The plot, that had to be prolonged

I
In midst of lonely silent walls of sleepy passionless apartment, till last accessible of spots consumed by blossoming of fading, without notably huge ardor is wasting idle term of day completely lost in nets of drowsy thoughtful rest young hopeful student, learning chemistry implying in frames of practical fulfilling of fresh industrial requests - Boris Petrovich Odynokov, most stubborn optimist and prisoner of faith - in all what promises some chances on any aimfulness or luck. So, having barely got finally awoken, he was already full of plans and zeal for dashing undertakings, combining schedule of activities and startings and choosing vector of day's plots.
“I guess, it will be most appropriate and fruitful to try to move to river's bar – its pier is always richly teeming with overwhelming swarms of girls. I have to dare to research them – there is no secret, that obtaining with such knowledge with proper size o fortune's help can rather easily turn out to be priceless. In any case each single harvest of big prospects takes roots from grains of small attempt. " - the hero, brightening with mood, has added fervor to intentions and, having fleetingly got wrapped in motley jacket, picked up few bills and half of handful's scope of coins and, having parted with imprisonment in boredom, jumped into warmth of summer streets and sent route's course to yellow booth of railway station for to arrange close to young evening lonely voyage to lurking latitudes of rakish Fallen Wastelands, where at night's time in river's bar reigns squall of social leftovers: sluts, beggars, vagabonds and homeless, performers, singers, drunklets, freaks and, what's surprising, even rare normal people, as unexpected and exotic as new technologies in hands of ancient tribe. By sides – habitual forlornness: vast tired endlessness of lands, gray shabby roofs, clung to each other, frail liquid greenery and several old cars. All is unbearably insipid, but still quite charming and enchanting and full of artfulness and peace. At line of platform, gently linking to horizon – five-six small groups of waiting passengers and workers. In thick and chained with hotness air – tart static admixture of tacky smell of sleepers. In round gaps of blurred windows – torn rambling scraps of jumping flickering reflections. In pace of minutes – drowsy laziness and languor. In fuss of day – limp idle weariness and lightness, shy numb passivity and fright. So, after passing of one hour and three quarters, huge bulky train, from last remains of iron strengths completing burden of own labor, has with great flaccidness and torpor arrived to instantly turned swift and rushed up crowd. The very pricelessly craved train is wholly standard – quite old and notably worn out, with hazy lamp and buzzy wistfully sad horn. Inside of dark and stuffy wagon, what's fully ordinary thing, blooms utter modesty and rigor. Meek dormant traveling is lifeless: coy muted soothing noise of wheels, smooth blinking motleyness of windows and whistling sounding of wind - exhausted, flabby and pathetic.  the kaleidoscope of the window frames and the variable sound of the whistle. At end of trip – deep stern oblivion and thickets of oppression. Low faceless houses and wilderness of forest. Path's track is hinderingly narrow, grasped up by bushes and trees' trunks and lost in weeds and desolation. Right after finishing of length of this not easiest of roads – gray wooden building with high pipe and heavy door: the very stubbornly ingrown in most profound and most sacred inner parts and spots of heart succumbed to sinfulness and vices river's bar. In midst of painted in sea's color roomy hall, in tense caustic atmosphere, laugh, alcohol and smoke – dressed up in white sleek clothing tables, oak dancing platforms for guests' legs and massive rack, indwelled with several innkeepers, engaged in tight anticipation for further visitors' excess. Next to inframed in trickless ornament of pebbles upspreaded entrance's door – small plain ensemble of crossed out spear and anchor. As soon as vague shawl of evening has risked to lay above of land, harsh flow of crowd has rushed in. Among of lots of eaters' faces, at place in corner under chandelier's dim rays, was idly holding her calm rest cute stranger lady in short bright dress and with magnificent eccentric folding fan of nimbly woven painted feathers. Madame, as others, fully banal and rid of anything unique, still was perceived as fair chance and perfect candidate for falling in acquaintance. So, having risen and tuned his temper in brave mood, the hero out of long thinking has stepped ahead and unassertively declared: "Day's term is ending, murk is sticking to the ground - not worst of times for to proceed to something sweet."
“You are so marvelously headless! Are you indeed, as child, relying on my agreement and lust's dose? Do you with seriousness faith, that at one day you will have sex. You have to have no brain at all for to consider, that it'll ever cope to happen.”
"Well, neither tenderness, nor passion..."
“What a disease do you obtain with? I with all power drive you off, and you continue to persist. What are you're trying to suggest? Stand up and drug yourself away. Stand up right now, you are burdening as hell."
“Not of sweetness this time, not of bliss..." - Boris Petrovich has turned over and, having speedily walked out, stopped under lonely maple tree: “I have great need to save day's going ...”
So, amply catching dusty air, he has got stuck in mash of temporal thoughts' break and then assuredly concluded, rejecting pessimism and fright: “I cannot take it, can't give up. I don't agree to stay with loss. So, all what's left – is to try further." - Boris Petrovich has switched out his attention looked around in greedy search of someone else. Soon, close to water in captivity of thickets, at sunk in wilderness and shadows, torn from observing wooden bridge, which almost every single moment is madly rich on something shocking and immoral, dim tired gaze has verified tall vacant beauty in shameless skirt and with full armful of newspapers.
"Night's veil is clinging to land's surface, so let's repeat by act of clinging to each other..."
“Be disappointed till death, bet all world's wealth – it'll never occur. I for already eight of years am rather stably gladly married. But, if you're really obsessed with need in meeting, I can provide your flesh and soul with quite adventurous solution: behind that hollowness in bushes in full of watery clay groove is sharing sleep one young drunk lady. So, you'll have chances, if you'll manage to awoke her. I even guess – not wholly vain..."
The hero, showing formal laughing, has slightly smiled and, having humbly stepped away, stood at hill's top and, having frozen till the heroine has left, crept to sinned abode of reviled by her location. And indeed, into bonds of weeds' thickets, right in the midst of fresh long cave, was deadly lying female body, fixed in inviting piquant pose and lost in alcohol and dreaming. The hero, neatly keeping silence, has slowly bent and sat at stone, researching newly found treasure with inconfident curious gaze..
“As I look, drinking art has no bonds. Still how much blissfully can look sometimes mind's absence. But drunk and sober aren't supposed to be of similar life's viewing. Albeit, confessing to oneself, this one example is alluring."
Boris Petrovich has risen and, having passively returned, taken way through strengthening darkness – along rails' length back to home's walls.
“Well, path is leading me by track, what means I have to be encircled by the village. I still have chance to meet some stranger. With sultry heart, with tightness fueled by wild passion and with desires, rid of boundaries and brakes. I can greet morning not alone. I'm still believing. After all, all we need is a chance..."
Murk's sea has gently hugged stray figure and last one's silhouette has vanished, having melted in gloom with no trance – in nets of hope and hands of fortune, so much deceptive, hazed and faint.

II
In midst of deserted old barge, long long ago freed from involving into sailing and left for oldening and roasting, infrequent visitors and rats, are sitting two coy pensive persons - Boris Petrovich Odynokov and Viktor Pavlovich Pustykh, old friends and tireless co-thinkers of all eternal and unlearnt.
“It's rather easy, or I'm missing all, what's able, to look at world and to remark how, after all, it's vast and twisted, enchanting, limitless and great, how amply full of any chances, of any prospects, opportunities and tools. So, what prevents us from so simple zeal to live – to dream, to seek, to fall in love, to feel complexity and grace and to attempt to understand. It's so ingeniously plain – just be yourself and strive for better, but, as I've started to remark from recent time, this small habit of being yourself is in a practice hugest talent, with worth tons and tons of gold. And, to worst sadness, it's entrusted not to all. This is tart pity, but just only rare minds have guessed and wholly understood such simple rule. No ones of things can make food tastier and greater, than independence from necessity in spices. This is about poor us, about life and its completing. We are anyone else, but not people – slaves, nits, ants. The very presence of connection with this being is almost guarantee of rottenness of soul. Forget, reject, burn out bridges - and that’s all: freedom, properness, bliss. Don’t rush, don’t perish in inside, but no - we cannot, we don’t want to. In spite of fact of how much utterly it's needful - at least to try for most unsteady tiny moment, where we are left alone with self - with right to drive away all vainness and to repair each heart's crack. After all, everyone has own keys, keys from the highest of world's mysteries - from us. And the more less you are cab driver, clerk or lawyer, the more assuredly you're human – rid of all pointless and burdening of sides directly genuine straight person. Without nations and religions, without ages, jobs and - this is the only way we're humans, not shadows, victims, dolls or pawns.” - Boris Petrovich Odinokov has deeply sighed and delved in thought.
“World is too far from being simple – that's the point. It's slippy, baleful and dark. And never opened for predictions. And not to guess, what will provide with width of path, and what will leave to stay in bonds of constant deadlock. The more remarkable is bag, the more unspotable is presence of its awl. The more silent is weep, the more bitter and thick are its tears. The more it's easy release away your bird, the more it's hard to catch it back. You cannot know what to cling for. The more it's simple to hide smoke, the more it's tricky to hide fire. But if we have place for to fall, then, as it regularly turns, must be some place for to keep standing. Don’t be upset, if to believe, true luck is deathless.”
“Yes, all is terribly exotic. All we have – both salvations and threats. The less of value  face obtains with, the more of pathos it performs. The more alluring are your baits, the more excessively is sated breed of fishes. This sternly forces to give up – without even any minimal resistance. What for to look for proper hammer, if you are rid of decent nails. The more you're striving to survive, the greater risks you have to carry. And the more total is aims' absence, the more of aimfulness it hides. The longer path provides with finds, the shorter path prevents from losses. With truly stunning size of fire, you can quite easily get scolded just by smoke. But, if you've coped to make a sail, then rather likely soon you'll manage to meet wind. So, don't resign, climb up, persist. The more indifferent and cold is shine of lightening for eyes, the more relaxing, tender, soothing and pathetic should be for ears noise of rain.”
“You cannot get all ones of blessings at one moment, it's wholly fair, I agree. The less you have to pay for ticket, the more you spend for term of trip. All is indeed too complicated, too full of trickery and haze. The less avoidable is fire, the more of innocence has arsonist's repenting. The more uneatable and bitter is mind's food, the more attractive, sweet and rich is food for doubts. The more frail is the flame, the more thick is its smoke. And the more charming and more nice is lie of leaves, the more disgusting and more hard is truth of roots. No slightest matter, how you'll try to write your laws, you'll never cope to freed from lawlessness' existing. The highest guarantee of murk is someone's waiting for light's coming. The more you know of arrangers of the fire, the less you're wanting to get warmed.”
“Yes, the more sweet is taste of hope, the more close is next hopelessness reigning. And the more silently you're holding, the more unstoppably and loudly you'll fall. And not to find – what will support and what will break and turn in garbage. If you've admitted fact of leaves, you have no chances of denying of roots' presence. As soon as storm of life consumes you, you mind is doomed to fade and die. The more of thoughts you have of price, the less you're thinking of the product. And too oppressive, too much pestilent and wrong are bonds of being. The appealingly dish looks, the more it's scary to get choked. The more slippy is route, the less nimble are legs. And the more colorful is fire, the more unnotedly it burns. And too much late to rush or scream, if all was wasted long ago. It's sad, but this is of cursed us. The more assuredly you cut, the more attentively and neatly you starts sewing.”
“The more bright and more great are insights, the more dark and destructive is madness. In our time it's part of days. The more strong is your goal, the more weak are your tools. The more tender are slavery's frames, the more unbearable are punishments for running. The more thin is your thread, the more strongly it breaks. That is exactly how world works. The more frustrating is calm's time, the more awaited is storms coming.”
“The more exhausting and more long was time of struggle, the less demandable is win. The more indifferent is brightness, the more seductiveness has rave. The more you bet on mind and logic, the less of properness they bring. The more soft is the steer, the more hard and destructive are crashings. The more attentive are your eyes, the more of dust they're doomed to parry. But still stay able to insist. It's wholly vain, but at same time most sharply needful. At least, for not to loose last strengths. But do not hurry to believe is use of head. The better scale of visibility has bait, the deeper hiddenness and deadliness has trap.”
“The more silent is snake, the more loud are screams from its bitings. This gloomy wisdom is too true. The less you're faithing into logs, the more you're faithing into sawdust. The more of thickness is in axle, the more of thinness is in spokes. And no escape from pain and vainness. No hope on fruitfulness or sense. World is too ancient, too experienced and trained. And this is definitely not for sake of better. The older is the circus, the harder are its tricks. It's dreary givenness, my fried. The more sweet and alluring is poison, the more of bitterness hide antidotes and pills. And it is impossible to win or to, at least, remain in comfort. You can't return from empty river with full buckets. This is main sorrow, main life's pain. The more cheap metal chains are made of, the more expensive, dark and tough is freedom's price. The more of coldness gifts you beauty, the more of hotness offers ugliness, it's so. The more old is the forest, the more young are its chips. And so much easy it's to turn in one of last ones. The more of value here has cage, the less of value has encaged one. And the more sharp is unexpectedness of shooting, the more expectable are deaths. This is worst tragedy of now. The more unusable from wetness are your woods, the more high cost fate asks for matches.”
“The more of bitterness hide forecasts, the bigger risk is that they're right. The more you're trusting to your life, the less you're ready to preserve it. And, what's the scariest, it's right and even frighteningly prudent – no real matter how you clinging for fate's plots, if it will suddenly decide to throw you out, you anyway will turn in corpse. And world is cruelest of abodes. The more high value here has freedom, the lower value has its slaves. The more you gain, the more it's painful, when you lose. The more longly you climb, the more promptly you fall. But if you are afraid of sparks, you fire always will stay solely extinguished. And not to know, what we need. We are extremely sad from missing, but findings absence feels quite right. We don't regret, when better passes out, we do not notice such occasions, but falls in grief, when have to lose some trifling fuss. It's not so easy to explain, why none of us belongs to logic. And world's pier deny it too, where even every singly shape is nothing else, that scale of shapelessness' amount. And ever circle is not more than lack of angles. We try to struggle, to resist. But coffin's presence – sign of nails. Pain is too merciless, to strong. With sterner power they hate legs, with higher passion they praise crutches. But still don't tremble, don't give up. The loud are clocks, the more silent is time. The more unsteady are sea's splashing, the more unshakable are drops. And do not listen to advices. The more assuredly and firmly you grip compass, the less completely you feel path. But essence never lies at surface. You'll never catch it, never snatch. But still strive up and never shy. Jump right in harshest peak of heat, in worst accessible of depths. The more thick is your soup, the more nice it's to eat. And do not rush to part with hope. The more of pleasure hide attempts, the less of pain can bring omissions.”
Here they've got silent and speech was gradually dropped.

III
Among of tiresome thick grayness of full of watery fog slush, forgetting warmth and gaining doom, was sipping boredom wasting ardor wet pale city, lost into windiness and rain. Dense static haze, encircling lands and getting thicker, was stretching out over emptiness of streets, with sullen lifelessness and fright enshrouding lonely faceless facades, consumed by ringing with pain's voice numb breathless anguish and dispassion. Faint blurred shadows, lean and frail, were coyly crawling by dark pavements, with sorrow plunging into deepening despair and swiftly growing thrilling chill.
Boris Petrovich Odinokov, for fair two last years term already freed from role of student and quite successfully transformed in full of hopefulness young chemist, was, having zero of intentions, directing up in depths of mist in dreary yearning for some unity and newness. But cage of latitudes, to grief, was sternly offering one fading. There was desire to escape, to rid of doom and to get caught by twisted plot. Completely dashing and inhabited with love.
"I need in something what will manage to amuse - at least in tiniest of measures, I'll maybe find it in these dungeons of worn city. I maybe still will meet some soul for to close gap of daily loneliness and seeking. After all, even one truly seriously contact, and course of givenness is saved. With this glad thought, life will be joyful even following for death. And if to take large cup of kvass, then I at all will be quite ready to jump and sing like kicked from temper morning bird.”
Boris Petrovich has got gradually quickened and, after few of further blocks, was calmly entering old tavern, where in inside among of hugs of shabby walls without any single pause reigns hardest possible impudence. The very same as with untamable persistence was vastly blossoming right now in tight from alcohol fumes air, chained up by roaring, laugh and smoke. Both wholly average and banal faces' set and unrestrainably increasing pace of music are full of neatly keeping balance, brave vivid zeal and restless flame. At rack with food - lean speedy waitress. On wall at exit - two copper figuretts of dogs. No single cause to be excited or displeased.
So, having taken heavy couple of fat pasties and lavish pint of foamy drink, prostrated hero has proceeded to meek loafing and, after spending of whole hour, due to stiff lack of any useful occupations, with torpor started to prepare to leave few tinkling penny coins and to depart oneself away, but second later, having noticed brisk plump waitress, was thrown in storm of endless fright, as if from powerful hypnosis, and in attempt to share marvel of acquaintance with coyness tried to mutter rambling greeting words, having callingly steadily frozen in neat awaiting for response.
“You'd better simply just to leave. Do not force me to scold and be rude. This is your bill, just pick it up, fold and step out."
Boris Petrovich has frustratedly gone limp and indescribably dumbfounded walked away in harshest shock.
“Why so much awkwardly, so sickly... Like in nightmares from worst possible hangover or into plots of someone's full of evil curse. Guess, best for me right here will be just simply to get vanished. What else to do, except of howling in full strength, if living givenness today is so much tragically shoddy. And not to loosen grasp of pain. Not to get out from oppression - with so much mercilessly sharp degree of failure and so dramatically questionless refuse. I need to rest, to get forgotten, to fall away from this world's pit - at least for several next days. Otherwise I'm in risk to go mad.” - the hero has pathetically sighed and, fraily struggling with oneself, in state of corpse led path away.

IV
In midst of oldish modest porcelain plant's spaces, in room with endlessness of paints - Boris Petrovich, with zeal bent over set of glasses and with  pipette in one of hands: “No, it’s still faded, dull, impassive, I guess, I'm having to redone. Still how much difficult and twisted are paths to ideals and grace. But all another states and forms are wholly aimless, imperfect, emptified and dead. Only greatness has sense, only beauty – all rest is equal to pure dust. Each of things should have presence of art – both this lost world and each one of humans and of paths. And even these plain kitchen products. How saintly sweet is inner magic, how tempting, wonderful and thin. As only blissful part of days, made to protect from routine's abyss...”
So, having delved in calculations, enchanted hero has got catiously frozen for term of further hour's half and then, with fright returning back, packed fruits of thought in few gray sheets and gone away in vacant corridor's expanses, where into peacefulness and languor was sharing walking idle silhouette of lady - Oksana Pavlovna Suyestnykh, young charming creature from financial department.
"Good daring afternoon! I see, you are just lazy. I guess, such sudden common pausing can rather prudently be used for act of falling in acquaintance...” - Boris has notably turned brightened and with excitement started waiting for response.
“You’re also out of hard business. Just sip time's boredom and rely to cut it off. Nothing great, only fuss.”
“I would be happy to have talking...”
“Of what? Of empty, dumb or shameful? Then it'll be better to stay silent till day's end and never try to open mouth in my presence. So what you're counting to chat of? Or after last ones of my words you will prefer to show me numbness?”
The hero, trembling, has got stricken by confusion.
“As I feel, you'd be better to think. And I will go, luck to rest here..” - Madame has winked and, swiftly melting, briefly vanished.”
“Still how much obstinate and wild in human nature. How stubborn, intricate and odd. Not each of fruits can be picked up without struggling. But if some fruit is so forbidden, than maybe it, in compensation, is indeed, at least, properly sweet...” - Boris Petrovich has sighed and with exhaustedness left out.

V
Among of hopelessly faint darkness of frustrated deplorable sky, with frail passivity and fright, are floating thickly swarming clouds, slow, heavy, featureless and smooth. Along of sleepy faded streets are weakly trudging into distance rid of zeal's burning rare cars, inactive, tired and upset – by lack of weather and excess of devastation. With doom increasing into power, is leaking tightly pouring rain. From gaps of arches, as from nests, are shyly looking hunching shadows. With numb perplexion sowing gleaming in pit of sticky lifeless murk, are dimly smoldering pale lanterns.
“How much unthinkably enchanting is this bottomless marvelous world...” - Boris Petrovich has with rapturousness sighed, again dissolving in damp endlessness of streets.
“How much unusual, how much magical and priceless – all what we have here under covering of sky. Each one of shaky fleeting moments, each of sensations, views and spots. Just look around and rejoice. And still how blissful, kind and lovely is this wet gloominess of slush...” - here, having stumbled by unevenness of road, Boris Petrovich has unsavably lost balance and deadly fallen in cold bonds of puddle's depths, having instantly turned wholly wet.
“As I can see, my walk is over. Time to end up and to drag back."

VI
And again, right as well as before, fresh daily plots are spreading out its coy going and again same pale walls of small porcelain plant are meekly hugging with simplicity of work.
“What's of involving in your leisure? In all most delicate and blissful of its parts...”
“Your curiosity is morbid, you even cannot pass aside for not to pay your damn attention and not to splash all dirty lowness of your actual demands.”
“I just has tried to stay together and to build up some fruitful talk...”
“To stay together? What a dumbness! Which of intentions do you have for such uniting? I bet true reasons aren't too great. You seek for path to free intimacy, to body, you want to satisfy your whims, want to fulfill lewd carnal need in someone's flesh. For me such plans are most explicitly transparent, it has been notable from first of your sick words. So, turn around and get out of my person. I'm having nothing for to share with your muzzle. From all of roles you're in most pitiful right now. You're like a beggar, walk from one skirt to another and wait for such, which will be eager to permit. As rid of owner straying dog, with stubborn restlessness of ram repeating offerings and pleadings. With me this trickery is helpless. Don't even dream, that it'll come true. Drag worthless self back to your workroom and never show off once again. I have no joy to see your face and its forever switched on smile. It's fair cargo to observe you - much more exhausting and disturbing than any pestilent disease, so, do not litter my existence, leave such disgust for someone else.”
Boris Petrovich has in heaviest perplexion sunk into sea of fresh tart blush, and, being  helplessly unable to utter even single word, in deep harsh shiver and with worklessly limp legs, without questions, walked away.
“I need to fall in longest sleep. As soon as possible – for term of whole night's length. Otherwise, I'll just lose temper's health."
The hero has got frozen in confusion and, having ended work's remains, in speedy pace stepped back to home - to bath in silence and, as planned, to hide in sleep. And then again, just almost having turned awoken, to keep same silence and to try to fall asleep.

VII
Next to worn out broken building of old mill, is huddling, barking and revolving small flock of shaggy and exhausted, rid of hope to get fed straying dogs. Behind of them, with romping grouching from annoyance, in anger clinking with long metal walking stick, is trampling out humpy watchman:
“Shoo, scabby devils! How much to scary your cursed breed? Who have created those weak hearts, whose hands keep stupidness to stuff your throats with food. I'm hunger's prisoner myself. Do not provoke me to lose temper, I'll kill you all, not having blinked. At once with each of your ill-minded brainless feeders. Them, no of doubts, in first turn.”
“Where are you wobbling once again? What an unneeded aimless fussing? Oh, huh you, Kolya! I'm awaiting. Two full of vodka glasses too. With brine from cucumbers together. And you're just wandering, as always. What an imprudent silly habit to walk around for whole day. Sit, drink, enjoy, have all of blisses at one time. Believe to me, you will have thousands of chances of to get tired and lose time.”
“I once again hold war with dogs. Dumb heartful idiots keep stuffing them with food.”
“Forget. They swarm at here each morning, then close to midday disappear. You would be better to return and to get switched on rest and me."
“Yoou, Tanya, once again alone, as I am able to seeing - your poor husband, as before, is still from dawn to dusk on roads?”
“That’s straightly why I am inviting - my home is empty, bed the same. I, as not difficult to notice, am also full of inner thirst - for warmth, for pleasures and for burning in sticky sinful heat of shame. I will provide you any care, all of permissions and perversions without end till morning's rays. So, think, such offerings are priceless. Believe to me, I'll never dare to respond with lack of passion or to refuse in some of whims and disappoint any single expectation. All of my charms are wholly yours.”
“State of your matters is explicit - again no one agrees to take. To satisfy your constant itching. Well, do not howl - I'll give you help, if you're so hopelessly forgotten, that almost plead for being used.”
“Control your arrogance, my dear. You are most definitely not a Casanova. Be glad and thankful I've suggested. Not daily so sweet gifts take place...”
“I am too old for daily lewdness. And what's of scope of sinful offers, there is no threat of such ones' lack. But you indeed is perfect whore, much more craved cunt, than many others. So let's proceed, I would prefer to start from vodka - what it's a love, if you're not drunk..."
So, having speedily filled glasses and overturned them into throats, they've with arrived from drunkness wildness hugged each other and rather soon begun to purr, when jumped in furiousness hero has unexpectedly got up and clung to gap of window's frame: “Go out! Get away of here! Or I'll will brake your neck in half ,damn bastard's muzzle!”
And indeed, next to flock of stray dogs was standing pale pathetic youth with piece of pie in one of hands.
The poor fellow has got powerlessly shaken and, having thrown remains of pie in midst of tightly shrunk dogs' circle, in harshest fear run away.
“Who is this, do you know? I've never seen his face before.” - madame has curiously asked with languid yearning.
“This is Boris, one local dullard, offended slug and changeless weakling. He's local chemist, empty dreamer and constant seeker for free skirt. Once long ago he has been trying to build friendship with my daughter. She has most instantly declined and then was laughing more than year.”
“Yes, hopeless creature. Almost cripple. World's pier is doomed with men like he...”
And once again, same smoothly stretching term of drinking and once again hugs, hints and kissing, which are, of course, much more essential than dogs and, no of doubts, much more pleasant and alluring - both for dissolved in drunkness spirit and for involved in ardor flesh.

VIII
And once again same pensive couple of two talkers - Boris Petrovich Odinokov and Viktor Pavlovich Pustykh, this time in loneliness tavern, but with past hopelessness of speech and with quite similar degree of inner dreariness and sorrow.
“What kind of people do we have, what an incredible damn rubbish – freaks and herods.  In every person one duplicity and filth, dirt, filth, distortedness and vices. And how much sternly they're discussing all exalted, all priceless, innocent and saint. As if they're really not shit, not flock of scums, made up of villains and buffoons.”
“You're right, humanity is rotten. And they indeed are keen of talkings of sinless, rightful, high and pure, what, I agree, is truly nastiest and ugliest of features, you can detect in people's breed. No things can spoil words more stiffly, than personality of speaker, by whose decayed and poisoned lips they had damnation to be born. So, stay more ruthless, more cold-hearted. Don't fall in nets of passions' abyss, deny all sewing doubts' seeds. And never fall in even scantiest compassion – to any one at whole earth's width. The more excessive is your mercy to the weeds, the less affectionate and deep is your enchantedness with roses. World is just broken, sick and mad. And the more pure, sublime and meaningful is sphere, the more of dirt and filth it hides. The more essential is role, the less essential are actors. And not to part with grasp of pain. The more of time you spend with people, the more of vices you behold. The more of covers you are meeting, the more of lie you're witness of. The more of joy is in the envelope itself, the less of joy is in its letter. There is no soul, that you can trust to, no single one from all malformed society's pit. And every presence of relying is even wronger than indifferent rejecting. False friend is worse than any one of most straightforwardly true foes. But all around is not more than an illusion, stiff tart bemusement, made of farce. And if it's possible to counterfeit each money, then who has said, that there is no equal chance, with same effortlessness and deftness, to counterfeit both last ones' owner and whole world..."
“And what's disturbingly much more, the very mighty counterfeiter can be without any problems at easy replaced by faked one too. Most main of victims is your mind, you right on properness of feelings. If you have coped to tie ideas of some person, you have no need ti tie his hands. Do not forget of simple wisdom, as old as being's stage itself – the harshest slavery is such one, which was accepted by free will. We have got used not to obtain with any value, to stay unneeded, lost and cracked. Such daily givenness just cripples. It's inconsolably frustrating, but turning able of to drink from empty cup, you get unable of to drink from one, which's full. And, what's the saddest, most of people have almost nothing to risk with. It's greatly strange to frighten drowner with flood's growth. But every darkness you can meet here in spite of any inner deadness is sternly doomed to gain some sparks. And even local pier of madness from time to time shows proper fruits. But falsehood's nets are too unbeatable, too heavy for to be outplayed and torn. And the more ardently you're faithing in your share, the less you're faithing in own mind...”
“But how much pointless are people. You look at them and fall in shock – which way so trashy worthless creature can be at all endowed with life, what's more with human one like yours. And not to soften pain's persistence, not to find sources for calm's breath. With poisoned tools you're forced to live for poisoned targets. And not to hide oneself from evil, from nits and foes coped to occupy all spots. Each, who refuses to leave out through of door, will freely manage to imagine not less than several of hundreds of ways to stuck in window too. And what's most horrible and bitter, no frailest matter, how much pitiful and useless is every separately taken system's slave, in common mass they are tremendous.”
“Yes, the more small is each of bricks, the bigger flaws has wall at finish. This is as tragical as true. And don't expect, that crowd's essence can be fixed, no ones of tools can change their heads. Things, which mean logic, aren't of them. The less they're loving taste of pleasure, the more they're loving taste of pain. As you can easily remark, world is as primitive as endless, but still too obstinate, too firm.”
 “The higher level of simplicity life has, the greater tricks and deeper dangers its twists are able to perform. Eyes, which were formerly accustomed to see splinters, from every glance at healthy cup turn full of hardest squall of tears. And too impossible, too heavy to be maintaining any faith or to keep betting on some logic. The more assured is your gate, the less assured is path's going. The more of usefulness brings smartness, the more of harmfulness arises, if any stupidness takes place. The more pure waters are in river, the more thick dirt is into swamp. And so much easy it's – to perish or to turn wasted and get lost. The better thoughts you have of horse, the worse thoughts you have of riding. The more intangible is sky, the more perceptible is bottom.”
“But still it's righter to stay stubborn. To train persistence and gain zeal. The tighter grasp is holding soon, the higher tastiness has food. And world indeed is truly broken and heartbreakingly tragic and wrong. With greater splendidness feast lasts, with stiffer sharpness it gets ended. The sweeter music comes from strings, the weaker influence of pressure they sadly need for to be torn. We have to pay for every pleasure and, what's much scarier and darker, for every pain and sorrow too...”
“The more long is storm's time, the more short is ship's life. Here I entirely agree. The better better quality has food, the lower skillfulness have cookers. The more of greatness should have painting, the more of wavering and trembling take place in moves of painter's hands. With higher straightness you explain, with lower aptness you get heeded. This is main grief of current world, from starting point of first plots and till most fresh of days of now each single one of its uncountable spheres, if to submerge in inner principles and laws, with zero level of exceptions and with no chances to get fixed is strictly rid of any slightest glimpse of meaning. But still don't hurry to lose hope. At least, most watery and weightless. The more unsteady, thin and breakable is candle, the brighter flaming it performs. And do not look at flock of others, shy off to think and act like they, deny all close to last ones' breed. Believe, with actual society the only outcome and rescue is to stay out of its frames. They are incurably distorted, you'll never save them, never change their views and values. What's more, no one from last ones' scope has something worthy for to risk with. For to remain in shape of stone, you have no need to ask for sculptor. But stage of life is truly tricky, imperfect, slippery and wrecked. And the more easy and effortless it is to hammer any nail, the more painstaking and more hard it is to pull this nail away. And not to freed from nets of wrongness, not to survive in its sick swamp, if to turn careless or trustful at least for trifling second's term.”
“The sweeter madness we're observing, the more it starts to look as sense...”
At this sad point both have fallen into silence and, after dreary thoughtful pause, in equal wordlessness got parted – to  try, to seek, to make mistakes and to await for further meetings.

IX
Among of carpets' exhibition, in rid of slightest signs of splendor, sunk in impassive grayness hall, reigns squall of tightly swarming guests, consumed by sea of motley colors, grasped them in tireless embraces of swiftly swirling with wild fervor ring of increasing rakish fuss. Between of stands and plates with prices, next to the area with tea are keeping dialogue two of talkative plump ladies:
"I've been in seven ones of stores, each one is stuffed with utter wastage. stalls here. At least food's items into grocery are tasty."
"What to discuss about food, we've come exactly not for this, but for so urgently demandable salvation of unfortunate personal life."
"Wait, we are having tons of time. I was on ballet day ago. There I indeed had rare pleasure to have unthinkably rich choice. And here one garbage, one leftovers."
"Why you've returned with empty hands from such a place?"
"Guess lack of luck, I do not know."
"I would never agree with such lot."
Here, tall bright dude has sneaked from nearby shop's door and, with no needless preparations, delved in most shameless, bold and brazen of existing acquaintance's depths:
"I'm Misha, trader with all gold, let's have some fun, we'll call it so, I have no single shortest doubt, three of us in one bed will look well."
"Nice attempt, even almost successful, but not with us, as you can guess, this time you're free to go to hell." - one of the ladies has decisively responded. The other one has done the same.
Bemused chilled visitor has left.
"He's rather creepy, even morbid."
"And his damned nose, it is too big."
"But he has money... Even decent."
"Come on, let's run and catch him back."
Both, as a vortex of tornado, have with whole promptness rushed for guest.
Next to the bench at edging corner, two oldish women — learning carpets and keeping chatting of lifes' plots.
"No, this fabric is too much nasty."
"And this is painted in wrong tone. I've bought a lampshade year ago, even there stitching lines were more neat."
"But what discount do we have here?"
Here selling person has showed up: "Two-thirds discount is, my dears."
"We take it!"
"Two on each one's hands!"
Next to another distant bench — odd, slightly plump and awkward lady with pinky face and feathers' pile. In front of her pale timid youth with lifeless gaze and silent voice.
"Good day! All earthly joys and blisses! I'd like to ask to fall in unity and talk..."
"Not this time, not with me. Have you heeded?"
"Each of words, so I leave."
"Who is this — what a marvelous weirdo? He always asks for dose of someone's understanding, for change on commonness with flesh. And everytime, of course, in vain." - first one of ladies, having yawned, has with strong interest sent question to another.
"Oh, it's Boris, he's local chemist. And constant singleton since birth."
"Some kind of madman, I am guessing."
"I do not know, looks like that..."
"I'd never let him any drop of asked permissions."
"And none of us in sober mind."
"Still what a place here, what a theater!"
"Yes, purest cinema, not less..."

X
In glum of cold unfriendly evening, among of darkness, winds and slush, without signs of zeal and life is stretching out lonely walking meek frail figure - Boris Petrovich Odinokov, without any cause and goal, exchanging quarters of wet city, engaged in anxiety and fading and sunk in dreariness and doom.
 "Once again turn of night, time to sleep. And my lost soul is sternly asking for love's dose. I have to find some opened tavern. It maybe even will have visitors inside. At least, one single vacant person. It'll be enough for share's change and saving patching of heart's holes. I have to find, to get consoled. Without this today I'm wasted."
The hero, having done long breath, has led his path in bonds of rain and desolation – for inner call of heartful needs in shaky hope to turn dreams true.

XI
Beneath of motley circus tent, amidst of music, noise and shouts, is bursting fervidness of show. Hall's walls are colorful and vivid. Range of spectators is most various and vast. Each one is bottomlessly glad and full of ardor. At width of stage – bright splendid marvel of performance: jesters, acrobats, dancers, weight-lifters. Aim of the program is quite simple – to gift emotions and amuse. Here almost naked graceful actress is spreading legs on top of ball, here she is trying to make few repeating flips, here she is waving with silk ribbon. Here, imitating utter hugeness, is crawling out red lame dwarf, here he is puffing, spitting, hissing and crooking face with evil smile. Here are appearing two tigers. Here shy thin girl is calling them to jump in ring. Here, doing tricks, is going out bald fat clown. Here, having stopped at sleepy lady in one of nearest of rows, he is inviting her to rise and to get up on woden platform and then to choose some of the viewers as a participant for further wedding scene. Here, standing up, one of spectator with frail coy figure and pale face, is gently asking to take place: "May I'll be chosen as a husband? I want with endlessly strong zeal."
"Where are you going, piece of fool – you've lost last mindfulness or what?" - has screamed the clown, having fallen into laughing, and then slapped the hero with umbrella for to enlarge his guilt till peak..
"Again life laughs at Odinokov... Poor soul, once again still alone." - one of the viewers has reported to another in semi-whispering high voice.
"Oh, well-acquainted loner Boris... Constant trier in love – hopeless case. As if indeed not of this world."
"Aptly said. Fair alien, truly. Not a human at all, I agree."

XII
And once again two lifeless silhouettes till night have incorrigibly got woven in dreary hopelessness of thoughts, this time in silence of park's alley: Boris Petrovich at the bench's middle and Viktor Pavlovich at edge.
"How much strange and unclear is human. How madly dark and intricated. And there no such of pleasures, which, being given to the others, were not perceived as purest curse, as well as equally there are no ones of tortures, which some one else will not consider as best bliss. What's more there are no such determinations, which will not have in someone's eyes as highest level of uncertainty and choice. It seems, that meaning quite exists, but everyone rejects its presence."
"Yes, the more hot is sense's essence, the more of coldness comes from heads. And, as young ladies, who are loving by some reasons to weave bright flowers into width of hair's heaps, life time from time is also trying to add few fervid motley colors in tasteless grayness of own days. So, keep in mind, that all world's greatness, grace and bloom are not much more than last one's errors. And even cases of perfection into practice are nothing else than sets of properly combined mistakes and flaws. There is no logic into striving for attainments, if they're more breakable than glass. What for to try to patch torn sail on sinking ship. You'' never decorate cracked cup with golden spoon. And not to part with bonds of pain – the more of paths you are exchanging, the less of potholes get escaped."
"The more of silence has reality, while building, the more of loudness have dreams, when they get crashed. The more of wideness lies in canvas, the more of thinness hides in brush. And the more sturdy is indifference to fire, the more more flamboyant is compassion to the ash. The less of faith you have in tools for to make writings, the more of faith you have in tools for to erase. The more hot blossoming has flower, the cold-blooded is its plucker, this is fact. And not to meet here with uniqueness, not to get out of distortedness and pain. All we have – only uselessness, vainness. All, what has chance to be repeated, has no of sense to live at all. And too much sad, too inconsolable and tragic to have some aimfulness and weight. For world such qualities are sins."
"Short-living elephant, what's hopeless, for deathless flies is just a toy. But random components, as rule, get grouped up in deliberate mixes. So do not stop to bet on fate. The are no better sorts of healing, than right of unity with sense. The more of light takes place in gateway, the more neat vagabonds it hides. No slightest matter, how you're hopeless. You can't deny such practice too."
"If you are trying to catch fire, there great risks to catch one ash. It's not so difficult and tricky to make an elephant from fly, as free, convenient and easy to squeeze and shrink each of true elephnts till fly."
"The fastest fleas, as rule, takes place at slowest dogs. Here you are abysmally apt. If you don't have huge joy from breathing, there is no tragedy and grief in threat of getting suffocated. So, don't give up – burn, bustle, burst. And keep indifference – it's purest one of feeling. Each, who has dared to refuse to give you food, is still quite nice, than those ones, who've tried to poison."
"The more of feathering have arrows, the more of sharpness have their tips. The more of fadedness have goods, the more of brightness have their price. And we more silently you count, the more of screamingness have numbers of results. This is main givenness, main soil – for all, we've locally got used to name as life..."

XIII
In midst of deserted cafe, at with whole wideness opened window, containing view of lonely garden with plunged in darkness cherry trees, was sitting silent wistful figure - Boris Petrovich Odinokov, already definitely old, but still not lost past faith in best.
“Again same loneliness, same evening. Again no purposes, no deals. No one who'll manage to give warmth. At least, for several of hours. Again one thoughts are my campaigners, one guarding hopelessness regrets and gnawing memory omissions. All, as before: I'm deadly empty - with one unending barren search and with no slightest grain of chances. Right as in useless, sunk in void days of past - cursed wrecking needlessness, destroying each soul's corner and turning inwardness in rags. I strive for dose of joy and brightness - at least, for several brief minutes, so inexcusably infrequent in left for fading modern days. Just for to part with keeping growing storm of worries, where I'm already almost buried - without paths to even temporary rescue and far away from any doubtfulest right on future reachably soon ending of former brokenness of fate. I still wholeheartedly believe and inexhaustibly repeatedly continue to try to fix my rid of hopeful prospects route, in spite of evidentest vainness and fullest fruitlessness of most of such attempts. Life is still able to perform some prudent turn, to bring both weight and consolation and to complete oneself with sense. If desk of coffin didn't click - you still have causes to expect. The more you seek, the less of hardships and disorders you learn to pay attention at. Here am futile and aimless I - in my empty givenness of now, switched off from ampliness and bliss, but all of things could be quite different, it's fact. What do we need, except of luck, except of sudden saving meeting, what will exchange whole share's course, with playful easiness and promptness as into sacredest of dreams without questions having lavishly provided with all heights. I bet it's possible, I faith... I ask, I guess, not for too much. For simple closeness and warmth. For saint all-mighty bonds of love..."
The hero has stood slowly up and, having coped with last food's scopes, put his worn modest coat on and moved away. As soon as early evening finally has settled, without hastening and tricks, with silence pouring liquid gloom into the depths of sleepy lonely lands, with steady boredom drinking lifeless calm, has come impassive breathless wind. No fuss, no vividness, no crowds. Just one smooth vacuum and fright.
"I'd highly like just to get lost - away from thoughts and from myself. It's strange, as strange as nothing else, why I'm still trying to believe. I want to find some tools for soothing, want to escape, but life declines. I need at least in shortest weakest hope, in smallest dummiest deception, in key from inward zeal to search. To keep attempts and to rely on fortune's will, to be maintaining past persistence and not to hurry to give up..."
So, having fallen in sweet drowsiness and limpness, he has with sadness added pace and, having peacefully got lost in lonely thickets of night's abyss, dissolved in bonds of murk and thoughts.

XIV
And once again calm timid dialogue. And once again with no of joy.
"I sternly cannot understand – is there any drop of logic to rush for fate and to persist. I have been trying whole my living. But I'm still totally alone..." - Boris Petrovich has turned silent and met with eyes with width of floor.
"This is exactly how life works. What's of me – I've refused to await. To gain some hope or to keep searching. It's madly useless, if you're crafted to be lonely. I am already far not young. My time is definitely over – not even having coped to start. With such a lot, let's have some boldness to be honest, what to expect, except of death. But you, in spite of my example, still keep preserving of believings, don't rush to bury last of hopes. From time to time, what is as priceless as surprising, luck shows ability to work." - has dryly dropped him Viktor Pavlovich Pustykh.
"But what's of world? Is it already wholly wasted and rid of prospects to be healed? Or, if to pay profound look, its broken frames, most harshly purified from brightness still will be able to amuse... Each view depends on from which angel you observe – no one of hammer can bring greater dose of grief, than dose of happiness, produced by hands of sculptor. If you continue to be fearing of losses, than it already is best evidence and proofing, that, even regularly falling in omissions and stably parting with past values, heights and joys you anyway keep to obtain with something precious."
"Yes, the most doubtless and straight food's confirmation, in sick conditions of today, is fact of at today is simultaneously eaten last one's poison. And if you're really afraid, that this cursed world will never manage to transform in something worthy, just don't forget, that each of speakers you are meeting, not more than few of years' billions ago, had banal form of simple fish. But not with all it works like that – I guess, this also has some reasons. What is true ideal, true peak – most unattainable and perfect. Will it ever exist, who'll report... We're having ladder of attempts, having chances and tools, aims and hopes. Having sort of some permanent balance - between of evil and of good, between of sacrifices' measure and scale of mounted on them results and fruits, between of darkness of mistakes and light of tryings. But is it possible at here, without losing of advantages and gainings, to fix each single one of flaws - to give intelligence to fools without making smart ones stupid, to cure and save all who are ill without harming health of healthy and to return holistic state to broken cups without breaking of unbroken. If death of victim has brought murderer a penny, which then was spent on something good and after period was calmly turned in tons of dollars, which has provided birth of gardens, fields and cities, then if we'll cope to resurrect and re-endow with former living that killed person, will we stay able not wash them all away, not destroy and leave unshakably preserved. It's quite easy to dream or to faith. But not to live or to be forced to carry cargo of response. You live with ideals, with void. Life is too far from last one's mash. It's made of sufferings, of losses. And bliss takes place in one hazed paradise, not here. But what indeed is most deplorable and hurting – there is no drop of weighty causes, that it has chances to exist."
Here, after term of muted pause, both have thrown mutual goodbyeings and, having promised to stay fine and to await for further meetings, got slowly parted till next week. Boris Petrovich has done few long awkward steps and meekly frozen at wall's surface in front of recently bought canvas, quite freshly drawn by some street artist in most impudent shameless style. At its indistinct vague width, was sitting playful naked lady, with lewdly spreaded glossy hips, in unacceptably straight manner revealing up for vastest possible observe all hiding piquancy locations, exposing honey humid folds, in languor separated out with tips of teasing fingers' pair for visibility of all, what, as a rule, remains in secret and gets most carefully hidden, as saintest treasury of self, what was additionally rising scale of debauchery and grace.
"Eh, at one pictures things are perfect... Or in short dreams from daily sleep." - Boris Petrovich has turned out and, after staying wholly numb for term of several next minutes, laid onto bed, where soon successfully dissolved in sweetly blissful dozing off – place with no drop of any worries and no of inly gnawing chasing from sewing apathy dark thoughts.

XV
In midst of drearily plain room, for inexperienced first looking due to harsh hollowness a little bit too vast, because of lack of bulky furniture and carpets - Boris Petrovich Odinokov, already old and for last year's half retired.
"Well, once again, one constant vacuum and anguish. No deals, no purposes, no plans. Day's start or ending - all the same. In this walls' prison such damned permanence of void, after all, feels even acuter and sharper – with more disturbingly stiff pain and more unbearable annoyance. I have to free me from myself – to walk away and to find out some right leisure. Who ever questionlessly knows, with whom exactly you will meet... And only single proper match, what after all is not a secret, can calmly change whole course of life, to add both brightness, flame and reason and to endow with hope and sense. All, as before, depends on luck and zeal to faith..."
The hero has with newly-settled inspiration got promptly up and, having put his jacket on, in expectation for involvement in great twistings sent path in vacantness of streets.
By lonely sides – consumed all dreariness and void. No rush, no faces and no voices. And even weather is as average as given. Till farthest visible horizons – no single sing of any vividness or ardor. Mix of oblivion and boredom and growing emptiness, embraced each surrounding's corner and spot. That all accessible for view. At one of similarly looking gray crossroads – small motley shell of rid of customers forsaken kiosk's booth, for many decades of last years with deathless sturdiness equipping readers' eyes with printing products of all variants and sorts, combined in one unending squall of freshest magazines, newspapers and brochures, of each acquainted styles and tints.
"I'd like to read. No matter what." - Boris Petrovich has come up and, having bought thick, full of articles and news bright glossy copy, sat onto nearly stood bench and proceeded to leaf set of pages, as soon with thrillingness remarked: "News of prosperity's improvement: next to far fields of Wheelless Valleys has been successfully erected the largest one in our region resting house. It contains all of joys: tennis, sauna, pub, swimming pool. Fee is moderate too. Food and living conditions, as always, depend on level of selected renting rates - from four of dollars per day's length to thirty five, if you'll choose luxury edition."
"That's what I need! It is! It is!" - having instantly bloomed with whole face and delved in excellentest mood, he has with easiness and briskness increased gate's pace and, heaving headed local market, bought new tracksuit and few most fashionable caps and, right exactly hour later, he was already gladly sitting over map and building routes and plots of plans. Incessant abysmal delight, grasped up whole mind in less than seconds, consumed all volume of attention with indescribably brave zeal. So, having fallen into sleep at latest night, Boris Petrovich, having barely awoken, just minute later, was already doing shaving and filling self with hope and flame. 
And here is it - pot-bellied bus, neat silk of summer morning coolness, noise of old wheels and endless tireless expanses of freely blossoming green fields. An hour late needed place was just in front – large slightly slanted oak log house and frame with plate "Resting House - Earthly Heaven" Inside of fence – nice lavish vastness. Lawns, benches, fountains and blooming flower beds. At left wide tennis court, that was praised in newspaper. On all of sides one peace and grace. Nature, idleness, freedom and pleasure. No fuss, no duties and no rush. Next to yard's space is quite identical long building – main common dining room, surrounded by statues and drown in endlessness of plants. Inside of foyer - deadly deserted and silent. Only three of observable persons - administrator and two guards. Among of corridors conditions are the same: long scheme of labyrinths and no of come to visit.
So, having occupied assigned by worker room and put all set of taken things, Boris Petrovich has gone out and trudged to learn entrusted territory's limits in search of people, which to incredible surprise were almost practically absent. And so it hopelessly has happened – he has returned with empty hands. Next day achievements were the same. Only fourth of the days has sent findings – in shade of bowery pergola was keeping rest mild lovely lady with folding fan in one of hands and into cutely clumsy hat.
"I'd like to threaten with shy offer of acquaintance. If you'll not drive away right now, I'll sit and tell some of my fate. And I'll be absolutely happy from dialogue we may have..." - the hero has sat next to stranger and begun to await for response.
"What do I need it for? My husband has just died. What of I'm having no regrets. And both of children have grown up and ran away. I even have five of grandchildren. What do I need is this unknown empty talk? For what of benefits, explain me? I do not need in your affection, don't need in care or sweet words. As well as do not need in flirt."
"Then let at least to gift you rye cake. And then I'll calmly go away..."
"It'll make me fat. Just go away right here and now. And don't return. It'll be the wrongest of mistakes."
And again helpless hurting annoyance and again path in anguish and pain.
"Not too well. But I still have some scope of time. I will finish my plot, I believe. I'll cope. I saintly faith I'll cope." - Boris Petrovich has made several deep sighs and dissolved into distance of alley – in silence, greenery and inly growing doom.

XVI
In midst of steady gloomy emptiness of street, dissolved in darkness and consumed by bonds of slush, is fraily crawling lonely figure. If too be totally precise, it's not a crawling, but clumsy riding onto bicycle's two wheels. By each of sides – stiff lifeless sleep, doom, fog, oblivion and bleakness. World is in agony, in state, which fits to corpse, when it has finally numbed out. For three of years, once or twice per term of season, Boris Petrovich Odinokov, this dreary rider such late time, is paying visits to Early Paradise's walls, but state of things remains the same, what by the way was one of causes of such regular bicycle rides: away from self and up to meetings and adventures, to breed of people, maybe also left alone and having need for someone's presence. Right as away of any progress he is resultlessly impassively attempting at sewing void slushy now: "I still believe, life's plot one day will be completed. I faith in chance on further unity and fondness, on love, demandedness and warmth. I faith, that I'll not pass in vain, without value, trace and purpose. That I will not just disappear – as piece of nothingness or rid of light's source shadow. Faith, that I'll end with something good, with right on fruitfulness and meaning, on understanding, love and sense. Otherwise what an aim had my term, except of oldering, enfeebling and decaying."
The hero has made turn to alleys and, having melted into distance, lost from view.

XVII
Boris Petrovich is enchanted by zeal's fervor. Two even numbers warm his soul – first is seven, next - five. Exactly seventy-five years his legs are trampling sinful earth. This time it's more that just a birthday. It's anniversary – great thing. That's why soul's mood  is glad and cheerful - like into fifteen and not less.
"I have already brought my cake. And pour fresh kvass - what a bliss, after all. And how good it's – easy, bright. But this newspaper has delayed all of my hopes: Ferris wheel should be launched tomorrow. Not today, what a merciless grief. I would sit and behold from above. But it's tomorrow. And now emptiness and self. But next day's plot has to be full of feast and fun. I still hope, I will find my main meeting. It's not a sunset of fate's course. My plot, of course, can be prolonged. It's still not wasted, if I'm faithing..."
Already evening. Onto table fresh T-shirt, next to it three of switched on alarming clocks - for future use in great tomorrow.
"Tomorrow morning I'll wake up. Three clocks will help me not to skip. And it will be the finest day, most vivid, promising and hopeful." - Boris Petrovich has pathetically yawned and, having lazily dimmed light, in few of seconds dropped in sleep.


AFTERWORD:
In empty featureless apartment, to worst nightmare of all neighbors, were screaming three alarming clocks. On table's surface was awaiting fresh T-shirt. And onto sofa was immovable numb body. Already blue and rid of breath. By some of reasons he was keeping just to lay. And hasn't stood both at the midday and into evening and at night. His plot, as time from time here it turns out, in spite of bets on further better, to endless dreariness and sorrow, still hasn't coped to be prolonged.