. In tragic role of such doomed person was coyly acting pale and frail Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, tavern worker, cute and affectionate shy lady with empty fate and joyless views - both on oneself and onto prospects of own future, in all of seeming variations in same scale dismal and oppressive and rid of any shade of hope.
“Well, almost noon, and I have only got awoken. Have only parted with my sleep. And once again right in despondency and boredom, in cage of walls and into apathy and pain. Stagnation, hollowness, frustration. Deep tart oblivion and me. What can I do for it to bring me dose of pleasure and to pass out not in vain. It’s not an easy task at all – to spend lifetime with sort of meaning or with, at least, some drop of bliss.”
Madame has carelessly yawned and, putting clothes, gone to pour coffee into stomach. So, having drunk three honest quarters of one gallon and eaten yesterday's mint cake, she has indifferently taken her umbrella and stepped to wander and to gaze at local nature, enshrouding mind, already gnawned till holes by doubts in shawl of gloominess and grief.
Nude faceless street is full of fog, bleak hazy houses are blurred, wet static air – thick and cool. Faint gray landscape is timid, silent and dejected. Thin shapeless lines, politely smooth, but numbly stiff, are independently chaotic. Day is downtroddingly forsaken. Views are unfriendly, damp and dim. Dark ground's surface is intensively washed out and almost turned in state of mash due to long permanence of raining. Vast lifeless latitudes are drearily detached and hsrshly purified from splendor. No single car among whole endless net of roads, no one pedestrian at width of last one's pavements. Just slush and autumn, wilting nature and acute smell of dying leafs – all what is given for perception and consoming by sad variety of world's pier.
Irina Pavlovna, enveloping in stupor, is shyly sliding into distance of street's line, exploring sleepiness of facades and neatly catching rare tints of sadly powerless frail beauty, already vanishing away.
“Goodbye – past season of warm days, hello – surroundings' extinction. What is ahead, except of fading, murk and frosts. No slightest cause to get consoled or to aquire inner balance. Not to be hidden from despair, not not inhabit heart with joy. Not to reap hope from field of vainness. No flame, no bliss, no expectations. One breathless coldness of soon winter and inexcusible distress.”
Irina Pavlovna has sighed and trudged ahead between of puddles with weak impassive languid gait, completely losing needless self in sticky abyss of opression, mixed up with memories and fog, leaked over voyage of her fate, already tasted deadlock's presence. It's hard to say, what time from time is wrong with wholy vivid nature, quite full of chances, plans and dreams, if at some point it gets parted with own will, with zeal to live, to wait for future, to seek, to strive and to persist. It’s scary state not to be wanting to remain here, but even scarier and darker not to be knowing what you want. Irina Pavlovna was one of such cracked persons, from start of youth and till today, to greatest tragedy and sorrow, in hardest possible of measures in all of senses being broken and freed from any drop of passion to stay alive and to participate in twistings of strange and boring games, so madly allien and irksome both for mind's abode, soul and views.

V
In midst of gloomy windy weather, in thick tart wilderness of darkness, is slightly trudging sluggish figure - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov: is sadly looking at surroundings of world, involved in sleepy evening's magic, with frail unsteady lazy gait, without goal and destination, exloring emptiness of places and losing gaze in depths of facelessness and murk, in cold oblivion and bleakness, most stably frozen over ditance with dense impenetrable veil.
“No lights, no faces, no life's signs. As if reality is dead. You cannot find here, cannot catch — at least, the smallest ones of joys as warmth, devotion, love and care. I once again am wasting time in ainless walking, in vain observing and doomed thoughts. In long awaiting for some changes and for upcoming of alluring prudent plots, what's fully useless and resultless and even straightly wholly funny – as rod in lands without fish. But heart requests its right on pleasure – on feelings, passions, bliss and heat, on secret meetings confessions, keen shameful quivering permissions and lewd desires, asks and trys. But all I have - just street and me. Just one vast endlessness of slush and all-consuming sticky fog, frustrating, breathless and opaque, as if made out of pure plumbum and left for stealing flame from souls. No hopes, no plannings, no emotions. No bloom, no ardor, no delight. As if indded frames of this world are torn from any form of better.”
The hero has infirmly sighed and, with forlornly languid step, led his vain path back towards void of home's prison, away from painfulness and self, too much unable to get fairly awaken as well as equally remoted from decent chance to fall asleep.

VI
At local history museum, to meek excitement of its holders, is day of broadly opened doors. Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin, completely ready for first guests, is coyly waiting for their coming. Day's pace is peaceful, smooth and calm. Hall's space is desertedly vacant. For whole unbearably long length of first resultless working hour, no single person has appeared, maintaining prevalence of boredom and keeping emptiness intact. Close to the lunchtime, has arisen strange strict lady with outstandingly huge pile of tightly groupped in few folds papers and in dark hat with quite immodest width of brims.
“I’m from inspection, from main governing commission. What is about exposition and land's stand? Where're maps, showpieces and brochures? Where're, tell me, diagrams? Where're schemes? I'm making notes of each of items and details. We have to calculate foundations – for to explain, desribe and justify spent money, just all, believe me, all of them – till every single rusted penny will be few times most deeply checked and then depicted in report. So, as you guess, it favours you to help to me to make your cloudy affairs look wholly innocent and rightful for ones, who'll verify my claims. Because of otherwise, you know, it will be counted as crime, you'll have to pay and pay a lot. If you'll refuse, you'll go to jail. Not safest theme for you to play with. Hope, you're informed indeed enough of what habitually happens with such madmen, who ever, losing mind and fear, take risk to dare to break law.”
"We're having all – all what's announced. All, what was bought on allocations and all, we've managed to collect by ourselves. Here  you can see huge realictic learning stand, few graphic maps, each day enlargening in size exclusive rarities' assembling and even modest room of books of local authors for last five centuries or more.”
“It’s not important for my deals, I am of indexes, of numbers, if obligations, spendings, debts.”
“I’m plain librarian, accept it, I'm not of documents or money, it's even nearly not mine. For such of answers you should ask administration.”
“Well, as I see, you are pure nothing. Vain piece of uselessness and faults. Slug with no future and no rights. I do not know any maps, I even have no drop of knowledge, how to use them. But I'm the one, who works with money, one, who're aware – which a way such thing gets gained. And you are loser, flunkey, wickling, you always study, think, strive, seek, but still remain same helpless zero, resultless, funny, weird and lost. You even cannot find yourself, maintaining state of total wastage, rid of ability to live. Your grasp for profit and success is less essential and zestful then blowing's strength of corpse's breath...” - has ended gnawings mocking lady and walked away with loud steps.
“How many monsters are around... At each unoccupied of spots. ” - Semyon Kirillovich has sighed and sadly fallen in numb silence: “Now all excitement to exist  has unreturnably gone out. The very fact, that world gives birth to such of people is by itself not less than curse. What for to be, if both these elements and you have here same air, sky and water, same pull of passions, joys and heights. This is immeasureably wrong, destructive, pestilent, oppressive - as worst and deadliest disease. And not to crush, not to reject nets of reality's extinction, not to get saved from swamp of madness and decaying, not to find rescue from world's hell...”
One or two hours after this, have come two lovely stylish girls, in wholly shameless dashing dresses and under covering of tons of flashy jewelry and feathers, grouped up in common motley splendor, for unexperienced of eyes excessive, screaming, weird and funny and for more skillful and attentive – enchanting, pretty, fresh and cute and even partially full of some impalpable uniqueness.
“We were examining street's line and then vain wandering through quarters, by sort of mystery, I'm guessing, has led us straightly to your gates, where, due to catchiness of plate, fixed right at middle of main facade, each one of us has sharply felt most utter need of to look in and research what kind of items has met with chance to be exposed. We're deadly suffering from boredom, that's why, relying on luck's mercy, we're wildly asking you for dose of etertainments, for piece of marvel and surprise.”
“Well, then, let’s start from viewing stand – this is small model of whole city. It aptly imitates relief and unmistakably repeats both contour, order and direction of every single local street, here are all buildings, all main parks, full river with true line of shore, closed ancient chapel and voodoo tumbleweed ravine. Below of ground all rocks' slices – to one kilometer of depth. And even ferries, dam, depot and railway node are taking place in proper parts of land's expances.”
“It's even possible to find at here own house?” - one of the ladies has with curiousness asked.
“Of course, it's possible, you're right, what's more – quite easily and promptly. Just name details of your adress”
At this short point, having shown demanded trick and given meet with native roof, the hero has led girls to hall with rare set of local costumes for few last centuries of past.
“Have they indeed been daily walking just like that?”
“They've even honestly been faithing, it's best fashion.” - Semyon Kirillovich has yawned with timid smile.
“I would never agree on such style!”
"Me the same."
“So, no one forces you to do so.”
At this young ladies have got tired and soon indifferently left.
And once again has got hung silence and started thickening of usual desolation. As if whole city has forgotten of vain culture and of same purposeless themselves. And only almost towards evening, has come small barefooted boy, most hardly sloppy and uncombed, with shabby cap and into worn old-fashioned jacket, ragged till few holes at one os sleeves.
“I want to read, no matter what - about life, about feats, about honesty and frankness. Both with tart dashingness and meaning and unpredictable plot's end."
“There is thin book of one lost boat – its main projector and designer has known of incident and then, most harshly fallen into shock, let pistol's bullet in own forehead, and boat later has been found – as it has turned, has dropped right course...”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I'm looking for at now.What I'm so wildly needing.” - the boy has jumped and gladly nodded and, having grabbed worn out book, with greatest hastiness and zeal got firmly settled in hall's center and in delight begun to read.
“Yes, priceless, powerful, shakes soul!” - sighed the boy and gently asked: “May I take book to home – when I'll read, I'll return.”
“Tell of yourself, at least, few words – your life, you dreams, your views and faithings. And what's of book – just take for any needful term, for such mad interest to reading, it's even not a sin at all to give to you some sort of medal.”
“Oh, no, medals are for others. For medal prise is one – it's life. And what's of me, all is quite simple – son of cathedral clergyman and washerwoman, live with all mortal, visit school and fight with hunger, but into thoughts, in spite of givenneas of days, I seek for greatness, for life's meaning, for truth, for answers, for world's aim..."
“Me too... But out of results...”
Semyon Kirillovich has suddenly got frozen and, having fallen in short stupor, lost in silence. At this pause, they've gradually parted. One - to plunge consciousness in reading, and other one – to sink in thoughts, what even slightly wasn't new, but still was throwing into anguish, destroyng inwardness of nature and sadly ringing with its splinters, already dead and tighhtly mixed with inner void, so amply flooded with numb hopelessness and sorrow from understanding and accepting of utter bitterness of self, comletely allien and needless, forgotten, futureless and cracked, distressed and injuringly empty.

VII
Along of deserted street's length is shyly sliding thin hazed silhouette of woman - Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, with mourning drowning in despondency and fright, keeps silent walking through of blurredness of world. By sides – thick gloominess and boredom, deep lifeless fadedness and grayness. Inside same apathy and doom. No zeal, no optimism, no warmth.
“No flame, no strengths, no tints, no faces. One darkness, steadiness and murk. No slightest vividness, no movement. No hope, no pleasure, no escape. As into cage, in squeezing nosose...”
Frail tired heroine has let coy bitter sigh and turned her voyage back to home.
In bonds of walls, to squall of tears, all is entirely the same. Same utter emptiness and sadness and hurting loneliness – worst curse, caustic, stubborn, restless.
“Again I'm fatally alone. No tender hand, no loving gaze, no languid unity of natures. What a life, what a lot... Torment, horror. What to rely on in such hell..."
Irina Pavlovna has yawned and fixed her gaze at own hazed figure into mirror. “What an incredible great miracle is body – bunch of all sweetest earthly feelings and key to all most sacred joys. And how much stupidly infrequent are our meetings with this marvel of carnal closeness with self. How sadly rare we let body in sinful bliss of lust and passion, in magic storm of lewd forbiddenness and shame. And life is frighteningly short and unforgivably imprudent. How madly mindless and mistaken not to devote time to oneself, not to ascend to trembling ecstasy of heat and not to tease own thirsty flesh with tempting yearning for new fallings into love.”
Irina Pavlovna, in few short seconds having deftly put away all what at here is called as clothes, has placed herself on sofa's vastness and with no shade of hesitation most widely spreaded waiting legs and dropped quick skillful fingers, with moans collapsing in hard flurry of all-consuming tart delight.
“Oh, how much nice! How sweet and wonderful, how great! As into latitudes of heaven.” - with growing swiftness limping lady has slided up with tips of fingers by wet folds and then again removed them back and with some fear – for to lick taste of own excitement and to get charmed and thrilled once more - in even more profound measure from so deep lecherousness of self.
“Oh yes, pure feast, pure admiration. Oh, how I love this sinful holiday of bliss! How much good, how serene and how joyful. As in best possible of worlds.”
Madame has slided with palm lower - to most forbidden of locations and, having opened pale plump buttocks, delved in most piquant ways of meeting with enjoyment, so much untamably demanded at gray and tiresome today. Soon, having ended act of passion, she has stretched out over sofa and turned small radio on edge of table on, releasing sadly languid notes of some unknown wistful melody of love:
“Your soul still burns with sort of fire
You still have zeal to breathe and dream
You drive away your inner dying
What trys to dwell inside of heart
But role has almost been played out
What with despondency reminds
That your lost path, cracked from pain's gnawing
Is not a place for any warmth...”
“And once again my pain has caught me. How short and fleeting was escape. And, as before, my thoughts again are deadly falling into longing. I guess, it's time to try to sleep, to hide myself in fog of dreamings – away from sorrows and distress. At least, for term of few next hours. At least, for last one's modest length...” 
Irina Pavlovna has yawned and, having sunk inside of blanket, left self in wilderness of sleep.

VIII
In midst of tragicall room's prison, between of hopelessness and walls, are two dim silhouettes of talkers- Semyon Kirillovich at left side, Andrei Efimovich at right. The aim of meeting, as before, without tiniest of changes, is inccorrigibly the same - to weave doomed thoughts and to keep search for seeds of meaning.
“Still how unbeatably caustic and undemolishably firm can be infectedness with fears, how madly powerless and weak is every single human mind in front of grasp of last ones' fetters. And not to part with such dependence, not to extract it from head's depths, not to remove, not to erase, not to wash out – no smallest drop of any matter, how much assertively you try...” - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, hiding heaviness of voice, with strong despondency continued: “There is no need to look a lot for to have tragedy to notice, how shaky, fleeting and fragile is all, each one of us obtain with - both you, your fate and its past aiming, weight and sense, with every first most little risk,  can get effortlessly destroyed and turned in handful of vain wreckage. If you have stumbled – you get lost, if you've mistaken – you get wasted.”
“This is reality of being, its all-consuming modern truth, disgusting, merciless and wrong. The more close, plentiful and ample is bunch of chances on mistake, the more it's scary not to make it. The more intensive is your fear, the more frustrating and ruining will be upcoming of its cause. You can't be saved from timeless burden to play by false offensuve rules. The more inviting, bright and hot is flame of luck, success and fortune, the more it's easy to get scalds. And not to find right hopeful vector, not to build soil for beliefs. Not many people at today can feel big difference between of leash and owner. And too much easy it's to fall —to fool onerself and to lose faith. A lot of things can rid smart person from mind's presence, but no of things can steal mind's absence away from head of stupid one. World's pier is just crazily chaotic, it's freed from logical of laws. If you have horse, you are already fair rider. If you have cards, you are in game. What to look at within sick frames of this damned planet – at dirt, betrayls, pain and grief – this hell at here is everywhere, at every spot with signs of life. And even most unknown dish can hide quite native sort of poison. The worst of facts of such sad state – no one will ever cope to fix it, I bet, no one will ever try, don't think, it's feasible at all – to stop and cure what is as old as earth itself. Both world and people are immeasurably steady – as most unbreakable of stones. Excess of flies, as you can guess, is not a guarantee of elephants' abundance. All deeds are equally resultless, all hopes are similarly vain. There are no ideals, no treasures, one empty valueless replacements, torn off from any prudent use. Ones, who're unable to reap buds, as rule, proceed to gather thorns.”
“All is so hazy, so deceptive. Each opportunity, each chance. Each human fate, each dream and planning. Each one of lifes, if to observe it, is less than particle of sand – today you live, and at tomorrow feed worms' plenty. Just lose attention for a second, and you're already swollen corpse. And all your thoughts and expectations are turned in nothingness, in dust. It kills, frustrates and leaves distorted – as sip of poison with full throat."
"At here, risks' presence is as air – it's truly almost everywhere, at every single spot and place. But is this cause for fright and tears. Such state, if you'll fall in researchings, is source of skillfulness and grace. Te more elusive is your bet, the more perceptible is playing. Don’t be afraid to run by razor, or to waste life for sudden whim. Just keep in mind, that strongest notes at here, most often, belong to weakest ones of strings. The more worn out are the keys, the more fresh melodies they gift us. It's sad and tragical, but horror is main helper, main local sharpener of tempers, minds and deeds. Don't shy of twistedness of plots, just stay yourself and keep ignorance of all others. As if there is no single person at whole world's stage, except of you. As if all strangers are just dummies, and all of facts right from birth's time are jnot much more than faked obsession – dishones, pointless and false. If you indeed want to get turned in proper apple, the first of all don't heed to worms."
“But how disgusting it's to be here – among of filth of people's breed, where from most ancient of foundations till today all is unchangably distorted, deceptive, dubious, two-faced...”
“This is as old as flesh of being. And not to kill it, not to smash. The more attractive are is buds' blooming, the profound, tight and skillful is depth of hiddenness of thorns. The more exposed and tart is greenery of leaves, the less observable are roots. But don’t give up to all-consumingness of wrongness. Strive, struggle, climb, resist and bet on best. If you can't dare to ask question,  who'll risk to dare to give answer. Yes, all is endlessly distorted. There is no single one of problems, which due to craziness of world can't be presented to frail heads as own solution. But, if you cannot find what's lost, at least, have strength to fall in search. Sspoon is bad company for hunger as well as hammer for cup's clay, but game of life is going further and we are forced to try to play. It's not too difficult to fade and disapper, but not a coffin serves as target and not a dying works as aim.”
“All is too primitive, too hopeless – till beastful howling and wild screams.”
“Such days' simplicity is worst of complicators. Keys are for all of us, it's fact – both for most wise and for most stupid. Ones get defeated by addition of bad poisin, ones by removing of good food. And even after right conclusions, you can't reap much from share's fields. One errors' absence, as you know, is from correctness as moon. And world is tragedy, nightmare, dead and disgusting morbid swamp. Where only sickness is in favor and only flaws are in demand. The less essential is winning, the more magnificent is loss. But still to move forward and keep faithing. Things must come true within of life. No slightest matter, how much loud will be music at rite of funeral of you, you'll never cope to hear its playing. One nude result is truly weighty and important, and methods aren't much more than dust. The more significant is product, the less singnificant is price. Take this plain principle for law, and any hardships will surrender.”
Here, having fallen into wordlessness and thoughts, an hour later guests have parted – till new of meets and conversations and new frustratedness and pain.

IX
In midst of emptified street's abyss, in painful nets of gloom and fog, is meekly wandering frail figure - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, who once again with vainness trying to get hidden from pain, despair and lost self, is stepping forward into distance with no direction and no zeal, researching steadiness of places and spending time in fright and anguish.
“Same world, same hopelessness, same slush. Same mix of bitterness and void. Fall into frenzy, burst with tears – not to exchange entrusted role, not to rewrite what is imputed. And only vainness into pair and devastation into friends. No plans, no strength, no expectations. No proper routes, no opened roads. No single chance on any outlet from doom. We can just wait – behold and suffer, rely on path and burn life's turm. Not to decline predestination. What's more it's rid of any sense. There is no weight in what's not given from above. True flame of meaning gets appointed by fate, all other burning is just useless. I want to faith, that at days' end I'll cope to find here more than nothing, that this is able to come true."
Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, getting sunk in depths of thoughts, without passion, zeal and ardor, gone into gloom of wet gray quarter, in bonds of dreariness and doom.

X
In full of crowd restless tavern is reigning utterest impudence, grouped up in common idle loafing all types and sorts of people's mass: brave rakish youths, old nasty moneybags, deft gamblers, drunk and unbridled brazen girls, thin hunchy beggars and all other human wastage, with zeal united with each other in one holistic motley flock.
At kind of distance from guests' crowd – coy silent silhouette of woman: Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh is keeping waiting for new visitors' requests and looking up at fresh upcomers. Work's tasks are tediously banal – to make observings of hall's space, to send food orders to the the kitchen and to announce names and proggrams of the ascenders at free stage. At now, of course, as usual, tired, she is examining rest's process and losing mind in dreary thoughts. Tight set of public is diversive: no end of muzzles and tailcoats, each one is dancing, spinning, fussing. Next to the semicircled window - two lovely ladies eating fish, next the entrance into kitchen - bald fat redneck with heavy portion of meatballs, in farest corner, closed from pressure of attention, three slightly weird demandless jesters in screaming colorful frock coats.
Soon, not involving in awaiting, has come and bursted first eventfulness of day – brisk vacant fashionable guy has crept inside through slit of doors and stopped at ladies, tasting fish: “Good day, sweet flowers, I am Igor – luck's seeker, gambler and seducer. I see, you still have mind and moral, I've come to steal them and to smash."
“You're even not afraid of husband?” - with dose of mockery in voice and with tart sparkling into eyeballs first one of ladies has quite curiously asked. The second one has simply laughed.
“What is this husband - law or idol? Such goats never were too strong...”
“My gingerbread boy, you're so reckless, so badly poor and alone...”
“You not just look, but also see. What a smart-headed watchful creature, I most straightforwardly aprove. I’ll land at neighboring free chair, and you, not wasting our time, get up and gather your belongings, while I by ruthless lot of fate will bravely share scary burden of awaiting, restraining beastfulness of boredom and catching minutes for their tails. I'll even mercifully help – to end these frail remains of fish and to consume slops of your tea. My soul prefers, when it's strong-brewed. But not each time life copies dreams. I've taken living room in hostel – the smallest one, with single window. Till morning last one will be mine – just right as you. We'll close frame's curtains and then, not losing any second, will fall in artful depths of process, which helps soceity to enjoy and reproduce. And hurry up, I'm not aman of high aesthetics and not accustomed to keep waiting for too long.”
Madame has dropped in slight uncertain hesitation, and then, submerging in excitement, without questions left her sit and, having taking dashing gentleman by hand, with fair quickness gone away.
Another girl, her former friendmate and co-eater, has got perceptibly upset and even delved in short frustration, but then, returning back in courage, asked to bring glass of some strong wine and let both spirit, thoughts and body in bliss, delight and relaxation. Few minutes later, limply hobbling, has come unkown feeble man, not too much tall and quite gray-haired, and, having fixed himself in front of resting lady, with lifeless voice infirmly asked: “Where is my Katya? I've heard, she had to be with you.”
This seeking citizen, as it has nextly turned, was no one else than current husband of the very Katerina, who has departed into room with single window with brazen stranger, helped to reduce her tea and fish.
“She... She has literally vanished. As I suppose, without traces and for indefinitely long. I even bet, you'll hardly manage to return – at least, essentially soon.” - with liquid smile responded yawning tipsy lady.
The hero, falling into pause, has got holistically silent and rather notably confused, not understanding sense words, met with unready to them ears, but stupor's lasting was immediately broken, as soon as only it has joint with own start, because of further elongation of discussion: “So, is it logical at all – to figure out her location. World's stage is wide, I hope, you know it. Free girls are also at each step. Just take first one and do all worst. So much of ladies at these days are unforgivably unneeded, completely ownerless and free – for all most piquant ways of use. I bet each gram of planet's gold, there is no woman at whole earth, who isn't rid of something special – of tempting words of consolation, of carnal ardor of extasis, of tight strong grip of loving hands and of mind-blowing dirty compliments and jokes. Take me myself – grab me right here, I'll only fall in utter thankfulness and gladness, as if from precious foreign gift or from the rarest of stars, dropped aptly straight from dom of sky in my awaiting spreaded palms. Just throw one single glance ahead, and you'll identify the loneliest of persons. And not just lonely, but quite thirsty for adventures, for quick enjoyment and lewd shameless occupation for sinful soul and playful flesh. So, whom you have indeed to be for not to notice so much explicit naked hints, already turning in pure plea..."
Pink from amount of drunk alcochol hetaera has lost last modesty and care and, adding lecherousness in pose, with tartest fervor vastly separated hips, without single sign of fright, revealing all of her most sacred hidden places for richest limitless review, what by itself was superfluously enough for instant wordless understanding of main intention of past speech: “Well, look, admire and enjoy – with all, what moral ones so stubbornly keep closed, in spite of sternest asks to show...”
The hero, having quickly heeded to situation's inclination, with deftest instancy has  brightly realized, what type of leisure at day's end by incomparably huge lenience of fortune will with full lavishness be shared in all accessible of forms. So, not submerging in long thinking, he has affectionately kneeled in front of lovable harlot and, gently holding her by elbow, with pleasing feeling of excitement in blissful dreamings stepped away.
“What an unbearable disaster! What kind of illness has insulted our world? What deadly tragedy has fallen at society, that it has turned so much distorted, so much dishonest, sick and lost. Which scary way have people coped to get so wrong, so morbid, valueless and shallowed. Till so much horrible degrees. But if to look at them from distance - quite decent persons, even nice. If you don't delve in them too deeply, you'll never notice any flaws. And if to try to dig to core – one freaks and scoundrels, whores and jesters. No single tolerable soul. No truly proper way of living. And what's most hurting and annoying – both greatest thinkers and worst idiots at here has equal brightness of cheeks' blush and equal speed of hairs' growth. Both you and they belong to humans, to one identic living form. World's pier today is purest abyss. Vast devastating fatal swamp. How madly want I to forget all this unending ugly horror, all dirt, duplicity and filth. I want my mind to throw it out, to wipe away like bunch of crumbs – without any slightest trace of former memory of being, which one in any of amounts is deadly harmful and destructive, as worstly pestilent of weeds. I'd like to have another living – with prudence, aimfulness and weight and with no hastening and fussing, with no involvement in lie's feast and no excess of sneering grins. I seek for rescue, for salvation, but, to incurably dark sorrow, still stay unable to attain. At least, for tiniest of moments, most fleeting, doubtful and frail." - Irina Pavlovna has sighed and, plunging thoughts in depths of anguish, directed gaze at blur of window and lost in nets of inner pain.

XI
In midst of hall of local history museum, which has survived act of renewing and repair, is sitting couple of two figures - Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin and same uncombed and sloppy boy, this time more old and more matured, about seventeen of years, but still unchangeably untidy and rid of presence of high manners, by some of reasons with quite strongly broken eye, fixed with thick covering of patch.
“I’m back for wisdom and exploring, for something deep, unique and great and, out hesitance's taste, most truly different from nothing...” - the youth has cautiously smiled and shyly yawned.
“And what's with eye? What a disturbing hellish failure?”
“No much, just side effects of love.”
"Of love?"
“Of love, each one of times ill-fated...”
“What sort of love can leave so beaten?” 
“I haven't managed to get circled with another – without fighting and with presence of response. And even fighting isn't helpful – this is the worst, what I am having to admit...”
“No fist can work as key from heart. You need in sameness, into unity of natures. And even having perfect soil for connection, you can't be sure, that it'll actually happen and turn in something close to love, at least, most shaky, frail and vague, short-living, doubtful and weak, as tiny motley paper ship among of amply boiling puddle, which is already getting wet. And you've decided to begin your plot with fight – what an unthinkably mad nonsense..."
“This time I want to read of feelings, of passion, trembling, trust and heat. For to prepare useless me for future victories and heights, triumphs and harvests of devotion. Because of now all is hopeless – no melted hearts, no darkened minds, no piercing squeals, no timid whispering at nights, no sacred fearful confessions...”
“Dreams' poison, what's most devastating, is much more tempting, sweet and catching than any honey, this is fact, but each wrong tasting ends with death... And what's of book – it's not a problem, I'll try to choose the thickest one. Hope, it will cope to correspond to your requestings.” - Semyon Kirillovich has languidly got up and, having swirled at rack of shelves, with gladness handed two worn out heavy tomes: “For sake of start more than enough: first thing - Imaginary Flight and second one - Enchanted Abyss. For to leave few of scars at soul, I think, these ones will be most right.”
“Well, I was looking just for such ones. So, now I’m grateful with whole heart. Till end of day I'll learn each paige as well as letters of my name.”
“For you it's better to take care of yourself – to try to shy away from troubles and to put energy and strength on art of permanent maintaining of never ending daily peace.”
“I anyway will cope to find some risks and problems. Without them, life is too plain.”
“If your soul truly got addicted to storm's presence, then, to worst dreariness and sorrow, no ones of tools will ever manage to attach you to any variant of calm, you, as before, will seek for restlessness and fury, for taste of rakishness and rave...”
“It's also art – to live as fool. And, as I guess, I have already turned too skillful in daily delving in its tragic bitter routine...”
At here they've dolefully parted. Semyon Kirillovich has mournfully got silent and lost in heaviness of thoughts: “Young hopeful life, but how much madly full of doom, how much already cracked and broken and fed with feeling of regret. He has already coped to turn in being's victim, coped to agree to get transformed in one of others, without faith in own uniqueness and with one vainness next to fate – completely meaningless and weightless as frailest particle of sand in empty meaningless sandglass of nullifying crippling endlessness of ages. Had he at least most tiny chance on some another path of share, not too much lonely and rejected and at same time not too dependent on will and wants of someone else. This is indeed quite tricky question – the very same, what I so changelessly keep asking for so much frighteningly long... Days rush, times passes and dissolves, new ones of centuries replace exhausted old. But pain and needlessnes remain. Both with me, and with him, and with others – with all unfortunate, who ever have been born at this eternally lost planet, which, as I'm currently assured, is just unsuitable at all for to impute us any happiness and prudence.” - has sighed the hero in confusion and dropped in fading and distress.

XII
In bonds of walls of empty archive of museum - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, who once again is getting lost in bursting anguish and weaving thoughts of earthly matters, maintaing silence, doom and longing and growing hopelessness and pain.
“Eh, world - no brightfulness, no joys, no hope, no soil for good changings. If death will come to me right now, I'll have no reason to regret. All is pointless, vain, rid of sense. Till each most meaningless detail and each secondary moment. And not to break what is assigned by plots of share, not to rewrite imputed routes. You're getting fed with food, what's given you by being, and getting poisoned too exclusively with poison, which it has chosen for to put. I am aware – I'm unable to decline this, such state remains as long as time. And at the end I'll simply die – not fact, that certainly as happy and successful, but with no single drop of doubts most unrejectably as person, I have been programmed to become."
The hero has idifferently frozen and, having lost oneself in thinking and prostration till ending point of work day, without hurry taken things and led legs' route in walls of home. Among of gloominess of streets – numb lifeless languidness and peace. Time is weak. Sky is faint. No noise, no people, no fuss. In midst of second half of walk, at one sides of vacant road, in liquid shadowing of lonely askew fir, was met small modest trinkets shop with oldly looking bluish roofing: not less than paradise for funs of handmade trifles. Andrei Efimovich, by useless childish habit, has crept inside and, with shy carefulness looking at the items, begun to study last ones' row, with utter swiftness having melted in excitement and waves of cuteness and delight. In role of catcher of attention this time has acted tiny doll in weird red hat and with ski stick in one of hands. The hero, fallen in enchantment, not holding fruit of artless work in hands for long, has opened worn by years wallet and, having payed, with shining happiness, stepped home.

XIII
Above of city – viscous endlessness of fog. Day is gray and oppressingly frail. Land is damp and impassively cold. Faded street is deplorably empty. Alone its lonely lifeless line, completely deserted and dreary, is slowly sliding lost in apathy and doom full of perplexion timid silhouette of woman- Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, who once again is drinking bitterness of grief and bathing soul in pain and sorrow.
“Again damn burden of existing, again frustration and distress —from days, from nothingness, from thoughts. From timeless needlessness of self. From incompleteness of life's voyage, from imperfection of its course, from changeless constancy of routine, from lack of usefulness and hope. I, as before, am incorrigibly alone. And, as before, just wait and suffer and, what's the saddest, get more old. As if I do not live at all. As if for whole my former presence I no one second was alive. No one of most infirm of moments was truly happy, pleased or glad. No one... For all past wasted years...”
Madame has tragically sighed and soon thrown glance at askew fir and at small shop with bluish roofing, placed next to basement of its trunk. Due to too curious soul's nature, she has looked in and promptly fallen into love with one quite average of toys – frail doll in weirdly looking hat of reddish color and with ski stick in one of hands.
“What an amazing piece of cuteness. So much familiar and native, as if we some strange tricky way have spent whole century together. I'll take it. Take and leave with me. Will give it care and affection. And perhaps next at one of days will truly cope to find some love. And it will turn in common toy. Or maybe all will be more hopeless and it'll just stay in vain in dust. How to predict, what lot I'll get...”
She has dropped coin, took toy doll, wrapped it up and with quickness gone out - again in abyss of dark city, in desolation, fog and gloom.

XIV
In local history museum, not changed for flown from time's length years, same changeless company of two - Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin and his eternal willful prisoner of knowledge, this time about thirty years, but still uncombed and full of zeal.
“I want to read about lecherousness and lust. I hope, you'll try to find such sort writage... What will you answer to my plea?” -has sighed young visitor and yawned.
“Since which of times your taste has turned so much distorted? Who has addicted to such trash?”
“Once again game of fate. I've come together with one woman. With three times formerly divorced. And hundred times loved by each stranger. But still - at least, not from whorehouse. And even careful and tender – both with me and with fatherless childs.  her little offspring. She also makes great homemade hooch. So deadly strong, that I sometimes can't stand on feet.”
“I was preserving you exactly from such share, and you have fallen in its pit with so stern zesrfulness and ardor and with no yearning to resist. How inexcusably regretful and sadly stupid are lifes' paths... How madly painful to admit, that world is stronger. That each of us is just a pawn in its almighty ruthless abyss.” - Semyon Kirillovich has pensively got up and dragged himself to rack of shelves.
“And what's of me, I feel immeasurably easy - like stumps in watering, not less. No plans, no worries, no awaitings. No long-term prospects, no unneeded expectations. Only permanent living with now, with all its hardships, tricks and flaws. No risks, no purposes, no duties. No gnawing brain uncertain tasks. No tying falsehood of confessions.”
“Eh, as I see, world's laws have won. Without questions of replaying and with no right on other lot. But it was doubtlessly seeming, that there was some sort of chance...”
“All is not stronger than illusion, what's more – till utterest of levels, till purest paradox and rave. All things and states are just fate's toys, parts of surrounding bemusement. Game is wrong, scary, vain – rid both of meaning and of prizes. I've simply minimized my bets – the more low is your fall, the more safe it's to act into falling."
“Do you have any moments of comfort? At least, most rare and most weak...”
The hero has forlornly nodded: “Most sad, that comfort, right as peace, cannot be equalized to fair being happy. This is main tragedy, main grief. And if to deepen even more – no one of feelings and of last ones' combinations will never manage to replace that priceless state, when you are happy.”
“I'm harshly wanting to console you, but I am wordless in this case...” - Semyon Kirillovich has languidly returned and slowly handed small thin book: “It's most lewd, what we have. Not frequent topic for these walls.”
“With all my sinfulness of heart I am most bottomlessly grateful. And, please, forgive me such request."
And once again one static loneliness and silence. Semyon Kirillovich has yawned and dropped his gaze: “How madly painful is existing. As worst atrocities and tortures. And each of us has some exact entrusted burden, some deeply spot for crack. And even poisons here are personally chosen. Either teasingly sweet, or uneatably bitter, or just insipid – as life's taste.”
The hero has infirmly sighed and, losing gaze in depths of void, submerged in dreariness and doom.

XV
In midst of tiresome room's boredom – two timid silhouettes of talkers: Semyon Kirillovich the first, Andrei Efimovich the second. Sad dialogue's essence, as before, is incorrigibly devoted to vain attempts to understand entrusted being and to detect its real sense.
“How madly huge and unconstrainable is word... How wildly difficult and tricky, how much deceptive and unsafe...  Both days and people, roles and routes are full of mysteries and sercets, of straightly tons of dangers, twistedness and traps, of unexpectedness and hardships...” - Andrei Efimovich has yawned and slowly fixed his gaze at floor, involving self in thinking's thickets: “From what to start, from which of things... For to get chance to realize what's truly going at this planet.”
“Start from yourself, then move to others. This is main way to climb till truth. If you've learnt everything of harbor, it's time to start to learn of ships. World's pier indeed is quite confusing, quite mashy, dubious and slick. You cannot guess, for what to cling, on what to bet and whom to trust. It's not a grief, if whip is painful, grief is when, after of its hittings, you see, that gingerbread is also already close to being stale. We can't predict – what will destroy and what will save, preserve and soothe. But still don't rush with giving up, take risks, persist and strive to goals. Don't be afraid of clumsy throwning of a pebble, shy to provoke wrong start of avalanche at end. And don’t rely on someone's helpfulness or warmth. From oldest days true people's tenderness and care have taste of genocide and hell.”
“Here I'm entirely agree. Till most profuse and stern of tears. It's sad, but sympathy to match is always mightier and hotter, than to the breed of poor ones, who by this match were deadly burned.”
“It’s so, world's pity for the bullets is hundred times more pure and strong, than for the any ones of heads. Please note, that art not no believe in any scale of tears' presence comes up exclusively with art not to get shocked with last ones' absence. But we still keep eagerness to faith, to seek for newness and to hope. And don't feel wonder or surprise. It's not so difficult to trust oneself to storm as hard to stop to trust to calmness. But still who'll answer – where we'll fall. And who will push us in this falling. If someone hasn't coped with fire, do not entrust him even ash. And never look for compromises. They are worst possible mistake. Keep in mind – any fruits of bad love are much more terrible than fruits of proper hatred.”
“But what to choose, what to prefer, in common abyss of decay...”
“The more affectionate is owner, the more fragile and thin is leash. This is eternaler than world. But still stay sober and hide hope - for good, for aimfulness, for sense. World's stage can be not more than toy, than tool for pleasing of your whims and implementing of your wantings. For truly huge and priceless play, it’s not a sin to build whole theater.”
At this they both have dropped in silence, with dolor melting into sadness and losing last remains of ardor and zeal to struggle and insist.

XVI
In midst deserted park's darkness, in depths of dreariness and slush, is slowly walking feebly visible frail firure - Andrei Efimovich, who, as before, is wholly needless and alone.
“Only darkness and me. That is all. All given world, all life's variety. Was this what I indeed was born for... For this damned endlessness of void... What sort of use does have such role? What kind of aim could hide my being? All its sunrises and sunsets. To be, to suffer, to behold. And then to die and to dissolve. I have been dreaming of obtaining with some purpose, of priceless chance to hold saint burden of prescibtion, of constant trustful palpability of fate, of something certainly eternal, freed from devetedness to trifles and rid of influence of fuss. And what I've found here for wasted days of share, what I have managed to aquire and accomplish, what I have actually got. I have been trying to exist by rules of fate, not even thinking to forbid or contradict and never asking of performing disbelief. I had so fervent faith in reason, in something meaningful above, in sacred right on higher prospect, in timeless unity with sense. It's so much painful to admit, that whole my past was made of garbage. Of purest nothingness and dust. That I myself am just a shadow, piece of dellusions and regrets, who'll never cope to get completeness or to turn happy and consoled. I'm just a fool, a life-long loser. Can I be even named as person, as one belonging rest part of human breed. The only thing, that I am able to achieve – to spend remains of useless years and to end path as breathless corpse. This is the only plot of future. The only variant of next. The only outlet and rescue - from wrongness, worthlessness and self. Space of good coffin will endure all upcomers. I'll risk to parry, that me too..." - the hero has submerged in doom and, having sighed, trudged voyage further.

XVII
In local history museum – same stable company of two - Semyon Kirillovich, impassive, dark and exeptionally sad, and even sadder and upseter guesting ward – already almost forty years old, quite strongly drunk and rather heavily gray-haired.
“I once again want to re-read that hopeless book... My most favorite one - of Kospiriyal the destroyer, who has created ray of death and killed with last one each of humans. With every single spent of days, I more and more begin to feel, that I entirely agree with his irregular decision.”
Semyon Kirillovich has flaccidly stood up and, after searching, calmly handed worn gray tome, so much familiar and native for fingers, memory and soul of its most careful of readers: “Here it is – take, rejoice, learn by heart. You're almost relative to these ragged out yellowed pages. But I will give you something else. At former week I had a grief: my only friend - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov has unexpectedly gone dead. Like me myself, he was not young. And, right as me, was wholly lonely. As if he somehow was foreseeing this disappearing of self, because of straightly month ago he has invited me to tolk and gifted figurine of doll – in weirdly looking reddish hat and with ski stick in one of hands. It has become for him his mainest soul consoler – both helper, talisman and friend. Source of support and fate's co-player. And here this fate has simply ended. Without even single trace and with one memories as final living fruits. So, doll this time have to make travelling to you. And what's of me – I never had here even doll. All life – just constant endless search – for mutuality and purpose, for bliss of needfulness and love. But, after all, as you can see, at end of days I'm left with nothing. And now one coffin is ahead, the only finish for my being, so deadly barren, lost and vain...”
“Quite apt description of myself - same ruined route, the only difference - with less beliefs in search. And in all rest, in each of moments wholly equal – till last of trifles and details.”
“Sad to admit, that being seeking here for something, at least, just deeper than decay, you get just purest decomposing, just void's cargo and not more. Andrei Efimovich was bottomlessly faithing, that all is timelessly prescribed - all days and years of your living. So, maybe, this was just bad show, which we've mistakenly percieved for real life...”
“Here I agree – with most extreme and hungry deepness. All too dummy, too in vain. But is it source of consolation. If you exist by rules of fate, there is huge risk of finding out, that it has no rules at all. And do these rules have any sense – for to, at least, remain as human - without turning into fool and with no wanting to give up.View into memory with faith that all is real, pace of the years from for past in void's pit, mash of facts, laws and limits, bunch of principles, swarm of affairs, rush of days, dance of news and events, storm of risks, fog of paths, feast of madness, ring of griefs, row of faces and fates... If to be honest with oneself - this does not look as life at all. Whole world, whole givenness of being, for me, is not more true than dream – false, stupid, pointless and ugly, rid of resultfulness and sense. There is no choice, no right on freedom, one pure prescribtion, plan of plot. But even if to live for real, will it be able of to add some drop of sense or to erase excess of anguish, or to endow with ghost of magic and with remotedness from pain. The only state, that each tomorrow here is hidden, that you must wait, rely and think, is much more horrible than hell. The very need to be alive and to depend on something vague, on something even not created, but only promised to come true, is not just torture, but not less than real curse. For me its frighteningly strange – to fall asleep and to wake up, to see repeating of commitings, to share changeless incompleteness and to replay same useless actions for once and once, and once again. Not all will dare of to think, that life itself is form of burden, of something measurely wrong. Where are the roots of hopes and plannings - in thoughtless betting on nude chance, on game of distant blurred future, not on conditions of today. Such set is utterly uncertain, made up of rubbishness and lie, of tartest possible annoyance and taste of bitterness and pain. Fruits of faith, as a rule, are frustrating. And even totally embraced with strongest luck and fully freed from any losses, life never cope to give you feeling of completeness, of pleasing endedness of all and of exhaustedness of roads. The only happiness is finish, last given ticket in away. Where all of dots are stably placed and all of chances are consumed and turned in fruits. And, when you live, you have one constancy of lasting, white sheet of paper, opened play. Unended portrait, as you know, can't be a masterpiece, it's fact. So, full prescription is quite hopeful. Your path is startingly predicted and can't fixed, exchanged or turned. All what is given – to behold and to accept, you are unable to improve what is assigned as well as equally aren't capable to spoil. Your life's scenario was written long ago, you are just temporary actor on this unsteady earthly stage. It's mad to dream, to be afraid or to gain hurry. You can't get rid of what is aimed. No one of steps can land on not awaited place. You can't get more. Can't break plot's frames. All, what you can - just to increase scale of own pain, what's even piquant, if to look in. And what's of ideals, of greatness - of highest one of forms and states... It's hardly possible at all. The very morbid need of presence, of writting path, fulfilling tasks, collecting chances and attainments is inexcusably unhealthy, distressing, burdening and wrong. The only heaven is eternal static now, without past and future days and with no motion and prolonging. It's also scary, I agree. But life is scarier, believe me. But what's of ideal as item: the brightest ray, the greatest painting, the most exalted type of sence. Yes, perhaps, somewhere they exist. But much more logical, that not. Each most bright ray will calmly meet one which is brighter, and no of paintings stay best as no of meanings and ideas. There is no chance on true perfection. It's achievable at earth. The very fact of time and presence is nothing else than utter flaw: right of choice is straight ladder in troubles, incompleteness is torture and hell, mistakes are authors of days' going. All what's connected with the life or any other form of being, where start is torm away from end, is purest tragedy and farce. The only cource of real comfort here is coffin, meek gates of finishing and freeding from all and everything you had – from fuss, from uselessness, from falsehood, from trifling victories and gainings and fatal losses and defeats – so madly frequent, when you're breathing...”
“You drink so much, that time from time it's hard to watch. But mind still faithfully with you. What's more – how brilliant and acute are your conclusions, views and notes!"
“The saddest thing, this doesn't save. Today mind's presence serves as burden. As most unbearable of flaws. With last one being feels more painful, more inappropriate and wrong. And the more endless is your mind, the more unshakable are chances, that you will die as total fool. But as for me, death by itself is quite good option. At least, more promising and hopeful, than any components of life. Death is an outlet, an exit – away from all of things and people, from every deal and ocupation and each participant and guest of share's personal encircling, which never helps you to turn happy, no slightest matter, whom it's formed and how much vastly and diversively it's tailored. No smallest difference at all, who are inhabiting your being – either charmingly smart and exalted or frustratingly stupid and plain, either come to decieve and leave broken or vice verse with whole fervidness and passion performing zeal of to be tricked and cracked themselves. They all are equally unable as to freed route from crippling shakles of prescription, as to endow with taste of sense. What to await for, if the very damned encircling is by itself, to tartest apathy, not more than straightest outcome and fruit of your significance and value for plans and purposes of doom...”

XVIII
In midst of lonely alley's twilight, is weakly crawling hunched silhouette of woman: Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, completely rid of hopeful spirit and of past zestfulness to live, already noticeably aged and rather seriously faded. And, as before, again alone.
“Am I indeed agaim alone? Has it indeed coped of to happen, that I will always stay alone? Till ending one of days and minutes. Is it really true? For whole my life I was so zealously asking for selfless unity and love, for mutuality and frankness, and I'm still totally alone - without tenderness and care, without passion, warmth and bliss, without someone’s timid speech and with no joy of understanding. No slightest drom of even frailest explaination, for what of aims I have been born. For what unknown vague use I have been breathing here and blinking, awaiting, trying, keeping faith. From such of thoughts all of insides get taken out – like from huge splash of boiling water straight into farest depths of soul. I gues, life simply brewing pain before of giving me to drink it. How much unbearable to be. And at same time, how madly funny, that I'm still striving, changing days, not going crazy and not howling, but simply getting more upset. How wild and strange it's, that I stay able to believe, that even look sometimes in mirror..."
Irina Pavlovna has sighed and, trudging up through muddy puddles, slowly melted.


AFTERWORD:
In small old courtyard reigns spirit of tart fuss: vast people's crowd wait for act of someone's burying, not of an ordinary person, which's quite indifferent, of cource, but of this time completely lonely, what gladly means, that there is most heavy chance to snatch some things – which ones can simply be expensive ones, for poor breed such lot looks great. Among of local flock of beggars stands one broad-shouldered, skinny silhouette of man, with some strange doll and small copper flask of wine.
“They’re carrying her, time to move forward!” - has bravely shouted to others one of homeless and group has swiftly rushed in dwelling. Each one has instanly proceeded of to rummage – ones into chests, ones into wardrobes, with ardor grabbing needful items into armfuls and then protecting stolen goods from others' haands.  them from others. Tall skinny barefoot with doll has come the last, walked through of wilderness of room and stopped in corner at piano, having suddenly got deeply stunned – next to the folder with songs' notes, was shyly standing small worn doll - exactly same as our hero had himself - in weirdly looking reddish hat and with ski stick in tiny palm of one of hands, what with no notable of reasons has thrown in strongest wave of feelings, mixed up by utter acute grief and tameless bitterness and sorrow, enslaving heart by shrinking ring of endless pain and plunging soul in storm of bottomless frustration and inexcusable regret.
The hero has delved in confusion and, getting numb, embraced both dolls, pressed them to chest and amply sobbed.