It can be so, that I m the happiest of all

I
In midst of tiresome room's wasteland, in bonds of idleness and thoughts, is meekly spending term of day - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, completely lonely and unneeded, torn off from any sort of luck, full of mind's blooming ships' inventor. Day's going, being wholly flaccid, is deadly passive, weak and frail, rid of resultfulness and numb.
“Already midday – breaking point, conjunction's place of past and next, and I'm still wasting my noon's timing and bathing self in mash of thoughts of something vague and unknown - of distant past, of ended chances, of hopeless fate and sticky constancy of doom. I would be glad to calm myself with each most windy consolation, but it’s not easy to get purified from doubts and to attain state of forgottenness and piece. I once again remain in apathy and anguish and once again resist to grief and to desire to to surrender and to dissolve zeal's flame in fuss.”
Here it makes sense to give brief dose of prompt reporting of nature's aspects of the hero, who, being frighteningly shy and always lonely and rejected, to worst of sorrows and regrets for whole vain term of former share was unfamiliar at all with any case of love or care, at least, most fleeting, dim and frail. This fact, destroying and upsetting, was sadly acting both as burden and as reducer of downtrodden self-esteem till most offensive, sick and pitiful degrees. So at frustrated empty now, with pain complaining to oneself of living failures, he was involving more and more in pit of dreariness and fright, ruining abode of calm's presence and turning confidence in dust.
“I need to leave, to go out. At least, for trifling hour's half. If I'll stay here, I'll start to howl.”
Path's plot was free to lead legs' pair in any latitudes and routes, just for to save from bonds of void. From nets of pain and from lost self. So, having crossed both door and porch and with forlornness looked around, Philip Evgenievich has fallen in harsh stupor and delved in thinking - where to go.
“To people's masses – to main square! In storm of rumors, news and mugs. Not best of shelters, but still workable for hiding from inner fading and regrets. What is already a salvation. At least for few of minutes' dozens."
So, not too swiftly having put own tired flesh place of meetings, feasts and drunkenness, exhausted hero has proceeded to behold and to research gray swarm of people, submerging self in last ones' fuss. In all observable directions – same all-consuming static chaos of beggars, sellers, goods and carts, exchangers, loaders, cripplers, gamblers, performers, vagabonds and sluts. All ones with deeply own - some with sharp craving for adventures, some with stern urgency to fight or to cheer soul with dirty plays, some with necessity in quarrel or in cause to prove themselves. Without smallest deviations, completely ordinary state. Next to old lonely shabby booth with latest tickets to the cinema and theater, keeps peaceful loafing idle figure – one of troupe’s actors Timofey, agile brave youth, pure women's idle and former classmate of Philip.
"Good lavish afternoon, love's catcher! What is with art in our days and with your personal existence?”
“All is quite standard – drink and play, right as before, swim into sinfulness and lust,  sing up to orgies, small and large, and never sadden or regret – at least, for single shortest minute. This is, my brother, how I live. And, what's of art, it's also fine."
“Not faint. Approach is pretty graceful, but still quite empty, like dry cup...”
“But what is full, my dear friend – love, thinking, family or work... Such ones are burdens, freedom's killers, which only puzzle, rid of self."
“You are unchangeable, my comrade”
“I'm stable idiot, it's fact. And I am proud to admit it. What else we need for to be happy, except of dashingness of zeal.”
“If I'll become one day a sculptor, you'll see your monument the first.”
“Please, from one gold and not more modest. All other ones aren't of my weight.”
At here was time to say goodbye and to get parted till new meetings – till new will-known tasteless jokes and new indifferent vain talks.
And once again back to damned cargo of inner emptiness and thoughts. Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, not expecting to turn able to calm down, trudged route's direction in past prison of flat's walls – in swamp of painfulness and silence and into burning into ashes bonds of oppression and distress, erasing last remaining traces of former bloom of mind and soul, which as a rule here are not reachable at all, if you had grief of to arrive in world alive.

II
Among of walls of lonely doleful lighthouse – meek dreary company of two - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov and Igor Karlovich Rechnoy, his only friend and thinking sharer, in same scale gloomy and unhappy, already old and firmly rid of any hope. The theme of dialogue is not rich – again of dreariness and sorrows, of living's wrongness and life's flaws.
“This damned world - huge, gigantic and great, vast and crazy. Which way to learn it, to accept – where to get logic, weight and meaning in its abyss? If such ones really exists.” - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and stretched weariness and fright.
“Yes, worst world's curse is its complexity, you're right. No slightest matter, how it's bitter, but life is morbid and insane. But, due to vastness of its abode, it still has endless scope of spaces for prudence, usefulness and sense. We still are able to find million of reasons for to rely on sort of hidden higher plan, not understandable by mind and so much infinitely long, that no one ever will detect it. Such precious chance is still alive – chance, that not everything is aimless. Do not forget, the less harmonious are steps, the more harmonious is voyage. The more disturbingly and wrongly snow was falling, the more appealingly it'll melt. There are no arguments to doubt. The more loud is time, the silent are clocks. So, do not shy of given risks. The more inhuman are the howls of fallen ones, the more assured, strong and firm are grips of ones, who're keeping climbing. The more thin are the hands, the more intensive, tart and loud is squall of notes, the last ones play. The more hard, troublesome and twisted is act of envelope's delivery to reader, the more heartwarming are text's words."
“But do not judge about thunder by either lightning or rain. It's rather sad, but full stones' absence is not a sign of heads' excess. The thinner claws belong to luck, the thicker claws belong to problems. You cannot argue with such wrongness. Life is more painful, than we think. It's tough, but ones, who've stolen boots, can also steal both gate and walker. You can't predict, what will console and what will sadden and leave cripple. Just heed, the longer you are drowning, the more it seems, that you still float. Stage of reality and fate is always out of observing. No weakest matter, from which angle do you look. You'll either lose last taken nail, or will forget, how to hold hummer, or will find absence of the wall. Don throw from mind, that one nude mix of stars and darkness is not enough for being turned in proper sky.”
“I know, each truly daring miss is much more dangerous than aptest ones of bullets. It's rather hard to be alive. If you have fallen into love with heights of sky, your wings will likely never grow. It's life – the silenter is product, the more unstopable in talking is its price. And not to change it, not to break. The more thin are the threads, the more thick, powerful and stern are pulling hands. And too much easy to give up. It's madly weird, but fact of longest problems' presence is always simpler in acceptance, than shortest givenness of absence of solutions. The more deep is pit's cave, the more inviting, smooth and cozy is its bottom. And not to cut all of world's corners, not to build circles from its forms. The more wide is each space for success, the more predictably it'll stay completely empty.”
“It's deadly sad, but vain blind-minded faith in carrot from time to time is even scarier than stick. You want to try, when you are young and unaware, but then you start to understand and once give up. It hurts, but cost and shape of spoon have no of influence on quality of food. The more strong is your thirst, the less appropriate is water. The more perceptible are losses, the more intangible are finds. The more wrong is mistake, the more unbeatable is zeal of to repeat it. And the more meaningless is game, the more indifferent are prizes. Without map your path is doomed; without path your map is aimless.”
“It's sad and dark, but so we live - the more high are the stakes, the more low is the play. The size of fishing rod or net is not a law for fish's amount. And the more amply was done watering of seeds, the less essential and lavish will be harvest. Don't lose from mind – world's flaws are frighteningly stubborn. The more flamboyantly creaks guillotine, when works, the more intensively pours laugh of executor. And not to blossom, not to soar. Just to wait and to fade, that is all. But people like it – with whole heart. The more futile and vain is labor, the more demanded is such work. It's not a paradox, it’s fate. And the more colorful and long is tail of luck, the more indistinct, pale and short is it itself.”
“The more unique and rich is ticket, the more rejecting and disgusting are fellow travelers and route. This fact is also quite not new. And if you die, you turn in nothing. And the more hot and brigh is fire, the more insipid, faint and faceless are its ashes. The more loud and strong is the sound, the more lifeless and numb is its echo. This is more workable than law. And not to fall in hugs of better, not to rewrite imputed rules. It's sad, but skillfulness of wings is not a key from sky's perfection. And not to outplay fate's pace. Not to discover – what to hope for. The more you look in depths of meaning, the illogical it seems. Do not forget, the more it's easy for the hammer, the less it's bearable for nails.”
“Here must be also something same, but only working vice versa - the thicker nonsense you're observing, the deeper aimfulness it hides. But not to catch it, not to verify or grab. Sick worlds are not for healthy brains. This is main principle of learning. Wrong locks are free from proper keys. And pain is always slightly stronger. The lower density have buildings, the higher density have mash of last ones' wreckage. And not to part with bonds of pessimism and doom. Such ones are always somewhere near - stretch out only any hand. But the more stern is bullets' flight, the more uncertain, frail and weak is faith forehead. And too much easy to surrender or to refuse to wait ant try. The more indefinite and long is act of struggle, the lower meaning stays in gathering of trophies. And life is mercilessly bad – if you're acquainted with the corners, you have no interest in circles and their search.”
“Yes, you are tragically right. The more pure is the author of fire, the more of dirt hide ones, who come for to get warmed. If we'll forget, which way to mount graves for losers, we'll hardly manage to remember of what it is to rise up cups for ones, who've won. And the more loud you are calling for rain's drops, the more emotionless, indifferent and quiet will be arrival of drought's starting. And not to stay alive for long, not to get saved from all of horrors. The later fire's flame burns out, the sooner ash gets washed away.”
“The more pretty if torch, the more ugly are scolds. But sometimes fools are guilty themselves. Ones, who're not satisfied with food, try to get satisfied with poison. And too much stupid it's to wait or to keep hope. The more strong are coast's stones, the more swift are waves' flows. But still stays obstinate and nimble. The more deft are the legs, the more vain are the traps. Do not forget – delayed sunrise turns in sunset. And not to win, not to get out. And the more elegant are talismans and idols, the more rejecting are the ones, who carry faith. The more bright is the face, the more dim is the mirrors. This fact explains whole current life – each right on dish includes in self same right on poison. World is sick, broken, mad. And the more sternly we hate cake, the more wholeheartedly and hotly we praise crumbs. The more we're learning of the peel, the less we're knowing of the orange.”
“Yes, I agree, here are all we. Ones, who aren't able be boastful with their heads, try to be boastful with their headsmen.”
At here, they've hopelessly gone silent and, after pause, said brief goodbyes and slowly parted.

III
In midst of tiresome street's noise – faint shaky silhouette of walker - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, again escaping from own thoughts. From bulky abyss of lights, cars, shops' boards and faces, with sternness teeming with tart vanity of fuss, blows with usual mix of rush and routine. All is emotionless and boring. Nothing new, only grayness and doom.
In narrow arch, next to the bakery – three persons: pale, skinny, trembling lifeless drunkards, with passion waiting for some alms. So, having sneaked between of last ones and with shy languor slipped inside, the hero has climbed up by stairs and slowly entered vast hall, full of sweet smelling of fresh bread. At rack in center, right as always, full of heart's energy and smile plump cheerful owner, Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, endless tireless lover of life, stopless twaddler and restless zestfully persistent, friend, teacher, helper and supporter for every single sudden stranger, met minute earlier or less and also father of five children.
“Good joyful day! From which of roads?"
“As usual – path from home to food.” - Philip Evgenievich has yawned and briefly smiled.
“And we were going to the opera – for foreign one, what's by itself is sort of feast. We were so glad, so full of ardor and excitement, that even, not exaggerating, were in full readiness to squeal and to get lost in storms of shiver"
“Yes, art is mightiest of matters, here I confirmingly agree.” - Philip Evgenievich has mumbled with dose of hesitance in voice and, having taken plate with order, sat at first window and dissolved in gloom of thoughts: “Again all ones are wholly fine – with all life's pleasures and attainments: both leisure, family, and mood. Each joy and dainty in one pack. And I'm alone – unneeded, useless. No hopes, no fruitfulness, no aim. All my life I just wait and regret. With only emptiness and pain in role of company for being. As if from earliest of days am wrong and cursed by will of heaven. Who I am – pawn and slave of all griefs. From any thinkable of states I have one permanent stagnation. So inappropriate, so lost. Why do I live - if all is useless, if no relations, heights or gains. There is no difference – alive I am or not. If I will die right here and now – world will not notice it at all. No one will suddenly get stunned or fall in slightest shortest sadness. What are my reasons for to be... What do I gather and acquire... Without love, without purpose, without any drop of weight. Not to imagine someone less involved in prudence. Not to create by any tools.”
Philip Evgenievich has yawned and, having gazed inside of window, got up and trampled back to home. Among of streets – same mix of fuss: same cars and houses, same faces. Doom, routine, vanity and fog.
“Howmuch trifling is all. How much silly." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, adding pace, led path ahead.

IV
It's not too frequent, when you walkingly meet runners. But being's pier is any of strange facts. As soon as only legs have parted with the house, Philip Evgenievich has met swift fleeting figure, with speed of bullet rushing up - Anton Denisovich, an athlete and also one of hero's friends, who, having noticed last one's presence, has dropped past fastness and, at time of getting closer, with zeal stretched out in strong voice: “Sport's blessing! How are yor doings?”
“Quite smooth... And yours?”
"Me great – on run."
“Then all the best.”
“Thanks and same wishings to your plots.”
At here ways gradually parted.
“He runs, burns, blossoms, lives and dreams. And I am rotting, fading, grieving. Drink doom and wait for better days. Lose hope and waste entrusted days. Without pleasure or, at least, right to get calmed. For what I live? Who'll ever answer... And will such answer be enough... Where is my meaning, weight or joy? Will be some sense - at least at end of living term... Term, which no moment has been happy. Term with no chances and no aim. And with one single constant torments and changeless role of empty place. Not to beat frames of fate, not to break, not to equip path's course with grace. Not to get hidden from prescription, not to rewrite cracked share's plots. He runs and rush, tries to stay prudent. And where to run from lost myself... Not best of questions, if to ask it. Such one, which's answers try to kill...” - Philip Evgenievich has faded and, deeply sighing, crawled ahead.

V
At stably empty faceless tower of lighthouse, as usual – two of people's shadows. And once again with thoughts and talk.
“How deadly foggy, dim and twisted is every single of fate's paths, how madly tricky, strange and hazy...” - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and plunged his gaze in grave of floor
“Here, I suppose, must be some logic. In fact of hiddenness of paths. Without darkness into roots, there is no lightness into leafage.  without the crown, you cannot find lightness in the roots and in the leaves. And this is maybe just for better – for higher fruitfulness of plots. The more elusive are your tools, the more exclusive is you purpose.”
“Yes, having stopped to be afraid of fallen problems, the most important one of things is not to start to be afraid of their solutions. This is main twistedness and trick. It's mad, bit fighting for the stick is always bloodier than fighting for the carrot. And not to fall at proper soil, not get out of days' pit. It's timeless curse, but any arsonist, as rule, is much less notable than fire. It tells whole truth of living's game.  is always a little more secretive than fire. But that's the essence of the game. The less prolonged is temporality of places, the more immortal is their timelessness in art.”
“The more harmonious is lie, the less convenient is truth. The more flamboyantly burns heat of entertainments, the higher coldness hides in tears. And not fix this, not to shake. Wrong ships don't sink in proper manner. But the more tragic are the tools, the more beloved are fruits of labor...”
“You're right, the harsher is wind's howl, the more pathetic is leaves' rustling. But not to satisfy heads' breed – they always see some sort of problems – either hat is too tight, or pace of headsman is too slow. And all results are always hidden. The more indistinct is the arsonist at deal, the more remarkable is fire. And the more piercing is the frost, the more heart-burning is heat's coming.”
“The more convincing are the notes, the more infirm is last ones' playing. This is well-known – till worst of pains. The smaller aim here is in fire, the higher aim is in extinguisher. The more dim is the sun, the more thick, tart and dark are the clouds. And not to open something different from this. The more easy is choice, the more hard outcomes it carries. And the harder you try, the less good you achieve. You'll never fix wrong seeds by adding of right soil. If you have spoiled something full, it will keep emptiness forever. And the more tasty is the food, the more disgusting are leftovers. And not to break this, not to tame.”
“Yes, sadness, bitterness and horror. All the mutilation and pain. You can't rise beautiness to buds by adding thorns. It's not a greatness, if whole world was made for you, true greatness is if you deserve it to destroy for.  Alas, you cannot decorate the flowers of decline with the splendor of thorns. But this is ticket to annoyance. The intensive is your memory of thorns, the more indifferent is memory of roses.”
“Yes, the more merciless is hatred to the cup, the more tender is softness for splinters. But each of us has come for own. The more common are paths, the less identical are walkers. And not to help to fall in love with waves of seas to ones, who've chosen drops and droplets. The more tough is the stick, the less fresh is the carrot. The more you sob from loss of buds, the more you smile from gain of thorns.”
“The more loude is chain, the more docile is shackled neck. Here is the basis of the basics. The less appropriate are words, the less appropriate is silence. The more it's easy not to notice fact of match, the less it's easy to forget about fire.”
“The more fragile is cause for happiness and gladness, the more unbreakable is cause for grief and pain. The higher mercy hides is natures of controllers, the more tyrannical is doing of control. But just ignore – all brakes and rules. You'll never cope of to be of elephant's importance, if you'll decide to learn from flies. But this is not much more than foam. The more wasteful is pier, the more modest are ships. The more intensively gets older hall of circus, the more assertively it clowns tries to look young. So we live...”
“Or extinct, how to know...”

VI
In midst of flowering park's abyss, full of warm bliss of weekend day, not showing any signs of zeal and drinking tartness of dispassion, was coyly sitting pensive figure - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, who, having left from walls of house, has come to look at life of world, which, as before, was wholly rid of ardor's spirit and lost in steadiness and rest, with frozen constancy of boredom and all-consuming hugs of numbness, sleep, haze, oblivion and fright. No of fuss, no of noise, no of wind. And even sullen disk of sun is pale and tiresomely mute. Quite soon, to ending of past peace, has shown oneself drunk calm's destroyer Timofey with two same actresses in set – glad, cheerful, frisky, brisk and crazy.
“Well, friends in outrage, let's start. I’d like to make you even worse. Sit here. You too. Well, landeing is completed. Why you're as stone on ancient grave - it’s not for me to teach you, dears, spread your legs and expose all, what's lovely. And grab each other. Skirts also have to be pulled up. And take off all, what's under skirts. I've come exactly not for boredom. You, as I was formerly learnt, too.” - so, having properly arranged both sinful ladies, he has self-confidently yawned and, having made long sip of wine, dissolved in depths of carnal leisure detached from shame or moral brakes.
“Oh, how much nice it's to be yours. Like in dreams' lands or into paradise, not less.” - has squealed with trembling first of ladies, in fury grasping with her fingers pale skin of wrists of other girl.
“Oh yes, how wonderful, how blissful. As into fairy tale, turned true.” - the second one, without thinking, has with keen eagerness picked up, performing wave of growing rapture and bursting out with strained groan.
“You, our sweetie, is most perfect, most great and plentiful of all. So madly good it's to have glory of belonging to priceless abode of your bonds. I've never been so full of fervor for whole entire former life. Oh, how much lustful I am now!”
“Yes, right till trembling into soul.”
“Why you're just sitting and beholding? I am already worstly wet.”
“Me too – in ampliest of measures.”
“For such impudent lewd confessions, you have to punish us with shame, to check yourself all what is humid – in any manner you'll prefer: with both of lips of just by finger. All will be anyway you want. For sinful us each one of choices is a gift. So, act, as brazenly as given: take, taste, examine and obtain. Don't keep your fantasies in self. Catch, tease and tempt. And we will greedily approve.”
“Yes, all most sweet is in forbidden. Yes, do it, our playful owner, like at last evening in Pompeii.”
“Yes, curb us, heal us - from this thirst, which always, pesteringly, reigns between of legs.”
“And me, and me! I also suffer from same thirst!”
“Oh, shameless creatures, I will show you!” - having swiftly stood up and then, with wildly boiling frenzy, cracked dried wine bottle by first noticed pillar's pole, excited hero has put off his long tailcoat and, having done few somersaults, without falling delays, delved under callingly raised skirts, provoking storm of thrilling moaning and gladly gathering young heat.
“He lives, reaps joys and sharpens soul. Full of attention and of love. Blooms, wins and melts in seas of bliss. All of heights and of fruits at one plate. And me.... Resultless, broken, aimless. Unneeded, worthless, useless, vain. No hope, no future, no success. No single chance on any prospects. I just await and bath in pain. Without pair, mutuality or warmth. From disgustingly barren green youth and same pointless today I am alone. Days and nights. No new acquaintances, no partners. No drop of unity or heat. No timid shamefulness, no tender sleepy whispers. No flight, no fire, no relief. Only emptiness, darkness, despair. Anguish, dreariness, doom. . Futility. Pain. Like there is no role for me, no place. Not a couple of entrusted souls. And role of wanderer and seeker. Pure piece of nothingness, not more. And then I'll die and all will end. How much painful life is, how much lost. And how much small in it is me. How inconsolable, how hopeless- from every thinking of of all this." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, having glanced at fallen trio, got up and silently trudged home.

VII
And once again lighthouse's tower and two unknown with joy guests. And once again frail hopeless dialogue.
“There are no people for to trust to. No ones, who will not leave with harm. Each, who has ever broken light bulb, will have no fright to break whole sun. And he will break it, if such whim will be allowed.”
“They even mock. With opened smile and boiling pleasure from making somebody deceived. Ones, who've formerly stolen your hammer, will gift you first of all a nail. Each single second we must choose – whom to be with, what to consume and where to go. If you're not careful, you're dead. And, having once agreed on friendship with an ax, you'll never cope to stay in friendship with wood's logs. And no big matter how much sturdily you try, scale of results will be the same. Bad fish, as rule, do not get fixed by proper rod. Not all depends on ourselves. Good seeds not always mean good harvest. All is too risky, too unknown. And no of us have keys to truth or any rights on having value, at least, most trifling, short and blurred, as dying spark at burning's end.”
“This is main curse of all imprisoned in life's play. The more it's easy for the tree without leaves, the less it's difficult for leaves without branches. If world and fate don't rush to cling for your existence, don't cling yourself for being's frames. But pit of living is indeed not best accessible of places. The more sweet, smooth and rid of flaws is similarity of objects, the more stiff, terrible and painful is last ones' differences scope. And, the more sinless are the dishes, the more exceptionally sinful is every gram of spices' curbs. But still don't crush remains of zeal. Do not forget of simplest law: without knowledge of the letters, there is no knowledge of the words.”
“Yes, all is spoiled - whole world's abode. And not to fix it, not to save. The less you're pitiful to buds, the more supportive you're to thorns. And the more difficult it is to turn mistaken, the more it's easy to refuse from turning right.”
“But life itself is not of rightness. It's more of horrors and regrets.  All it can offer you is stupidness and griefs. And not to guess, what here is stick and what is carrot. You canot tell what is your chance, and what is burden and damnation, what is inviting into trembling, and what is door in calm and peace. You can't predict, what will be helpful, and what will serve as path to end, what will bring wisdom off conclusions, and what pass with no of use. Of course, mind's presence can be priceless, but only after you will pay for every outcome, determined by mind's absence. Not so expensive are the lessons, if you're aware how expensive is each ignorance of to learn.”
“We don't remember light of lanterns, but gladly memorize the ones, who've crashed or stolen last ones' light-bulbs. We have whole planet of full idiots, it's scary, where each of us is not just broken, but also merciless and sick. And not to stop this storm of horror – each one, who've managed to kill writer, will never try to save his scribes. And not to know – what to shy of. Each one who threatens you with gun can calmly kill you using poison. And the more pretty is the liar, the more destructive is his lie.”
“The less significant is culprit, the more impressive is his guilt. And life is bottomless and dashing. And each its bright and flashy carrot is nothing more than twisted method to hide sweeten facelessness of stick. , such is our world, if you please, in fact there is only a way to simply cleverly hide the stick. And even death here, in such frames, is not so dreary. At least more honest and more pure. One truly firm and weighty point is much more priceless, nice and aimful than any tons of empty words.”
“Yes, not to gather fruits of sense, not to get out from doom's fetters. Not having memories of cup, you'll have no painfulness from splinters. World's pit is hopeless and offensive, where any horror looks as norm. As tool for sharpening of passions. For fire, scalds are sort of routine, but for ones, who've got them – lifelong curse. And the more dense is haze of madness, the exalted are mind's rays”
“The only goal is to survive, to save oneself and to find rescue. Not to transform in shit or victim and not to lose own link with sense. So, don't have worries of the others – of their damned fates and daily lifes. You can't observe more aimless trifle than death or pain of trifling fates. But greatness also isn't rich. And the more smooth are sides of road, the uneven such a road is itself.”
“Yes, rain is poor roofs' repair. As well as pain is wrong creator joy's taste. And not to fall in bonds of balance. When keys are different, the locks cannot be same. But this world's frames work: you're either target here or bullet. And life itself is one, who're shooting. And not too aptly, by the way.”
“You're right, we're feeling smell of burning, just when whole house if just burn. And the more easy it's to stuck in something stupid, the less it's easy to turn able to forget of this miss-happening, when you already have climb out. This is main source of most of curses. Fools are afraid of dreams themselves, smart ones – of fruits of dreams' fulfillment.”
At this shy point act of thoughtfulness was stopped.

VIII
In walls of spacious working room, full of thick books and yellowed drawings - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, this time devoted to the labor and strained by cargo of its tasks.
“Well, what I'll do with insufficient displacement... I guess, I'm having to increase. There is some chance, that ship will manage not sink. Or even somehow will be floating. What is already more than luck  - with so unthinkably huge loading” - the hero, searching for solution, with eating feeling of concern has once again, preserving faith in feasibility of progress, got slowly bent above of model and started out with attempts of finding safely looking ways of further rising of its sizing with simultaneous maintaining of former talent to sail forward and to resist to will of waves.
“Task is not obvious, let's take it, that's why not simple and not pure. But this is burden of creator: to embody in life all, what's mad.” - the hero, keeping zestful seeking, has longly yawned in disappointment's upcoming and then delved back in glue of thoughts, still sharing optimism to cope to add capacity to vessel.
“It's even strange – to have no outlet at all, not too much frequent situation for even trickiest of goals. I guess, not always smooth and flawless, but some, at least, most odd decision without doubts should exist. The only thing is just to see it and then to dare to imply.”
Philip Evgenievich has sat in front of table and, sorting papers at its surface, returned in depths of mental storms, with sternness spinning all accessible approaches, when rather soon got swiftly brightened in sudden feeling of relief: “No drop of twistedness or magic – damned anchor has to go to hell, ship can slow down with its engine, I'll also lighten both of desks – they shouldn't lose too much of previous endurance, at final stage I'll deepen hull due to enlargening of bilge. Still how incredibly successful all of these changings have come up. Like pure breakthrough and innovation – and not less brilliant and brave.”
So, having tested each improvement and twicely checked work of first prototype at pull, he has relaxedly stretched out, submerging mind in soothing calmness of tranquility and peace, with instant promptness caged attention in tart serenity and joy. The last left need was to get rid of formal trifles, completely solvable and simple, but still combined in one dimensionless tight abyss, free to determine almost all.
“Well, as I guess, new ship is ready. Time to report to chief of dock for to rebuild it into sake of my great plans.” - Philip Evgenievich has sat in pit of chair and, having stuck in bonds of drawings for extra several of hours, put own belongings into bag and meekly walked to walls of home.
In midst of hopeless faded streets – thick faded abyss of fog's masses. Pale blurred guarding sadness lanterns were deeply full of piercing distance dim cold light. In all around reigns tart presence of despair, firm static gloominess and anguish. No joy, no vividness, no life. One doom and silence – vast and stern. Like into coffin, not more pretty.
“Why do I live here and what for... For which of targets, plans and missions... All I have – just to wait and to suffer, to bath in emptiness and pain and to confidence and faith. To look at life and not to live. What a path, what a fate – rubbish, dust. No rights, no chances, no achievements. No warmth, no hopefulness, no bliss. Just one eternal endless void and tons of causes to get lost. In grief, in needlessness and vainness. In storm of hastening and fuss. In heaps of torments and in heaviness of sorrows. How much disturbingly upsetting is to admit, that all your being is less meaningful than crumb. It's madly doleful and tragic not to find purpose and life's aim. There is no hope on lavish finish with wholly empty barren start. Why do my days still keep to go, for what of outcomes and fruits. All I'm capable of in my living – to cut it off and get erased. As I can mournfully conclude, I'm not appropriate for better – as broken lantern for establishing of light. And all what's given in such state is one meek tragical acceptance.  Destructive, bitter, sick and sad.”
Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, fraily quickening his pace, dissolved in fog. This time without any meetings – in frames of company with self.

IX
How sharply bright can be day light, when you are leaving hall of cinema performing, where your forgetful timid presence has calmly eaten few of thrilling fleeting hours. Right so, returning from sit's cradle, Philip Evgenievich was doing shaky steps with numb from steady staying legs. In foyer's space, as usual, teems and boils crowd – all sorts of faces, suits and shoes. Each one is fussy and delighted and full of chattering and laugh. At vacant spot in front of mirror – small motley platform for receiving of autographs. On its pedestal – Timofey, who into film was in a role of ardent lover, by sides from him – two brisk young actresses in fashionable dresses and at some distance silent stuntman in bloody bandages and cast. Among of group of these diversive slaves of art ones – glad joyful company of viewers, already perfectly well-learnt - Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, his wife and ample flock of children, who're making photographs and pestering with questions.
“Which way you've coped to be so perfect? So bright and brilliant – as sun!” - has asked excited shining woman, directing sight at Timofey.
“I’m just an ideal, an idol...”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes - he’s pure Apollo! ” - one of the actresses has speedily caught up with overwhelming zestful vigor.
“You has been playing till straight breaking, till highest point of flame's peak!”
“I’m not an angel, I am better.”
“He's not an angel, I'm confirming, he is not less than our God!”
“May I take pictures of my kids in hugs of you?”
“No doubts, certainly. Of course."
“Even here they have coped to appear, what an unbearable annoyance, more indestructible, than hell. No place, no outlet, no rescue. No single chance to rest in calm." - Philip Evgenievich has dropped remains of mood to state of final devastation and, drily quickening own pace, in harshest anguish walked away.


X
In midst of tartly loud pier of wasteful stadium's expanses, among of shouts, screams and squeals, hangs strongest reigning of disorder. Both snatching, pushing, jumps and running. At sea of sits – vast raging plenty of spectators. In eyes – wild boiling of excitement. In mouths – glittering of smiles. In some, most skillfully prepared, even whistles. So, gun has shot in flesh of sky, and start of contest was proclaimed. Mixed squall of roaring has increased. Few groups of athletes have unstoppably rushed up. Palms have proceeded to stern clapping. Cups of beer have begun to turn over and splash themselves in depths of throats. Flags have upraised to heaven's dome. Ones, who had cameras, right here, not losing any single second, have into hurry swiftly pointed hazed lenses and, keeping steadiness of pose, delved into process of recording. Ones, who had only set of eyes, were once again forced to get limited with watching. All is within of usual standards. But still with presence of some spark and not without of flame's storming. And now already prizes' giving. On plate of podium, as always - Anton Denisovich Broskov, this time successful glad obtainer of three assured freshly taken shiny golds.
“I'd like to thank all of supporters. Both each of you and coach, and mayor. For our city and its glory I am ready to bet even life." - has said cheered up exalted athlete and, having thrown his hat in air, stomped back to celebrate new medals and to smack aftertaste of win.
“Well, once again he is a winner. Again in prizes and on top. What an abnormally excessive fortune's care." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, having suddenly heard growing way of noise, with slight bemusement turned around.
“You, brainless imbecile, have failed to understand? Whom are you counting to meet with? I have no interest in morons. I'm not so mentally unhealthy for to waste time on freaks like you. Why you're still staring, piece of garbage? Why does your ugly filthy muzzle remain to stay in front of me? Without minimal shame's trace, as if you're even are enjoying.” - one not too ravishing or bright, but full of furriousness lady, placed few of sitting rows behind, has bursted out with harsh screaming at frail and bashful fellow youth.
“Will, someone has been driven off. And I was hoping for acquaintance... What a great idiot indeed. No, not at here for such of plannings to come true. I guess, it's better just to stand and to drag self to walls of home.”

XI
In midst of lonely liquid gloom of lifeless doleful lighthouse – same silent company of two - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov and Igor Karlovich Rechnoy, again grouped up by will of fate for further timid conversations of being's flaws and living's plots.
“I, as before, am incorrigibly alone – for all my time, since birth till now, I stay unneeded and torn off. As if I'm wholly dead at all. As if rejected and forbidden just by the very inner logic of this world. That I am cursed not less than straightly right by heaven. I'm just alone – for days and years. Just alone and alone  like I’m dead. As if driven away from fate. Like an outcast, like a curse on the world. All alone and alone - how can it be..." - Philip Evgenievich sighed and, dumbly, began to wait for an answer.
“Do you perceive such state as strange? Or are you really believing, that you had rights on something else? Whole never ending row of humans, combined in countless society, if you'll provide more close acquaintance with common principles and laws of its habitual arrangement, will have most firm and certain look of set of synchronized machines, well-trained for talking, heeding, quarreling and teasing and neatly tuned for unmistakable reflecting of global statements and ideas, prescribed in uniform in style and essence manner for every single one of speakers and freed from any drop of individual intentions or independently born thoughts. No one of them for all entrusted term of life ever had even slightest concern of utter meagerness  and vainness of their existing at this earth, of total vagueness and darkness of most far past of human breed and of destructive screaming wrongness of each of laws of given days. No one of them obtains with question – does it have sense to be at all, is it useful and right to keep maintaining of life's going or to feel pleasures and regrets. And what is even more perplexing – no of them, even ones, who're most brave, will ever manage to agree to play away of rules of game. Each one you meet here is not more than just an actor – apt skillful sower of unconfidence and doubts, who makes you honestly believing, that you get fallen in relations, become rejected or ignored, that you are hated or desired, equipped with care and support. You truly faith, that you are able of to be either better or worse than others, and that somebody else in his turn can be better or worse than you. But how it's possible to check, that you are not the only person in whole world? That girl, who're hugging you at night, is something more than just a gramophone's example, with decent talent decorated by artful covering in skin and taught to accurate repeating of some amount plain phrases for to preserve you in illusion, that she is really alive. Which way to prove, that each pronouncing of words indeed depicts true words and feelings, that tears' leaking is more meaningful and deep than just a part of other technical details, assigned for better imitating of emotions. What if it'll suddenly turn out, that each of times you've been deceived, mocked and abused not by chaotic random persons, but straight by universe itself or by so-called all-mighty God, who had omission to invent it. Which ones of qualities and features determine differences' gap between of human and machine – if to rely on view from side, than wholly nothing. So, how many of your witnesses you have? How many people here obtain with mind like yours? Does someone else, except of you, indeed behold your flights and fallings? Your tryings, sufferings and joys, your laughings, cryings, pleas and groans. If life is simply just a game, then with whom are you constantly playing? We always separate such things as God and devil. We say - all good here is from God, and all improper, false and baneful – from devil. But, into world without people, where you're alone for its whole width, what ones of doings can distinguish God from devil? Or maybe all is much more plain and God himself performs duplicity of actions – just into order of to tame you in thinnest possible of ways and to remain eternal chance of to attach your fearful spirit even harder to what you're having grief to have. If he will give you drop of something frankly sacred, will give you feeling of close presence fate's steps, will impute bunch of countless risks and always pressing right of choosing, you'll almost instantly transform in god yourself. If he'll endow your with attention from stray beauty, just at least from an average slut, and you'll read poetry to her, you'll quite immediately find oneself in love, achieving highest forms of bliss and hotly blooming with each corner of your forlorn worn out soul. But main of aims is not to give - to hold your route on daily leash and to engage in what is settled without tiniest resistance and with coy thankfulness in eyes. At one of moments, perhaps, all will turn more bright – and you will find both girl and her attention and cause to write and read best poetry in world. But after listening to previous of words, I have reported in your ears, will such scenario stay able of to soothe you and of to satisfy your needs? It can be so, that all past term you've been in fiction and, maybe, even poor me is nothing more than just a talkatively crafted script of program, which's first and last of aims and senses is coming down to one plausible maintaining of strange and stupid boring show, where you're the only who're involved.”
“You had to say all this in Latin, then it would certainly be doomed to sound out of mistakes as something endlessly prophetic. I'm also mainly of same views – that all around is a game, but how much painful at some moments it is to force oneself to play. I would wholeheartedly prefer, instead of all, just to get lost, to turn forgotten and erased – without any of remainings from former presence in this world, to fall asleep just here and now and to refuse from hateful prospect to awake. Then I could really be happy..."
“Or maybe couldn't – who will tell...”

XII
In sadly lifeless light of tavern, in midst of vices, drinks and smoke – sweet graceful silhouette of woman. In front of her - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, beholding ampliness of beauty and sipping spiciness of rum. Madame is casually twirling, gifting cuddles and sending flirting signs and jokes. They're simultaneously rising and, having taken route to closet, getting locked in its limited space. The lady, keeping playful teasing, is taking off all parts of needless straining clothes and, having turned completely naked, with passion lowering at floor and, widely spreading piquant hips, replacing couple of her fingers to most forbidden and alluring of locations for to run up along of honey mellow folds, without shaming amply teeming with tempting humidness and bloom. The hero, shaken by excitement, is into trembling bending down, but all around starts to melt and to get blurred and remote. Philip Evgenievich gets up. Right as before, it's nothing else than new night dream, so madly different and far from vain reality of days, imperfect, lonely and resultless, as something born by great mistake.
“Once again, every night I am in grasp of fables' nets. And every day in bonds of void. What kind of givenness it is? I have to try to fall in thoughtlessness, in pause, to take a walk and to let poor legs to scrap earth's surface."
The hero not without pain has forced oneself to leave home's walls and, having crossed door, porch and stairs, thrown flesh in endlessness of streets. At each of steps one constant steadiness of boredom. Fog, silence, lifelessness and gloom. No zeal, no colors, no pedestrians, no cars.
So, having finally approached first noticed bench, Philip Evgenievich has sat and, having yawned, directed gaze in haze of sky, but rather soon switched his attention at two figures, with swiftness stamping by free path.
“I need in salary's uprising! For contribution into youths. I've been recently training one kid, so he has coped to caught all prizes. You can check, it was son of Smychkov. I am his coach in this season. He has golds in gymnastics ans running. So, please reward me for such work." - deft, full of vividness Broskov was promptly telling to some person.
“Even here damned Smychkov in luck's claws. And I'm, as always - I'm at bottom. As before, nothing new at life's stage." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, getting out, left park's abode.

XIII
Among of gloominess of silent lifeless pier – torn off, forlornly straying figure - Philip Evgenievich, who is indifferently walking, devoting rare bitter sightsto empty tower of lighthouse. Already five long dreary years have passed from death of Igor Karlovich Rechnoy.
“There is no one for to have talk with – since Igor's passing I am purposeless at all. No of friends, no of news, no of dialogues. Just one mix of vacuum and pain. And even no single person to dilute it. I am myself already dead. And even barely has ever been alive. I have no place, no aim, no meaning. All I have just to trample earth's dust and to remain away of outlets and rescues in pit of sufferings and thoughts. And then at end I'll simply die.” - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, weakly falling into despair, clenched teeth and powerlessly cried.

XIV
In midst of tightly crumpled hall is taking place vast solemn process – constructing company is parting with its worker, not by dark outcome as death of loss of health, but by significance of age and turn to ask to get retired. In role of culprit of whole fuss - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, keen faithful builder of ships' bodies.
“We remember your work and achievements, your scientific contribution and constant flaming zeal for new. You have accomplished almost thousand of projects, given birth to most bold of inventions and helped to industry to reach most main of heights. We'd also want to mention famous spacious ship, in spite of risks enlarged in sizes till few norms. This have transformed the very way of understanding of how much prudent sea delivery can be. For almost thirty of long years this model has no single sinking and no stucking. What is impressive by itself. We thank your brilliantest person and with heart's aching let you go. And wait for equally bright youngsters.”
The speech has ended. The participants have left.

XV
In midst of lonely sleepy room - old helpless figure: Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, who is reading fresh daily newspaper and harshly shivering from words: Sport as a plague – running straightly into abyss, Anton Denisovich Broskov, at end of finishing career, has got addicted to strong alcohol consuming and being drunk was killed by tram two days ago. In frames of voyaging in past - today is straightly one full year since Timofey, well-known actor and performer, had stepped away of opened window because of awkwardness in love. About shocking and emergent - main local bakery was burned at week by sudden fire, Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, it's only owner has been harmed and died in hospital day later.
Philip Evgenievich has tremblingly pulled back and, deeply shaking, laid at bed: “I have been thinking, I'm most useless and unlucky. Most trifling, aimless, vain and cracked. Rid of all, what brings value or joy. But, as it currently turns out, it can be so, that I'm the happiest of all ”
The hero has made languid sigh and fraily reached floor lamp vastly spreaded huge green lampshade and two small buttons of old amber. One click - and light is halfly darker, next click and no of light at all.

AFTERWORD:
In silent deserted apartment calm silent company of three: first two – fresh couple of young students, and third one sleepy old realtor, bent into heavy papers' swarm.
“Yes, yes, not bad, and even graceful. Both bright and roomy at one time.” - has claimed the lady and removed to one of walls.
“And floor lamp is quite great - so tartly green and even buttons are of amber.” - with fair ardor has responded her cheered companion in love.
“Are you aware, who was living here before?”
Confused realtor has removed his hazy glasses and, rising eyes away from papers, without vain attempts of guessing with dose of boredom drily stretched: “It's one of lots from public selling. I wasn't learning, whose exactly. But if you look with proper aptness, as I am able to conclude, it has been occupied by someone truly happy...”