The Kingisepp Incident

Deep in the web of the night's glowing sky,
The fools, like us, the fools forevermore,
The Tamagotchis, who were born to die,
Were searching for the key to every door.
And everyone was screaming on their own:
«Why are you walking like a drunken head?»
The system’s heart is nothing, but a stone,
The time’s a centrifuge. A silky thread!

Consider this text as my mystical testimony and a kind of historical document.
Recreate from memory. The first of December, two thousand and fifteen.
This story began with the fact that I left the house. With a suitcase in his hands.
And my house was then - fifty percent of the rented room (additionally divided exactly in half) in a communal apartment. City of St. Petersburg. Pokrovsky Island, sandwiched between three channels: Fontanka, Griboyedovsky, Kryukov.
English Avenue, house fifty. Or Sadovaya Street, house one hundred and three. It depends on which side you approach. Gray neoclassical building with corner towers.
Neighbors.
Gloomy nameless man, heroin addict, brother of the owner of our room with Sibirsky. There was something psychopathic in his image. An overly calm but inwardly tense person who one initially suspects of rigidity, and in the end... that's what it turns out to be.
Elderly homosexual with young lover. Eternal supporting actor of low-budget series. His name was Oleg.
Young couple — Guy With Girl. Nothing much. I only remember hearing the sounds of their sex several times when I walked past their doors to the kitchen to peel extremely cheap and slightly frozen potatoes that I bought at Auchan. My and Ilya's usual food at that time.
A company of young people who were engaged in petty crime (stealing surveillance cameras, as later discovered by the new tenants), who were not urks. Quite adequate guys, but one of them carried a pistol under his jacket. How do I know? I saw it myself.
One day, one of them made a hole in the door of our room because someone (by the way, I) forgot to turn the front lock all the way — and he had to wait a long time in the front door, seething with anger, to get inside the apartment.
After a while, the gloomy man, addicted to hard drugs, will disappear, soaking his leather jacket in an enamel basin in the bathroom. That would be all right, but the jacket was covered in human blood.
The story with Oleg deserves a separate story, since our company had a great chance to go to prison in the stupidest way. A loser actor's car was stolen, after which the cops broke into our room early in the morning.
Of course, we did not steal Oleg's car. But because of the general carelessness, none of us took care to hide Ilya's narcotic substances (several types and weights), ventilate the room from the hashish aroma and remove a huge marijuana bush from the windowsill. Miraculously, I managed to convince the brazen cop to wait for us to put on our belongings before testifying. I stirred up the guys, and we hid everything in the closet.
«Sibirsky» — a pseudonym that Ilya took to emphasize his passion for the «Siberia» acid variety. At least that's what they said. It is no secret that Ilya was a huckster and quit selling drugs only after he went too far with a dose for a person, who caught a bad trip and fell out of the window. The guy didn't die, of course, but he fell into a coma. I don't want to show Ilya as a kind of huckster without empathy, on the contrary! He was worried about what had happened for a long time. He even visited his former client in the Botkin Hospital. It's a serious matter.
When we argued on social topics, Ilya usually took a pseudo-Slavophile position, and I took a pseudo-Western position. Why pseudo? Because we were neither one nor the other. We both loved our country and wished it prosperity, while experiencing understandable human emotions, different at different times — from hatred to delight.
But the way he demonstrated his patriotic position is worthy of special mention.
«Rashka-poop, then? You shouldn't think that Russia is bad in everything! — told me Ilya in an admonishing and embittered tone. — You think that only idiots have lived here all their lives? And what about the Russian cosmists?»
Indeed, suddenly I remembered my trip to Kaluga and the monument to Tsiolkovsky. It is difficult to oppose anything to such values. Even modern space conquerors, like the world-famous richest Ilon Musk, seem to be weak figures compared to this self-taught provincial tutor. Cowboy Musk, no matter how you look at it, is a follower of Tsiolkovsky, a student and embodiment of his ideas.
But the trip itself! I remember everything. I worked in the campaign headquarters of the candidate for the municipal assembly from the Libertarian Party. There I saw the system from the inside — the underside of the Russian state machine. And, believe me, the way the authorities behaved is complete shit! Corruption, lawlessness of the security forces and the helplessness of the legal system — far from slander against « holy Moscow Rus». (We are not talking about warmongering yet.) If this mafia is ever tried, it is not a sin to take the side of the prosecution!
This is such a contrast! Bastard chthonic bastards without imagination and will — and hungry fragile enlightened geniuses influencing the course of world history. A really serious reason to love a country in which such minds appear. But everything else … just a disaster. It was a joke: Russia is so harsh that people want to escape from it even into space.
So why did I leave the house? Where I was going? And why I took a whole suitcase of things with me?
I am talking about my first attempt to emigrate and the unexpected consequences of this enterprise. Original name — «Narva Operation» — in honor of the river and city of the same name.
To show off, I often embellished this story orally.
But now, as I write these words on paper, I give up trying to embellish or distort the events that happened to me that day. So.
From Pokrovsky Island to the bus station along the embankment of the Obvodny Canal, I most likely walked, because this is my habit. I have always loved and still love to walk.
Is it worth describing St. Petersburg? His stone, iron, painted wood, glass, dust, water, the smell of swamp mud? Columns, atlantes propping up balconies, curly stucco heads over the front doors, railings, curbs, pavements, stone flowers? This city has been described millions of times, I'm sure, and there's nothing new to say about it. St. Petersburg is a city of imitation, a city of imitation. It was originally created as such, but quickly outgrew its status as an epigone, becoming a true gem! A great child of the progressive Russian tsar and no less a great attempt to comb unwashed Russia under the guise of civilized Europe. An attempt that was not unsuccessful! But let's not talk about politics. And let's not even talk about architecture.
At the bus station, my attention was attracted by signs with directions. But I don't remember their content. But no, remembered! The names of the cities were duplicated in English, so they stuck in my memory, — my platform: IVANGOROD.
Then there was the bus ride and listening to synthetic music on a pocket player. Synthetic sounds that had flames, but flames of unusual colors. In nature, flames are usually red, orange. When the gas is burning, the flame is blue or white. There is a yellow fire. But there are also unknown colors of flames. We are talking about them. Fluctuating flame, vibrating flame, gushing flame.
Sparkling virtual circuits that generate sound. Bubbling black slurry of modulators, filtration cells. Signal transmission and output to micro speakers! It's hard to believe, but once upon a time, guitars didn't buzz like vintage electric razors! And the drummer was a person, not a machine repeating percussion fragments. Superposition of the Wave Spit of Different Frequencies and Amplitudes. The flint suddenly became liquid and flowed like a stream into my ears! A hundred angels with laser harps descending from the sky hovered above my head. Mystery is attained in various ways. There are also simple moves, but complicated with the help of effects and sound engineering. Three buttons on the keyboard of an ordinary piano, and on top of it is echo, reverb, saturation … and even a little overdrive. All this strums, bounces, entering into dissonance, or responds … merges in harmony with other sounds …
At the entrance to Kingisepp, from the window of the bus, I saw an LED deer standing on an island of lawn. One and a half meters high. White light bulb garlands on a metal frame. Cold white, the moment when white already begins to shimmer blue.
I don't know why I remembered this electric figure. Even over the years, it did not symbolize anything for me. But in my memory I have preserved. Does this mean that memory is a bizarre thing? After all, it is logical to remember the significant and forget the insignificant. But no. It is often the other way around. In any case, let it be.
It will be a special electric deer that comes into conflict with Chekhov's gun. How do you like this?
I got off a few kilometers before Ivangorod, before reaching the border checkpoint, at a stop on demand and moved towards the trees looming in the north-west along the country road. How stupid and naive! Moreover, I expected to reach the Narva River and cross it. Isn't crazy? I sincerely declare: I didn't think so then.
Forest on a December Night. What can you see there besides shadows? Nothing. Even the smells of autumn decay have already run out. I wandered between the trees and rocks with my stupid suitcase not very fast, but not slow either. Silence is all around, only the branches are moving and creaking. So quiet that I could hear my breathing. I was worried, of course. And who wouldn't?
One, two, dog barking. Two lanterns began to approach. Border guards - from the Russian side. Naturally, they were dressed in modern uniforms, camouflage and black vests with the words "FSB" written on the back, and had the usual Russian surnames. Conditional Captain Smirnov and Lieutenant Sidorov. But that night they came to me as full-fledged Romans. Praetorian with a dog and a legionnaire. And less than half an hour had passed since I was taken. No harsh detention, no emotional dialogue.
By that time, I had already been detained, and I knew for sure: as a rule, it is useless to resist. You will only anger the lawmen and reduce your chances of leaving without consequences. Although there is always a chance to run into a sadist... This is also not uncommon. But in any case, the advice is always the same: be polite!
Of course, they asked me some questions, like: «Who is?», «Where are you going?», «You know that the state border of the Russian Federation passes here?», « No?», « Don't lie to me here!», « There is a permit to stay in the border zone?», « Visa?», « No? Well, here is your cunt!»
Then the Praetorian with the dog went to the border guard post of the federal service, and the legionnaire put me in a civilian car. Black Mercedes. And we went. The trip was essentially an interrogation. «Who is?», «From where?», «Why did I want to get to Estonia?».
To say that I was frightened is to say nothing, but I pretended to be calm. And what could I do? I sat on my ass straight and did not twitch. Answered simply, at first trying to deceive … and then - as it is. I was not wanted, did not serve in the army and was not allowed to access any state secrets. This is easy to verify, especially since the Praetorian who went to the Ivangorod post photographed my documents. I was also saved by the fact that I was detained not at the border itself, but in a five-kilometer strip in front of it. Apparently, the driver or one of the passengers of the bus at the Ivangorod checkpoint told about me. This explained why I was detained so quickly.
I just freaked out and decided to leave my troubled country. Who does not have such desires at all in our time? The «Narva operation» was a failure.
It felt like we were spinning through a strange labyrinth of the Minotaur with invisible walls. Time passed tensely and seemed long. But in fact, the trip was not long. The car stopped, I realized that we were in Kingisepp. The legionnaire called the Praetorian, who confirmed that I was clean and not wanted. It's good that they immediately realized that I was just an idiot, and showed even if it was corrupt and mercenary... but humanity.
The last question the Roman asked was about the amount of money I had with me. I answered honestly and added: «Part on a regular card, part on a credit card».
We drove a little more, I went to the ATM and withdrew everything that was. He returned to the car and gave everything to the Roman … he calmly counted out four hundred rubles and returned it. It was money for a return ticket to St. Petersburg. «Go home in the morning and you can consider yourself lucky today!» The luck was really unspeakable. Caesar the Merciful!
In the supermarket, I counted out pennies for Orbita cheese in a foil package. All that remains is to wait for the morning…
The Kingisepp bus station itself is nothing. Just an empty area. Next to it is a one-story yellow house with a red triangular roof. Almost built into it is a metal kiosk, the same color, but brighter. And another building with a flat roof and white- yellow walls (or plaque, as on the rim of the toilet bowl, or paint) and with a vacuum under concrete columns, behind which there are benches and above which there are eleven metal letters that form the word: BUS STATION. The metal of these letters was not spared by corrosion, it can be seen with the naked eye.
If you sit under the columns, and I sat there, you will look northeast. Directly to the McDonald's building in a characteristic style. (From behind the trees, only the illuminated letter M was visible, and then a little from the side.)
The homeless are originally mystical people. Not having your own roof over your head and living on the street is a mystical experience. Therefore, even if you are not a tramp yourself, when you meet a person who lives on the street, your chance of running into a mystical experience increases.
Repeatedly tested empirically!
The first time was at the age of fifteen, when I got into the "bullpen" of the Lysva police department. The second time was at eighteen, already in an insane asylum. For the first time, I was sure that I had met the devil disguised as a homeless man. For the second time, I had no doubt that the mute cripple on a shabby mattress, who, according to legend, went mad and was found somewhere on the heating main, was none other than an angel. This is an irrational experience that needs to be deciphered. But even if everyone around me stands against me, I will not give up the idea that the inexplicable is always with us. And declassed people are always closer to the unknown, the paranormal in this regard... than their civilian tribesmen.
So, the homeless man was with me on that night that I remembered for the rest of my life!
I may be mistaken, but his name was Georgy. He called his wife - Baby. The baby threw him out of the apartment, sold it and left for the depths of Russia. Or into the depths of its European part. I forgot which city, so I'm restoring the approximate geography. You can point your finger at the map without looking and say: «Saratov». Great city, I've never been there, but I'm sure the place is beautiful. I did not understand the reasons for their separation after many years of married life. And whether they had children - I forgot.
At first, (spring, summer and autumn) the former worker lived on the city beach, but, obviously, he did not prepare for the cold. A difficult situation - I wonder if he managed to survive that winter?
Georgy and I were sitting on a bench under angular concrete columns, we both had nowhere to go that night. «Such games ended a long time ago», — he answered me when I cautiously tried to ask him if he knew the route or any path on the border … which I could walk to the other side. No so no. I fell silent, sinking into the hypnotic trance of northern midnight magic.
The homeless man muttered softly, telling the story of his past working life and love for the Baby, scenes from the life of the working class, in a monotonous and calm voice, like an old-fashioned radio announcer.
But I was no longer listening to him, fascinated by the picture of falling snowflakes slowly swirling under the diffused light of a lantern directed into a puddle. What a lantern, that's too loud to say! A miserable light bulb under a massive iron cone. «A real ballet!» — I thought. White skirts dancing in the air, as if resisting the force of gravity.
Once I asked a ballerina out on a date. I remember she dashingly threw her leg over my shoulder right in the caf; where we were sitting. In the end, the case did not end with anything, she was busy, but the fact is interesting.
The puddle, on which the light rays fell, was drawn from the edges to the center.
The collapse began with one crack. It went on the horizon, somewhere behind McDonald's. And at first I felt it. At first, the process was accompanied by indistinct sounds. Then the piece of sky changed from dark blue to black. The crack split and began to appear in other places, first capturing distant objects, slowly moving to closer ones.
When I say that the fissure has separated, I compare it to an organism or to a predator devouring prey. Like a boa constrictor swallowing a strangled creature. The process went slowly. Fragment by fragment. Piece by piece. But how much can be noticed in the darkness?
The realization that things are taking an unexpected turn takes an alarming note... overtook me when I realized that I was paralyzed. I can't move, and the muscles of my face are cramped as if it is also going to fall apart. At least in terms of feelings. Meanwhile, the crack has sprouted into the territory of the bus station square, coming closer and closer.
Twilight took me in its icy pincers, and my heart, hidden in my chest, pounded with extreme force. It was as if the mermaid of the night herself dragged me in her arms to the bottom of the dark ocean to kill and devour me there.
What's there! What claws, what mermaids! The images I picked up were nothing compared to the situation that suddenly burst into my life! What Are Subterranean or Underwater Hallucinations Compared to Pre-Cosmic Chaos? Chaos that denies even simple geometric shapes, light, color!

Everything around was gone. Even Georgy, his monotonous speech and my idiotic suitcase! Matter itself disappeared. Only some immaterial firmament has been preserved, but not of a gravitational nature, another. It's hard to explain. It was as if I continued to feel where the earth was and where the sky was. Intuitively or from memory. Only it didn't matter at all. I found myself in a shell of emptiness. In nowhere. But the sound remained, I could scream. If I wanted to, but I didn't want to. The will of my desire was fettered by the realization of universal indifference. Everything is mixed up! I stared into the monstrous, unimaginably black gap that opened in the middle of the bus square. Neither here nor there! The cold remained. The wind did not survive, but could theoretically be possible. It felt like I understood it purely intuitively.
A strange place, an alien dimension in the middle of a rift, in which there was something biblical, primordial. The very place where the spirit hovered over the water. Remember? To any form, to the atom … down to the smallest grains. Darkness and abyss. No. Darkness spread over the abyss. And in it I. And what about me? I am only a voice in emptiness, directed into nothingness, when it is nothing itself. The Voice That Was Silent. Non-being, which has its own space and time, destroying the meaning of all that exists. The annihilating significance of everything but oneself. And myself, too, probably. This is when nothing matters anymore. On the border of prospects. It is impossible to see such a thing without experiencing horror. It looked exactly like when a person tries to imagine death. But it can't be death, because then you're falling apart. Death or blindness is the most accessible thing that the imagination can try to find for comparison … but no, this is not enough to convey the essence. Diving to extreme depths … At that time, my soul simply needed at least a ray of sunshine, but there was no one to even tearfully pray for it. There is absolutely nothing to grab hold of! It would be more natural to find yourself buried alive and scratch the lid of the coffin with your nails!
In the description of such things, you should be extremely accurate and scrupulous. The reality that surrounded me cracked, shattered and fell apart, without forming a mountain of debris under it, no, it disappeared completely. Without a trace … As if you tore off a person's mask, and there was no face behind the mask. Or jumped into the abyss … but it turned out to be bottomless. And your fall will never end again. You could say it's flying, but who would want to fly like that?
Many years after the Kingisepp incident, I happened to witness the death of an old man who suffered from lung cancer. I worked for him as a nurse in a place called Protasy. I was hired by his daughter. For several weeks I went to their home, to a country cottage, and was next to the ward. Some will say that this experience is ordinary, but I rely only on what I have seen with my own eyes.
The old man was even on the move for the first two weeks, we talked, joked. «I was a rocket scientist, Grinya! In the sixties in Cuba, right into the Cuban Missile Crisis! And I saw Fidel Castro! We were ready to destroy America with all its fucking skyscrapers!» — « And how he was, Fidel?» — « Definitely better than now, Grinya, definitely better!» (Friendly laughter.)
And then the old man got worse. He died for about a week. Gradually, grandfather began to sink into a state of confused consciousness. His skin became paler. He saw bizarre hallucinations. He told me suddenly: « Grinya, look at the horses! What beautiful!», pointing to the blank white ceiling. Four days before his death, an eyewitness to the living Fidel Castro lost the ability to speak and did not say a word until the very end. For the last three days he had not spoken or eaten anything. I carefully gave the dry, gray-haired old man water through gauze. On the day of his death, he began to have breathing problems. I called an ambulance. The doctors said that the old man could not be pumped out and that I should have called them in vain, I should have quietly let him die. Resuscitation procedures are useless. A young nurse injected the old man with a drip with a water solution, and his condition was stable until the evening. My daughter made a bed for me in his room. At night, breathing problems began again. At night, breathing problems began again. His mouth was open, his eyes rolled back. Agony. At one point, it became obvious that the count was for minutes. I woke up his daughter and went off to smoke. Literally four minutes - and the old man died. Then I tied his jaw with a bandage so that he would not stiffen with his mouth open.
I knew about rigor mortis since I was a teenager: my grandmother's dog died. At night, my brother and I wrapped the dog in a rug and went to drink beer. And in the morning, when the dog had to be buried, it turned out to be uncomfortable because of the position in which it froze. She stretched out her hind legs, and bent her front legs, as if she was swimming somewhere. (Along the River Styx, obviously.)
By the way, that old man bequeathed me a block of his Turkish cigarettes. After this incident, I once again quit smoking.
For about four hours I sat in a caf;. It was a railway station roadside trailer. A very modest place: tea, coffee, beer, cigarettes, chocolates, some kind of food. The saleswoman is Russian, middle-aged, with a Baltic accent. If such a accent exists. This is easy to understand for those who can compare these accent with others.
My hands were shaking, I was very cold. After buying coffee, I sat silently in the corner at a table.
A TV was working in the trailer, but I did not remember what was broadcast.
I remember looking at the oilcloth tablecloth on the table, but I didn't remember the images on it. Most likely, nature was there: animals or flowers. Or ornaments. Or maybe both. Most likely, this is the case. I can't say for sure. But what else could be there?
About two hours later, at about six, when the first bus to St. Petersburg was supposed to appear, I saw a young guy near the station, approached him and asked where the bus I needed would stop.
I remember that he seemed to me extremely friendly, as he had all that morning. As if it was the morning after death and miraculous resurrection. He showed me the exact place to stop and wished me a good day. I answered him with the same spontaneous emotional tenderness.
I don't remember the way back home at all, there was nothing remarkable about it at all. I was shaking after what I had experienced at night, and my condition resembled a hangover. I couldn't listen to synthetic music anymore, so I listened to the monotonous sound of the internal combustion engine. And not only. All together. The sound of a bus, the sounds of car traffic in a broad sense.
I only remember how I saw the Moscow Triumphal Gate from the window. I saw it up close, for the first time in my life. I had never been to the «Moscow Gate» before, although I knew about the existence of this metro station.
The imperial, state monument, designed to show the greatness of the ruling regime of the past, suddenly acquired a completely different meaning for me.
Roman triumphal arches were monumental structures and were intended for the victors, the triumphants. In memory of important historical events.
I faced chaos and didn't go crazy. Not dead! Chaos did not overcome me, I was horrified to see its ugliness. I became a voice silent in nowhere. Now I knew for sure that the Creator existed, even though I had communed with him without my consent. Isn't that a victory?
The soul, tormented by the lack of recognition and love, can find its place in art. Art is the only home in this world where everyone is welcome! And every dreamer is given a chance! In creativity! Chaos is disorder, space is the same chaos… in which the Creator has put things in order. So! To be in space without having your own spaceship. If this is not a triumph, then what? The realization of this will come only with time, when the voice in the abyss, speaking... became a word on paper.
So much for the Russian cosmists! I'm a fucking Russian cosmist too! Involuntarily, but communed!
I returned home. I went into the front door, climbed the wide staircase, went into the apartment. My Kingisepp odyssey ended where it began, in a tiny room. In a house on Pokrovsky Island. Together with me, a suitcase with things returned home.
Sibirsky met me wrapped in a blanket, looking like Ivan Tsarevich from the painting "Flying Carpet". He even ate porridge with a wooden spoon decorated with images of nesting dolls. Russian Ivan straight from a fairy tale. With a small glass bong, on the walls of which you could see black oily hashish soot. With tousled golden hair. A nice guy in general, but absent-minded. Talented, but evaporating. His dreams are most likely impossible, but he doesn't care about that.
Ilya experimented with drugs for a long time, and he also had many visions and hallucinations that he did not record… out of their own carelessness or outright laziness. A huckster not for profit, but out of conviction. He was seriously fascinated by the idea of a psychedelic revolution! Twice I had to buy it back from the cops (the same), who caught it with a staff. Once with acid, once with ecstasy. In the middle of the night, I was blown up by a phone call, taking money from the closet hidden under my underwear, skinny jeans and colorful shirts, sneaking like an assassin somewhere in the area of the Arctic Museum and in the alley giving money to powerful Roman cops to bring a dear neighbor home, who also improvised with non-standard substances, such as dope seeds. He was speechless for a day and staggered around the apartment in an insane state. His head was beaten against the window of a jeep on Gorokhovaya Street, and the doctors of the Mariinsky Hospital took fragments out of his skull.
I remember most of all their joint trip with Kirill. During our life on Pokrovsky Island, we had two Kirills. But here we are talking about Kirill Barista. I will not mention his name, but everyone who knows will understand who we are talking about.
For two months, the friends saved money to go together to a large light show, throwing acid. And so they did! Tickets there were not cheap, which indicated that the event was important. I stayed at home. Kirill was the first to return, in the morning. He was beaten and with broken glasses, which he immediately began to rewind with duct tape in the middle. In nervous excitement and annoyance. When I asked who had done this to him, I received an unexpected answer. Ilya attacked him during a trip and beat him, breaking his glasses. Oh! People have tripped together dozens of times, and there you have it! So many years of friendship, why would? Then Kirill announced that he was moving out of Pokrovsky Island, and asked for help with the transfer of things to the famous loft «ETAGI» on Ligovsky.
When Ilya returned, I interrogated him why he had beaten Kirill. To which Sibirsky told me his version, which looks like a very weak excuse: что wanted to destroy all reality, and the Barist just fell into the hands. After the light show, Tsarevich Ilya, stoned by acid, ran through St. Petersburg at night, beating cars, road poles, house walls and screaming. Neither the granite spheres nor the copper statues of Nevsky Prospekt could object to him. I believe that even the formidable Sphinxes of the Egyptian Bridge would have trembled at the sight of the enraged Sibirsky that night. A cry of rage and despair pierced the sky like a second Admiralty spire. At that moment, he turned into the embodiment of the one for whom the night is his mother!
To be fair, there are usually no such bads with true LSD (lysergic acid), let's not demonize the lyzer. We are talking here about the NBOM. The difficulty is that acid is usually called any psychedelic: Lyzer, Shulgin themes, NBOMs …
How I deciphered his gollucinations: reality appeared to him artificial and even plastic, like old houses that are covered with protective canvases with pictures during the restoration of facades. The whole city appeared to him like this. He pounded on anything to see if the rag hiding the real state of affairs would fly off the surface. And this happened from time to time! The zigzags of the houses, losing their texture, began to look like luminous frames without walls. Multi-colored outlines of objects, in which their entire structure was visible through. Even when he closed his eyes, he could not stop seeing the illuminated skeletons of the houses - his eyelids had become transparent! He felt more like he was in a rough three-dimensional model of the city than in a real city! Though … Who among us will now vouch for what is real and what is not?
One more fact: the day before the light fest, Sibirsky went to a gathering of Thelemites and participated in the ritual there. Maybe this was the catalyst for what blocked it?
An Unleashed Release of Unbridled Energy and Uncompromising Denial. You can't do so much in one day!
I put the suitcase on the floor, sat down at the table, and began to talk about my experience. The mystical illumination that befell me last night. Ilya listened to me with interest, as if it was necessary. I even had the feeling that I was a full-time intelligence officer... of some organization, institute. University of Psychedelic Research, where Sibirsky is something of a professor, a data collector, a theorist.
When the professor listened to my story, he ran away to his half of our room. I don't remember the rest for sure. Either he brought a text on a MacBook, or a paper book — I can't say for sure. At first glance, the work was very esoteric. I told him that I would read it when I woke up. And went to bed. We went to our places.
As I fell asleep, I remembered a characteristic story that is worth mentioning for the sake of comparison. A few years before the events, I had a girlfriend in Perm, her name was Olga. She cheated on me and had mental problems. A skinny, gothic, slutty, suicidal girl. With cut arms and even legs, skin pallor and bruises under the eyes. Tragic for some time. (Years later, I would visit her in a mental hospital.)
One day she asked me to take a picture of her naked... or half-naked somewhere in an open area. We went to the River Station, near the Perm-1 station.
She put on a short black dress, put on makeup, and took with her the stockings I had recently given her.
We walked along the embankment, where I tirelessly talked to her about sex. Usually she was always for it, but today she did not want to give herself to me. What was suspicious … and, looking ahead, I will say that it is not in vain.
As a result, we got to a deserted area a little away from the water. Olga pulled on her stockings, which, as it turned out, were without elastic bands and did not stay on her feet. I didn't buy her a belt. For twenty minutes she posed: sitting, standing, on my knees, exposing my small breasts, spreading my legs, but for some reason stubbornly hiding my ass from me.
As it turned out later, she framed her ass to an Armenian Jew, (what a combo) who successfully whipped her. The whole ass was bruised. A little later, this guy will end up in the Black Dolphin prison for some particularly serious crime.
With great difficulty, but I managed to persuade her to have sex. Provided that only in a missionary position! We went to a place where the trees grew thicker, I laid my jacket on the ground, Olga sucked my dick for a short time and lay on her back.
I put on a condom, lay down on her and inserted my dick. For a couple of minutes, I tried to have sex with a gothic girl in a position that was extremely uncomfortable. The jacket was too short, and I almost touched the ground with my balls when I pushed it into it. At one point, my dick even fell out of her hole because of the inclined plane we were on (earthen slope), and I slid it back in.
One, two, stop. Olga said that something was wrong. Something is interfering with her. «Stop it, Grisha, something is interfering!» — the ringing voice of a young woman having sex in the bushes sounded.
I stood up and lifted her left leg with one hand to get a better view of her pussy. The air smelled of flowers and the river. Indeed, apparently, when the dick fell out, it touched the ground and collected small debris that stuck to the surface. Somewhere behind my back, invisible children were laughing. I began to clean her vagina with my fingers. Some pellets of earth, a few small Christmas tree needles, a scrap of a green leaf. When everything was clean on the outside, I slightly parted the walls of the vagina with my fingers to make sure that everything was fine.
A black shiny scale appeared inside. I spread Olga's labia more strongly, wider.
At that moment, the scales stirred nervously and fluttered out of my girlfriend's crotch, buzzing discontentedly. Oh! Turn! It seemed that for a second the black beetle hovered at the level of my face, cursed loudly in its insect language and flew away. He soared up to the crowns of the trees and flew out into the area of the Kama embankment, flooded with the midday sun, blown by a pleasant summer breeze. For a complete picture, the only thing missing was a flute melody from a curly-haired shepherdess from Arcadia!
I began to write a text about this event only seven years later, on the tenth of December, two thousand and twenty-two. Showed Ilya, who was in Georgia at that time, the draft. He, as always, showed erudition and spoke about the Kingisepp incident: «( This is) the end of the film "The Nine Lives of Thomas Katz" literally ».
What conclusion can be drawn from all this? Every man after thirty years old can write his own personal Bible… Everyone can try to become the Messiah, as long as they are not afraid of dying or going insane too early or suddenly … seeing his particle of truth, accessible only to those who are ready to lose their virginity... in terms of horror.

*****

This text is the first chapter of the novel "Bohemian runaways".
The book is looking for a publisher.

gregori.aborin@gmail.com