After millions years

I
In lonely walls of room with flowers, on soft and wasteful chair's sit is resting peaceful faceless figure - Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin, an optics scientist at center of breakthroughs and also catcher of luck's tail and meaning's seeker, who is maintaining thoughtful languor, preserving wordlessness and doom. In grayish skimpiness of sides, as well as inly in mind's prison – tart devastation and impassiveness of doom, shy flabby facelessness and dreariness of void. Time's pace is drowsy and exhausted. Soul's state is weary and abstracted. No plans, no certainness, no zeal.
“Once again my ill-fated lost term is flying out with no aim and with no actual involvement of my person... Once again, as before, with one longing and with no single slightest shadow of ardor, vividness and flame. I still repeat to try myself and search for purposes and senses. But each of times without use, with only barrenness and failures in all of outcomes and fruits. As if all actually given comes in my case to nothing else than never ending with success eternal seeking and disappointment from vainness and hope's lack. I have to organize some pausing - at least, most temporary, tiresome and plain, have to find dose of healing pointless forgetting. In streets, in something torn from yearning and close to featuring I seek. But streets are also not too rich - just slush, wind's blowing and frustration. You leave your door and almost instantly gets reason to return. Without any smallest gainings and with additional strengths' lack. Not to get out, not to part with sorrow's burden. Not to find outlet from vainness and from pain. You cannot bloom here, cannot shine. You have to suffer, to drink worthlessness and doom. To play damned role of constant purposeless spectator, having right just to look and to fade. It is so unlikely to meet any ones of chances. But people still remain to try. And even me among of them. How much it's aimless, how much empty. All is useless - all of bets, undertakings and searchs. I do not want it, do not need and don't admit. But life still offers common aimlessness and fuss. I want to die, to fall asleep and to forget how to awoke. I'm having nothing to remember, or to preserve and keep alive. It's rather scary, if not fatal. But what to do here, what to try..."
He has gone out, then returned. No things have changed. Has lost oneself till time of evening, laid in bed, delved in sleep.

II
In pleasant shadow of green balcony, in flowers, placed into several clay pots, is sitting pensive, sunk in thinking female figure - Elena Yuryevna Liynykh, young coy librarian at school and incorrigibly forgotten lonely person right since most early childhood's term. Day's pace, not brilliant on fullness and not too positive or bright, is sharing point of its dinner - of course, as always, with no news. From all of feelings and emotions - one steady boredom, inner emptiness and longing. Nothing promising, blissful or vivid - neither zeal, nor intentions or needs. Only swamp of passivity's blooming with no of strengths for inspirations, plans or dreams and with one apathy and anguish, with richness hidden in inside.
“Well, again I'm in prison of languor. And again, as before, undemanded and unfixably lost and forlorn. Without even any slightest will for any doings and beginnings and with no drop of curiosity to live. Only nets of tart tiresome routine. Only same inconsolable sadness, only dreariness, lethargy, pain. Like neither colors, nor expressions. Only permanent vainness and doom. And no of things for to distract me or to endow with saving flame. Which of sins and adventures are given in tightly strained oppressive bonds of stopless loneliness and wasting. I even can't get rid of worries, can't part with heaviness of thoughts. From time to time it seems, I'm almost going crazy - from inability of rescue, from fright, from hurting bloom of sorrows and overwhelmingness of risks. Both in room's grave and into screen of window's square same endless numbness and perplexion - fuss, faintness, triflingness and dust. As if whole world is one huge garden for growing torments and mistakes."
And so, into need to save oneself, she, having speedily got up and wrapped in dress, left door behind and trudged ahead in roraring streets - to think, to watch and to await, to look for sense and to gain sadness - the only true from all of states.

III
In midst of wastefully large square - swarm of insistent festive hell: noise, dancing, chattering and fun. Flock of people is cheerful and restless. With passion, recklessness and screams. In all imputed for observing - deep tart vividness and zeal. Day is young, sky is pure, world is bright. Time is playfully frisky and swift. At every single one of steps - either drinking or drunk, here and there. In crowded center, the most honorable place, main people's catcher: huge beer barrel, utter magnet of minds, legs and wombs. Next to the barrel - few of standing and one, lying onto earth. By sides few dozens of vast tents. Some with food, some with pictures and pots. Just fair paradise, not less - for all, who're occupied by money and are not puzzled with high soul. On decent distance from all others, at one of pillars - thin and barely alive mad Old Believer:
"For all of them, for all - forgive me, understand, save me, take, do not punish - for all their laugh, for all atrocities and evils, for their indifference to tears, for cold-bloodedness to pain, for all of them who follow darkness, please forgive me. I'm not of them. I'm not in unity with devil. I condemn each of them - all their breed. Protect me, save and keep alive. I hate them, hate with whole my essence."
The adept has performed strong shaking and amply burstef in long groan, having started to hit land with forehead.
Few minutes after, into fifty meters righter, puffing, raging and falling in fight, has arrived drunken couple of spouses, growing quarrel and raising to peak:
"Where were you have been for whole past night? And, what's more meaningful - with whom? I've heard a lot of you today - from lots of barely known people."
"Nowhere. Was just where I was..."
Here asking man has lost last temper and smashed out lady's face, what has got ended with stern tears.
"Don't howl. Take cigarette. We'll finish this at home."
"Ones, who repent and cry, are mad. These ones are also not more mindful. Nothing new, nothing perfect or high. What can you really expect from current world, where each of livers either stupid or dishonest. Looks like long thousands of years have been unable to exchange and teach to best. Days' course is still as far from meaning as Moon's spot. Dumbness, bravery, farce - trifling needs, trifling plannings. No trace of weightfulness and purpose. Only countless fruits of mistakes. No truth, no happiness, no hopings. No drop of guarantees or sense. No slightest matter how much thousands of years will cope to pass in such dead way. And again they will suffer and hate, hurry, lie and get lower and older. With all same troubles and disasters, misunderstandings and regrets. Same reality, same endless dramas. But with no us in such of plots. What to take from this life, what to faith in. What do we actually have in this days' circus. Not too much, if too pay proper gaze... Only hopelessness, flawfulness, routine. And not to break it, just to die and leave away." - Semyon Fadeevich has sighed and, slowly moving towards exit, got lost in painfulness and thoughts.

IV
In tartly festive theater's foyer, among of paintings, sighs and statues, is swarming decently vast crowd: plot of performance was appointed as great and each, who claims to be involved in life of culture due to such fact was unalterably forced out to be exclusively right here. By every single of four sides - thick stubborn teeming of excitement, laugh, gazes, chattering and fuss. Day's evening certainly is fruitful. Mood's tone is playful, fresh and swift. Behind of arrogance and gloss - all other things are wholly standard and rid of any magic's seeds.
Elena Yuryevna, among of many others, is also walking and examining hall's width, with rather serious persistence repeating tireless attempts to hide own pain.
"Again lights, brightness, motley colors... And I don't look at them at all. I once again am slave of thoughts. Sad hopeless prisoner of vainness. With no one outlet and chance."
At here, she suddenly has heard short tail of speech between of two brisk vivid ladies:
"What am I seeing, tell - you didn't pin your corset? Oh, what a nonsense, what a shame!"
"I have caught up it with a tie - all into spirit of new France."
"No, they don't wear it like that, it's madly terrible, disgusting. I'll even do few steps away for no one notice us together, because they'll start to mock at both."
"What an insober mindless madness! What kind of brains are in their heads? Does it has matter, what a ribbon hangs at waist? Are they coquettes and cuties? No! Mares! At least, in modest view of me. I guess, it's sign for going out. I've, as before, come in wrong place. I have no interest and pleasure to stay observing at performances, like this. No, I'll prefer to trudge to home. All other variants will burden and annoy. "
Elena Yuryevna has sighed and, having cautiously parted with hall's space, sent route of path back in home's walls.

V
In midst of gloomily dark room - two lonely persons of same hopelessness and age: Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin and next to him Anton Efimovich Tsvetnykh, who are maintaining conversation of all unbearable, but true:
“What aim and sense does our abysmal world have - with all of circumstances, passions and attainments, with all its trickery and farce... Does it have any shadow of logic?” - Semyon Fadeevich has sighed and with forlornness plunged in silence.
“All what in fact indeed we're having is one impenetrable thickness of never clarifying fog, torn off from properness and logic and mainly absolutely mad and inconsolably oppressing. The more of loudness have screams of ones, who're drowning, the more of silence has tranquility and calmness of ones, who have already drowned. And the more colorful are tints, the more insipid, dull and featureless is grayness. World's pier is cynical and soulless, distorted, meaningless and sick. Dark circus cannot have bright roles. Do one wrong step and you'll be instantly erased. In lands of lanterns, no single weirdo counts stars. And not to guess, where you'll fly up and where get stumbled. The more hot burning has your youth, more cold freezing has your oldness. Fresh tar, as easy to predict, is not a healer for dry honey. And the more delicate is diamond, the more rough cutting it receives. With bad umbrella, you will never have good rains. It's cause for panic and distress, I understand. The more you think about fish, the quicker hook is getting older. And breed of fools, in such conditions, is by default in huge advantage: they aren't as much ashamed of weakness of own mind as vice versa full proudness and joy from depth and strongness of own madness..."
"All is confusing, tricky, hazed. The more it's easy to submerge in river's waters, the more it's difficult to swim. And the more bright is needed light, the more dark route leads to its gleaming. The more predictable is question, the less expected is response. I am aware of this givenness a lot. And not to realize exactly what to do. The less of gracefulness has face, the more of charmingness has portrait."
"The more attractive, cute and innocent looks snake, the more disgusting and unfriendly look snake-catchers. No lumberjacks concern of fashion on trees' growing. The more uncomfortable time fish has in sea, the more nice time it'll have in soup. The more worn out, frail and dangerous are stairs, the more of sturdiness and zeal have walkers' steps. It can't be different at here. The more of light drops from sun's circle, the thicker curtains hide its rays. The more nice looking has appearance of hedgehog, the more sharp needles hides its back."
"The less escapable is falling, the more it's pointless to shake. World is too tragical, too hellish. The more unreachable is target, the more of patience and persistence has bullet's nature and mood of gathering to shoot. Such state takes place in almost all. And the more neat is flesh of bodies, the more of sharpness has blade's edge. You can't accept this or explain. The more chaotic is wind's howling, the more melodical and smooth are creaks of roof. The more indistinct, faint and tiresome is dawn, the more delightfully it's fading. The longer term has hunger's minute, the shorter term has days of gluttony, it's fact. The less of tartness and intensiveness has drink, the more of tastelessness has snacking."
"The smaller size has food of reason, the greater splendidness has poison of eclipse. The more resultlessly wood copes with act of burning, the more effectively it copes with getting damp. The more of beauty are exposing fallen stars, the more of facelessness are showing rest at sky. You'll never manage to detect which one of paths your fate will move. From time to time it can be stunning. If you have fallen into love with settled goal, there is huge risk to fall in hatred with sent by being set of tools."
"The more complete is term of silence, the less appropriate are sounds in its depth. This fact is abysmally stubborn. The more of splendor and prosperity has hell, the more of poverty has devil. The nobler taste has drinking wine, the lower style has letting toasts."
"The more of silence has gold's tonne, the more of talkativeness has grasp of copper pennies. The more futile are games with head, the more productive, nice and brisk are games with headsmen. The lower quality have flags, the higher frankness and decisiveness have oaths. You'll never break this vicious circle - for even millions of tries. The more painstaking was seeds' sower, the more indifferent and reckless will be the ones, who'll come to reap.”
“Without looking onto anchors, do not stai talks about sails. This is most solid of all truths. The less of fishes stay in river, the more persistently we fish. The more worn out is clothes' matter, the more fresh nudeness gets revealed. Inflicted injuries and wounds, which were performed in artful way, will each of times be much more ardently demanded, than clumsy tenderness and awkwardly sent bliss.”
“You're right, chains' clanking, as a rule, has common frequency with pleading calls of freedom. But plots of days, completely purified from flaws, will have one vacuum, not more. Apt brush is doomed to leave eraser unemployed. Such dreary principle is actual in all. The less of weightiness have compliments for smartness, the more of heaviness has medal for brain's absence."
"The more of lifelessness and dryness has each desert, the more full-flowing and abundant are mirages. The more it's easy to reveal haystack's location, the more it's difficult to find and to extract each one of hidden inly needles. And the more colorless and featureless is plane, the more of motleyness and brightness have last one's parachutes, at here it's sort of law. The more uneatable is dish, the more supreme and full of daintiness are spices. The more of silence is in moves of one who beats, the more of loudness and pain is into screams of one who suffers. You can't prevent this, cure or kill. For ones who're drowning with no sorrow, chance of next floating up, as rule, is not a prize, but worst accessible of punishments and torments. Both air's breath and suffocation are fruits of wholly common soil - just start to dig, and you'll discover it at ease."
"The more ridiculous is piece, the more it's deadly to get choked on last one's fiber. This is an axiom, a curse. With higher recklessness and fury you break compass, with greater soothingness is lasting further length of path. The more hot flame are showing passions, the more serene, numb, pure and lifeless is ash of ones, who have been burnt. And it's not given to foresee - where and which way your path will try get own ending. The apter marksmanship has shooter, the lower quality have bullets. The shorter period burns fire, the longer period remains accepted scalds. This is most painful part of living. The higher usefulness has head, the lower strongness and mobility has neck. It's too much fair to leave doubts or to have sense to be denied. The more it's hard without rules, the more it's calm without prizes."
"Both key and door, as rule, have highly common fate. And not to find indeed firm guarantees and sources of protection. The more of steadiness has magic, the more of shakiness has share of magician. You'll never meet another days or more prolific scale of chances. The more unique, mind-blowing, brilliant and bold is inward mechanisms of telescope's construction, the more impassably frustrating is clouds' veil and lack of stars. And not to outplay life's tricks, not to get rid of fallen burdens. The more of proudness leave goods, the more of shame remains from prices. The more intensive is storms' roaring, the more impassive, meek and silent is tone of whispering of calms. But doom, like fear, doesn't mean existing's ending, it only sharpens course of facts. The more of thinness door obtains with, the more of loudness have knocks. And not each chaos and disorder is always perishing and fatal and torn of any slightest chance on building gracefulness and prudence. The more unbearable and wrong is world of problems, the more immaculate and flawless in own turn is world of outcomes from tries of their solutions. There are no more deceptive things than faith and luck, but logic's chasing, after all, is also similarly barren - you'll never cope to curb days' pace. It's as impossible as trip to Moon by foot. The more scholastical is sowing, the less predictable are reaps. The higher realness have wounds, the better quality and ampliness has salt. You cannot stop it or adjust. The more of selfless shows feeder, the more of greediness show ones, who're getting fed. The more soft-heartly acts person, who is beating, the more cold-bloodedly behaves one, who was hired just to hold. But such holistic all-consuming total madness from time to time is also rich on proper fruits. But paths of thoughts indeed quite frequently are deadly. Too wrong conclusions can destroy, erase in dust. And even smallest vain confession sometimes is able to turn out pure hell. Do not forget it and be cautious and aimful, do not rely on reckless bravery of risks and on too heavy disappointments' oppression. For gifted person mind is ship, for fooled and stupid - fatal abyss."
"No tiny matter how much zestfully you cling for wisdom's soil, one getting suddenly distracted - and all achievements in few seconds turn in zero. The more essential is meaning, the less it's free to be preserved. The quieter sounding has bell, the greater highness has its belfry. This hopeless principle chains all. The more of friendliness has lantern of lighthouse, the more of deadlines has bottom, waves and rocks. But risk is also kind of helper - at least, at times, when you are absolutely lost. The less excitement has your being, the more of space remains for sense. And do not try to understand entrusted share, it will be always wholly mad. The less significance have causes, greater consequences furtherly they bring. The more of fuss contains extinguishing of flame, the more serene is last one's burning. The more of thriftiness has poisoner's behaving, the more insatiably acts one, whom he feeds. The more of tenderness has skin, the more of ruthlessness has last one's tearing off. But maybe this is just for better, for more great twistedness of plots. The more plain essence have conditions, the more tart aimfulness have plans. Where else to find trustworthy sources of salvation. The more of softness has stick's core, the more of heartlessness has violence of beatings."
Here, having taken silent pause, they both have fallen into thinking and, after term of hour's half, sent dose of mutual goodbyeings and got parted.

VI
Among of sunk in rumbling street, torn off from any slightest greatness or even smallest signs and traces of beauty, festiveness and joy, is raging frenzy of day's growth. Cars' swarms are rushing into distance, wall clocks are measuring time's pace, flock of pedestrians is trampling step by step. World's pier is cheerful and prosaic. Rhythm of reality is swift and full of zestfulness and fervor.
In flower shop next to old tavern - peak of whirlwind of daily fuss: excess of customers, as always, not too much accustomed to have necessity to wait and in stern stubbornness attacking with tons of various requests, squall of made visit by mistake, tight stiff oppression of repeating endless threats of to invite there some police or of without such vain tryings to burn at once whole shop itself and few of neighboring next quarters in addition - with opportunity to lit entire city, if it'll be absolutely needful for to force queue to turn more quick. All is most tiresomely standard, but still with artfulness in moves and with supportive magic dose of hidden special excitement.
"Why are you standing with no duties - or we have nothing for to do?!" - one plump and powerfully muscled selling woman with radish face and willful voice has promptly fallen in harsh furry at learning work young windy helper.
"I've got distracted at those birds, there are about eight of them at edge placed at east's side roof, I've never seen two white ones here, can't even guess what breed they are..."
"Don't piss me off, you dumbhead moron - when I will hit you with the bottom of this heavyweight watering can, you'll lose all willingness to stare at each corner, have you got it? You rid of brain cells piece of worm!"
"I've got distracted only once, of what I utterly regret, and I am begging not to punish..."
Here patience finally has failed and fist has slammed in face's ellipse. Shocked youth has bursted into crying, with awkward helplessness and shiver enwrapping nose in some rags' torns, with each new second turning limper and feebly lowering at floor, while woman, after sort of pause, has with fresh eagerness returned to further beatings.
"What kind of mindlessness it is? What kind of rubbish are these people - they huddle, hug you, bath in smiles... If something happens, they just hit you and start to scold, condemn and hate. And no huge matter, who you are - close friend or stranger, child or elder - approach to everyone is same: to look at them as if they're shit, and, gladly grinning with wild arrogance and anger, to bring as much of pain as can. Each one is stupid, vain and petty. And even mouse, if it's really with tail, is much more worthy than futile of people's crowd. If you'll wipe out whole humanity away - there will not be a single one in its unending mad amount, who'll have some meaning to be suddenly recalled or will obtain with any cause of to feel sadness or regreting. From many tons and tons of hundreds of earth's tramplers is just at least the only one, who doesn't trample it in vain, who has idea, hope and purpose and understanding of own path... No, you will never find such people, you'll never meet them at this globe. World hasn't coped to sculpt their souls. And never will, as I am guessing." - Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin, who was arranging his habitual meek walking right past the windows of ill-fated flower shop and had turned out to be one of the beholders of fighting outcome of quarrel of employees, has sighed with bitterness and fear and, slowly quickening his pace, trudged further up in gray streets' abyss - away from people and oneself, from endlessly anguish of dark thoughts and useless sweetness of dreams' building, which never manage to be able to grow enough for coming true.

VII
In front of dolefully darkening and freezing in lifeless bonds of numbly thickening night's murk consumed by mournful nets of sleep preserving state of static smoothness river's surface, in midst of silent dismal abyss of tart oblivion and gloom, was coyly standing full of frailness female figure - Elena Yuryevna Lnyanykh, completely emptified and rid of any ardor, maintaining wordless contemplation and giving self to stiffly stealing resting calmness mix of pain, anxiousness and thoughts. By sides, as well as into soul, stern squall of blossomingly storming lost borders apathy and fright. All, what's accessible for catching by perception - one deadly torn from any slightest chance on ending vast breathless steadiness of loneliness and doom. And even heavily dense air is harshly purified of wind and left without of, at least, most weak and bashful signs of moving.
"Once again I am here, in gloom's desert, once again wholly needless and lost. With no sweet miracle of passion and no intimacy and heat. With no of gazes, hands and lips and no of care, warmth and fondness. No of temptation and confessions, no of untamable keen shiver and making headless taste of shame. Just full of bitterness and anguish pit of thinking and wasting zestfulness and fervor limp empty barrenness of dreams. No feeblest matter, with what things I'm vainly trying to get soothened, all my life finally turn able to acquire is one entirely resultless, most deeply pointless and hollow damned tragic fruitlessness and pain, destroying soul with wildly boiling acute sorrow. Worn heart and even worner mind already long and long ago are toughly torn in ugly laces, switched off from thickets of hopes' reigning and incorrigibly ingrown in tight and sticky mash of faults. And not to hide cursed broken self from claws of aimlessness and dolor, not to freed up from wasting's trap. All endless volume of my previous persistence has coped to bring one naked triflingness and doom. One useless routine. One regrets. I'm trying, waiting, striving forward... But fate again remains the same. As if all spheres are just poisoned - with grief, with admixture of fears, with suffocating ruthless noose of day from day increasing losses. Each one of falling terms and states and - both faith, excitement, fright and anger are with same neatness rid of meaning, of value, joyfulness and weight. Whole spent for nothing years' length, if to describe it in frank way, has been constructed of one errors, of always failing act of searching and never coming true beliefs. All I am able of at now, except of bathing in distress - just to behold new share's twistings and to let out mainly practically over, dried and erased till purest absences scope of strengths: in most impassive silent manner and with no actual involvement in independent from my will with morbid greediness and gladness absorbed each single troubles' sort cursed inward essence of deals' going, as if chaotically piled in unadjustable disorder twined rambling such ones in own abysmal verity aren't even partially mine and have no drop of real influence on fate. I'd like to stop it, to cut off, to run away of being's borders and to rag memory in shreds. So overdosingly disturbing, so bad and empty in inside."
Elena Yuryevna has sighed and, pushing languor to worst levels, in hardest pessimism and yearning, at once chained up from top till bottom both weary flesh and wilted soul, sent her late voyage back to home - in hateful boredom of nude walls, dense lavish hopelessness and doom and richly sowing acute anguish dark and tormenting joyless thoughts.

VIII
And again two frail passionless figures and again sleepy dialogue of life.
"How, in fact, I'm amazed, world is mindless, how madly purposeless and wrong... And how much stupid and days' paths, how much immeasurably reckless. Where is true essence, hope and sense... Where is, at least, most weak and vague chance on meaning?" - Semyon Fadeevich has shrugged and yawned with question and request.
Anton Efimovich has sighed, blinked with eye and proceeded to tell: "In eyes of price hides soul of product. This fact can open you a lot. The more of prudence has each game, the less of properness have roles. You cannot change it or replay. And not to hide oneself from fate. If you have put your hand on bow, you'll be unable to refuse from taking arrows. You can't deny it or ignore, as well as cannot scary rain with fact of having of umbrella. And the more old and dry is honey, the more fresh tar it hides inside. As the more sturdy are door's hinges, the less reliable is door's lock. There are no other ways of living. The more of fruitfulness has soil, the lees of fruitfulness have seeds. And the more merciful was flood, the more bloodthirsty and inhumane will be desert. The more silent is shot, as you know, the more it's accurate and apt. And the more terrible texting, the more aesthetically pleasing are its blots. But do not rush to feel one pain. For grains of something truly large, life isn't able to impute too modest sewing. World gives you rules, but only rules, not a necessity to serve them. Yes, world is cruel, this is fact. The more cold-bloodedly and stiffly each lumberjack is chopping wood, the more more of tenderness he shows in work with logs. The more serene is light of star, the more unbearable is darkness of eclipses. This nasty fact takes place in all. The more of praisings fly to fire, the more of scoldings fly to burns. But still, keep brain away of worries, don't litter mind with las ones' trash. It's not hard to be sane, if you want it. seriously. The more frequent and deep is swamps' cleaning, the less of risks lakes have to rot.."
"It sounds right. But all is highly predetermined. You cannot hope, you'll come to truth. No of glass' cracks will ever cope to reach glassblower. No slightest matter, how youo changing over years, how much you're plunging into plots or vice versa getting thrown away of last ones. You can refuse from sharing arguments with fools, but not with self, what, being separately taken and performed, for most of minds is just as scary as annoying. I hope you never spend a word at worthless ones, whose personalities, dissolved in sins and flaws, due to deep lack of decent features and full of value and right essence inner sides, do not deserve a single letter. Yes, both future and past are just awful, but we still have to live and move. And the more long is any plot, the more frustrating is its ending. The more responsible and careful is carrying, the more indifferent and harsh is throwing down. It's incorrigible and static - in lots and lots of unrestorably erasing last resting scopes of former hopeful views and bettings, rid of transparent and straightforward ways and manners of being verified and counted times more than any other of life's principles and basics. The closer route divides from bottom, the farther route divides from shore. No ones of instruments and forces are free to help to cut this broken practice off and to endow entrusted givenness of share with chance on differently moving course of plots. With flabby staircase, steps' swiftness is resultless. Stakes' size, in spite of seeming power and preassuming mighty influence on all, is not what really assigns, controls and tunes main of parameters and settings of game's nature. You rather easily can take worst scales of risks, but stay entirely away of any benefits and gainings. This is most dreary of imputed for acceptance. You'll never manage to get used to so much fatal overwhelmingness of wrongness, no of your tryings to explain it to oneself will ever end with even minimal attaining of success, no fair matter how painstaking, tight and long will be repeating of attempts and with how abysmally obstinate persistence each of these times they will obtain. Not so much perishing is fact of poison's presence, as fact of absence of its antidote in pills. The more of innocence shows cup, the shorter path it has to hammer. It's indestructibly undying - like moths on ownerless fur coat. For ones, who're eager to destroy, each who is going to create is into hundreds times more hateful, than any one of all imaginable foes. And they'll do everything to trample such examples, to leave them nullified and wrecked. It's greatly tragical and bitter to be a cup in midst of places where cracks are rulers of play's pace. Each one, who has turned famous by whip's use, as rule does not possess with too excessive grace of neck. If it was possible to take from each of worlds all best of components and to get rid of others, our cursed wasted world would be among few rare such, from which ones' cradles will taken strictly nothing. And so much easy it's to fall, to disappear, to fade and stuck in mash of fuss - without smallest opportunity of rescue and with no tiniest of prospects of soonly feasible escape. It's much more safe not to remark whole core of fruit, than not to notice worm inside, while of proceeding to consuming. And death is total and all-mighty. If you have visited a headsman, you'll never manage to continue to visit barbers and hats' shops. And not hide in any shelter, not to get out of sent frames. You can't dilute excess of poison with food's lack. Can't fill fate's voyage with luck's taste. You can exist, but cannot live. It's worst of qualities of now. It's much more simple to resign, than to turn able to admit such type of truth. And the more weak is fishing rod, the more hard strength has thirst of fish. The more it's difficult to breathe, the more it's easy and serene to suffocate. If you've decided to be playing with no rules, you have huge risk of resting left without games. But it's main paradox of chaos - the more shambolical disorder its depths carry, the more harmonious they are."
"There is no outlet from madness and from damned ones, who feel it right. The brighter light perform ideas, the thicker darkness show obsessions. This fact is firmer, than earth's plates. The more exalted is invention, the more plain, primitive and banal are breakdowns. This is main hopelessness and sorrow. The more unstable is each role, the more enchanting is their playing. You can't undone it, can't throw off. The more chaotical are steps, the more smooth piles get built by flesh of fallen. The more unique is shape of keys, the more habitual and average are doors. The more unbearable was death, the more inviting will be coffin. The more thin thickness ice obtains with, the more deep holes it's free to hide. And not to know, where you'll find and where get parted with all previously yours. Both desert's heat and water's freshness have common author and identical assignment. Both nails and hammers get planned, produced and packed in boxes at same forge and even frequently with help of same employees. You'll never cope to get consoled. Never cope to drive off bonds of sadness. The more unbearable is burden of mistakes, the more enjoyable is rightness. The slower speediness has snake, the quicker rapidness has poison. The greater firmness has mind's shield, the harsher sturdiness and sharpness has rave's sword. The more subsided are your rights, the more of splendor have your rightlessness and blocking. The more indistinct, hazed and uniform is beauty, the more original is ugliness, it's law. The more perceptible is harm from playing rules, the more indifferent is gathering of prizes."
"The more supportive is waves' will, the less demandable are oars. Here I entirely agree."

IX
In shabby, bulky, worn and broken, full of harsh asceticism old tram, with creaking, wavering and stucking, from all last powers crawling up, are teeming motley scurring masses of poor sharers of route's length. All in same measure wholly boring and rid of any signs of joy. Behind of heavy windows' glasses - thick heaps of tintless raggy clouds, shy rare splashings of hazed lights and lifeless steadiness of lands with faint infrequent hunchy pillars, placed up away of any order on always changing dancing distance of one inaccurate mile's half. At few last sitting rows in backward part of wagon, next to ignoring shortest resting most sternly busy gap of door - two highly similar in main of features ladies, in fully average plain dresses, but into fashionable hats, with zeal maintaining vivid dialogue:
"I have been visiting Anfisa - she once again bath in rejoicement and cherish heart with inner bloom: of course, as always, her dark talents have coped to bring new younger husband, as I remember, sixth or more. And it's, not counting two lovers, who're nice in bed and cute on face and even eager to gift presents."
"I've been amazed with her since youth! She's best example of strong willfulness and prudence, of beauty, charmingness and grace, with skill implied with highest fruitfulness and use, what makes her popular and loved - much more than lots and lots of others. I'd also like to live her life - in male attention and in pleasures, in even if only for a little bit - and to bask in male attention, in sweetest sins and richest gifts, with tons of thoughtlessly appointed new meetings and longest queues of glad to take."
"I'd also instantly agree, but I'm torn off from so great offers. I even have no one to sleep with, what sort of chances I obtain with on opportunity to cheat. Or on at least plain right of choosing."
"I am in similar conditions: my husband - idiot and moron, my lover - bastard and deceiver. I guess, best outlet is noose. All other variants of tryings were stably leaving in same givenness I have."
"What an unhealthily vile horror - so wrong and filthy that it's painful to believe." - Elena Yuryevna Lnyanykh, who was beholding them from side, has sighed with inly hung concern: “Which way does pier of our world admit existence of such creatures... Why does it keep their breed alive... Without turning them in aches as soon as they are getting born - like weeds, that steal free garden's squares and carry threats to proper plants. Why do they live - blink, breathe, build plans and share loafing. Why they're allowed to be at here - by whose incredible mistake... By what mad measureless omission can it be seriously so, that both meek me and hellish them are taking place in common world, with common chances on reality and prospects. And common level of depending on course and ampliness of luck. Why not to smash this worthless rubbish in smallest particles of dust - with unrestorable erasing from aimed for better stage of life. Like worst of evils and damnations at whole surrounding us cradle of, as I'm more and more remarking, already absolutely wasted and rid of future globe of earth.”
Elena Yuryevna has slowly took her bad and, having flaccidly stood up, led steps to saving arch of door - in further gradual surrendering to anguish and next downtroddening reflections of being's deepening in flaws.

X
Among of full of summer park - tart ample blossoming of bliss: silk of heat, richly ripening greenery's bushes, weak-willed, soaked up with neatness breeze and all-consuming peaceful warmness. World is sweet, hospitable, bottomless and playful. Day is languid, forgetful and shy. Pure, slightly clouded sky's surface is endless, abysmal and bright. Land is colorful, silent and fresh. In vague distance, next to walls of the grocery store, one idle carefree young boy, with pinky face and clumsy figure, is eating large plump-sided bun. At right, in few of steps from him - gray-haired, hunchy skinny old man is also chewing equal bun, grasped into one of flimsy hands.
“One of these fates has only stated, the other one has almost turned in breathless dust. Two lifes. Two ones of countless variety of another. Many hundreds and thousands ones. Who of them is most close to the standard, to sort of ideal of soul... Why does world's god, by some strange cause, need to create new tons of likenesses - it's mindless... For what of tasks and undertakings can it be? Who of us is most right and most proper? Who is more human, than all rest? Who'll write most brilliant of poems, who'll paint best pictures in whole world, who will experience the purest type of love - who'll eat the tastiest of buns... Who'll do such thing, which in own essence, will justify act of creation of this life... After what it'll be right to destroy it without any of regrets. Who is the best of ever born... Who will believe, feel, dream and hope in most deep manner? Who'll see this world exactly such, as it itself all time was wanting to be seen... How much of meaning, magic, miracle and goodness is hidden here in every single fleeting particle of time, in secret caught and separated from all others, in every movement, deed and step, in dew of leaves and in spicy smelling of vanilla, in gently rustling autumn leaves, thick restless blooming of May's grass and shameful feeling of arousal. With what mad zeal I want to start to learn to live, to try, to take and be myself. To live with what is really life. Not with a faded photocopy. But with most honest scale of life. So who of us will eat the tastiest of buns? Who'll turn the best of ever born? You know, beauty is in eyes of its beholder. But who will see in most apt way..." - Semyon Fadeevich has yawned and, having counted small pennies, with languor gone to buy own bun.

XI
In rambling waves from tiny radio at table, is reigning pleasantly sweet choir of gentle melodies of love - nothing odd or remarkably weighty, nothing close to be named as unique, just usual ordinary voices and circled dance of banal lines, flying up into houses' calmness as rid of meaning, peaceful rubbish and not a single handful more. And soon at suddenly come moment, to program's listeners, was skimpily announced, that now it's time for reading hour and languid reader has begun to pour smooth phrases of something deathless, deep and great:

"You was sculpting sun's circle from flame
You was measuring water in waves
You was easily playing with fate
With most abysmal spheres and games

First was trembling oneself, then was firm
First was searching with hope, then with pain
First was flying as bird in sky's dome
Then was brokenly crawling away

You was looking, but see only dust
You was knowing both all and at once
First was gaining results right from start
Then was falling at finishing line

You was crying, but who had to soothe
You was silent, while all force for words
You was claiming - that all isn't true
But was living with it as it was

You was burning as star and was freezing
First was blaming, then giving forgives
First was crushing oneself and past being
Then reborning from ashes and wind

You was looking at world, as at fiction
Was indifferent, silent and cold
Was collecting most pointless wishings
And transforming such ones in life's plots

You was reigning as tsar and enslaved was
Was receiving both prizes and shame
Was in tons of most loud ovations
And in squall of condemning and hate

Who you are after passions and paths
What you've reached at their pitiful end
Just unknown and meaningless one
One of humans and all, one of them

What you've done and achieved, what you've built
What a trace you have left in time's length
You're completely the same as you've been
Only rid of past hopings and faith

We are small, we are utterly small
And entrusted is also not great
All will pass, will dry out and roll
All of lifes, all of countless fates

And all joys, all amusements and heights
World has taken away - right as sent
Was you sculpting sun's circle from flame
Was you measuring water in waves...”

Semyon Fadeevich has sighed and delved in abyss of long thinking: “Still how much bottomlessly wise and full of endlessly deep sense , how madly actual and apt... World doesn't write like that today. Why don’t I take a piece of paper and also write some sort of plot. Maybe really some things will come out - with drop of logic and reproaching to curses world.”
The hero has quite slowly stood, grabbed first piece of gray paper and pen and, having sat at sofa's edge, dropped into mysteries of writing. So, having spent one decent hour and with assuredness and trembling assembled shaky vague plot of future seemingly great novel and even having swiftly written few of first chapters of its length, he has with languidness stretched out and into carelessness yawned:
“Should I get up and drink some kvass, then act will turn to move more richly.”
Semyon Fadeevich has speedily got dressed and, having put key's rod in lock, with gladness walked to place with kvass.

XII
In midst of silent evening walls of rid of visitors and duties vacant chambers of modest library of school, in books and blossoming of languor, is sharing loneliness and anguish torn off from any inward vigor Elena Yuryevna Lnyanykh, who is habitually dreaming and sipping boredom and regrets, preserving coziness and calmness of so wholeheartedly loved work and sorting endlessness of tomes, refreshing last ones with glue's helping and keeping manuscripts alive. Meek peaceful labor is pacific, plain and smooth, serene and soothingly relaxing, full delightfulness and bliss and freed from tension, rush or worries. Day's course is passive and pathetic and close to point of own end. Mood's tone is timid, coy and frail.
"Well, just few shelves, and back to home. Back in captivity of pain, what in itself is more than torment, more than worst thinkable of hells. And heart is needing in another - in warmth, in feelings, in take-offs, in heat, intimacy and passion, in thirst for stormingness and flame. But it's unreachable, unreal. Without strivings, hopes and strengths. With only constant endless now, stuck into aimlessness and doom. I daily wait, behold and dream. grieve, dreamdre I always keep the unrealizability of dreams and frankly try to be just happy - to burn, to bloom and to rejoice. To fly, to feel and fall in love. And not to shy to be myself. But what I have except of nothing. Except of loneliness and gloom. How time from time vain, sick and stupid is this surrounding us world, how madly useless, wrong and dead. No one will ever hear my pleadings, no one will ever make me glad. No single one at whole damned planet. No one... Imagine - just no one..."
Elena Yuryevna has sighed and, having let oneself in thoughts, returned again to racks with shelves - to share silence and to wither, like fallen leaf in puddle's midst, already obviously lifeless, but still quite mellow and alive and even, perhaps, much more juicy, bright and lovely, than ones, which still are onto trees.

XIII
Along of lonely empty beach, is trudging lifeless straying figure - Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin, who once again has left his house in fruitless searching for relations, but, as before, returned alone.
“Again I'm trampling width of earth. Again awaiting for some chances and building prospects, goals and plans. For what, for which unknown sorts of use... What does this world can do with human - all kinds of ugliness and filth. It breaks, destroys, makes rid of better. And we succumb and try to stay. Odd mindless passion to believe, to strive and dream - what an all-mighty priceless tool for to deprive from former peace and to add dreariness and sorrow. I faith, I seek, I make mistakes, but still can't find, can't turn demanded. Raged path of days has fed us clearly with all - with heat of totally vain hopes, with need in closeness, with feeling of annoyance, with taste of anger from own uselessness and smallness and harming poison of invading acute pain. We are so ready for forever role of victim that, even ask for chance to fade. Here it's so needful to be busy - be happy, loved and full of strength. No slightest matter, how much dummy such state is. We have to run, to walk by circle, by path from one deadlock to next. I'm also stepping with no purpose. Not only now, but whole life. And, what's most tragical - alone..."
Here he has grievously sighed and, adding pace, with anguish left.

XIV
In midst of occupied with people central square, is blooming motleyness of life. Tight fussy crowd is uncurbably insisting: it's scurrying, huddling, rushing up. And all, of course, is for good reason, because of opening of new-built TV tower - huge future magnet for both gazes, minds and thoughts. Around last one is surrounding of people, who're sternly waiting for main act, when plumpy gentleman from government's department, with wordy mouth and blown belly, will cut red ribbon and then mumble something vain of life's improvement and bright future. But not all people wait for this - Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin, away of common humans' mass, is simply contemplating others and keeping silence and tart doom:
"How sick and funny world's pier is, how close to state of utter circus. Here is it, herd of our citizens, the tower, which serves as cause to stand aside. Next to horizon are faint houses and fog, inside of houses, on upwards stepping floors - vast, full of warmth and light apartments, in each of them - small vague screen, or even large and highly distinct, if owner's wallet, due to loyal will of fortune, has lucky privilege to have enough of bills. In air's density are waves, you cannot see them, but long angular antennas, if they were tuned in proper way, will with no questions be most definitely able of to fulfill such trifling task instead of you, with utter accuracy easily transmitting plain aimless essence of polluting brains broadcastings, flown over hundreds of vast miles. But does it carry any sense... What do we have from such a progress... Same inward vacuum, same pain. And same appalling changeless worthlessness of viewers, who are in slavery of kinescopes' pale glimpse. Same deathless troubles, needs and burdens. Same rid of future torpid life. No frailest matter, what you'll manage to invent - sent poor self in farest possible of eras - you even barely will not escape from doom, from nonds of brokenness and vainness and from incessant lack of sense. You'll never cope to form holistic understanding, what for do all we keep to live, you'll never find, at least, one single sober reason - like dried and thirsty desert's dwellers will never finally turn able to find salvating water source. And even fact of time machine or elevator from land's surface straight to heaven will be too powerless to fix entrusted things. No ones of mechanisms and forces will ever minimize life's faults, they vice versa will just amplify their sharpness - with gladness tragically mixing in one mash full of uniqueness sacred marvel of own greatness with torn from prudence, stuck in fussing empty us. We have, at first, to teach oneselves to live as humans, but we build towers, dig further lines of subway stations and send new satellites in space. And onto earth we are still enemies and strangers and, even sleeping in one bed, sometimes are ready to destroy and drown in dirt. No, tower's building will not help them. They've built it totally in vain."
The hero, losing last excitement, has with tart sadness made deep sigh and, having suddenly decided not to wait, stretched course of voyage back to home in pier of loneliness and walls - away from formerly beholded and from remined away of view, from inexcusably vain progress, wrong and distorted aimless people and inly cracked lost needless self.

XV
And again conversation's maintaining. And again of world's errors and flaws. Semyon Fadeevich with kvass, Anton Efimovich with tea cup.
"Our existence is entirely transparent. Completely opened and explicit. Both each one's stupidness and sins are highly visible and notable for mile, but lie still copes to settle roots and to attain rich steady blooming. The more exposed are rules and principles of game, the more of hiddenness has real last one's ruler. The more of carefulness, timidness and silence has rising, growing and development of cracks, the more of loudness has squall of falling splinters. The of softness has bag's matter, the more of deadliness and sharpness has its awl. If you have turned to be unable to leave oneself in saddle's bonds, you'll hardly manage to survive inside of ditch. This is the stubbornest of facts. Life's not what ever can be simplified by force. And the more obstinate is scythe, the more indifferent are stones. This is main thing of current us. The more controllable is head, the less controllable is headlessness' upcoming. The better quality have grains, the deeper worthlessness have harvests. The more frustratedly you hurry, the more serenely you succeed. And here lies heaviest of troubles - all what has happened not on time is either burden or mistake. Miscalculation, flaw and error. One, that can burry all next life. And there are no bigger horrors, than hopeless ones, what you yourself by some of reasons have without doubts named like that. And the more long is path to better, the less escapably you stuck in mash of worse. The more distrustfully you go, the more trustworthily you stop. This is the ancientest of truths. And the more personal is essence of mistakes, the more uniting in devotedness to rightness. The more pathetical is forecast, the more of wildness, rage and fury has real tunes of weather's state. But even this can look as chance. The less harmonious are notes, the more melodical is sound of keys' creaking. Not so much terrible is fire as chains of fear to get burnt. This is main tragedy, main grief. With higher proudness you fly, with greater ugliness and gracelessness you fall. It's hard to live without pessimism today. The more of giftedness has chronicler's researchings, the darker periods he learns. All we are able - just to take it and get used. Just to accept, as not accessible for changing. If you are seeking for good moment, be always ready to spend century of bad."
"The louder clanging flies from guillotine while working, the higher vividness has look of headsman's face. But kind of outlet still surely exists. And even absolutely simple. Have no of wounds, and no one ever give them salt. The less appropriate are words, the more appropriate are pauses. And time from time it's much more prudent not to think and not to analyze path's going. Otherwise, you'll get instantly stuck and will turn frozen and immovable forever. The more you're knowing of your route, the less you're holding for its essence. And thirst for steadiness and will, as rule, gets ended with despair. The more you're looking at fight's going, the less of gladness brings you victory or loss. The more exchangeable are roles, the more straightforward is game's going. You have to take it, to admit. Without hatred to thorns' presence, you'll never gain true love to blossoming of buds. But if you start to call for rain, be wholly ready to soon downpour or flood. And the more skilfully you're able to break pots, the less resultfulness you're showing in their molding. The worst of things is to become like flock of others. Stay hidden. Shy of people's breed. Don't fall in waterfall of passions. Do not forget most banal truth: the higher value have each coin, the less it's eager of to demonstrate own shining. Destructive games, no slightest matter how you play them, do not have prizes or good endings. But life sometimes is more than plain. But straightly primitive, not higher. The more essential are guesings, the less essential is secret's truth itself. The more small jackpot has game's final, the more harsh going have its plots. You can't deny this or rewritte. The higher tenderness get thorns, the stiffer ruthlessness and hardness has buds' crushing."
"The more uncertainly you ask, the more convincing are responses. We are familiar with this. The lower danger hides in paths, the higher danger vice versa hides into roadsides, it's fact. The more inaccurate is picture, the more good steel has core of nail, which holds its frame. Good poisons never meet bad food. It's not so terrible to stand alone on top of cliff, as to be sitting at its base with someone capable one day to push you down. You cannot argue with this statement, no frailest matter, how it's tragical and sad. The higher was your flag was while glory, the deeper it'll be dug while shame. The more of value here has sting, the less of it in own meek turn have hives and honey. The more demanding we're to prizes, the less demanding we're to games. The more of risk is into trick, the more fervour is in stuntman."
"The more of fires life is keeping, the less you're having of the ones, who're free to warm. The longer time are stretching games, the fickler essence have their rules. The lower role belongs to pawn, the more all-mighty role belongs to will of board. The more of vileness has the one who're weaving thread, the more of honor has the one, by whom it finally gets cut. The firmer level of stability have rules, the weaker level of stability has playing. This is familiar to all. The more condemned here are your money, the more encouraged ate your debts. The longer term is lasting crying, the less of weight have tears' flows. You'll never cope to fix this fact. The less of meaning has film's plot, the more of pathos has its title. But do not rush to get diluted with oppression. The more thin handle has your tool, with more great aptness you are working. The predictable is track, the less predictable are turnings. And not to conquer peaks' perfection, not having parted with compassion to foothills. So just reject - both all unguaranteed and empty. Each, who have managed to break statue with right hand, will with same easiness kill sculptor with the left one. Here cups are rarely in fashion. More likely hammers and those ones, who're free to hit. And it's not given to replay what is entrusted without act of full erasing of oneself. When you are trying to change ship, you're having risk to change its captain as well. And not to cope to figure out - what ones of causes writte life's course. It's madly stupid to be boasting, that you've invented clocks in front of ones, who have invented whole time's going. It's rather good, if world has dared to give spices, but it's still better, when it dares to give food, which doesn't need in any seasoning at all. You either try to build true house or shy to tear one, which's drawn. And is it actually useful to understand what's going on... If all will suddenly begin to understand, life's sense will simply disappear. It is impossible to act with less respect to mind, than to be trying to explain to ones, who're stupid. There is no outlet from this. The more of silence has escape, the more of quickness has pursuiting. And the more loudly is laughing breed of madmen, the more sincerely are crying ones, who're wise. The less expected is each fire, the more expected are next scalds. The more indifferent is route, the more pathetic is wheels' rolling. You can't restrain ones, who have come at here to perish, can't gift them passion to exist. For ones, who've fallen into real love with headsman, head's presence starts to look as curse. If you've appointed pain's level as life's measure, all what is painlessness will annoy more than worst plague. And to be perishing as piece of gray concrete is into hundreds times much easier and meeker than as cute statue or thin vase. For to turn stone into stone you have no need in superpower. There are no miracles in timeless length of time, which will not cope to get included into moment. One single fishing rod is much and much more better than any scopes of soup of fish. But if to look at daily life, you'll hardly cope to notice meaning. In strokes of brush there is one paint and adds of fluff, and into picture - whole its artist. Keep in mind that true presence of God is truly possible exclusively in time, when all around clearly speaks of last one's absence. Life could easily be eternal, but only life, not poor we. Look at light bulb. At one of days it will burn out. Like any other equal one. But electricity will stay and light will flow through width of windows and into gateways in night's murk. What you have done for life itself? And what exactly you have left for to get turned in part of timelessness yourself? Hardly anyone gives honest answer. Nothing heals like time's course, and nothing breaks like last one's absence. And the more clear is life's meaning, the more of cloudness have minds. The longer length belongs to minutes, the shorter one belongs to years. The more tender is whip, the less gentle are backs. You cannot conquer world with kindness. If you've got turned into elephant's shape not from state of the elephant's baby, but from the state of blown up fly, you’ll spend whole life just as inflated useless fly. And the more rich is any zoo, the more exhausted are its animals, it's deathless. The more low taste and look has victory's upcoming, the more of violence exposes course of war. The more creatively roll axles, the more destructively turn wheels. I can be named as full utopian and dreamer, as person close to mental illness or as fool, but world where we can't live without locks on doors, where we can't know who'll possess with our partner, when we're absent in home's walls, world, where each one just hates and suffers, where no of livers have true values, is not a world, but a straightforward certain hell. Doomed, defective, destructive and broken. It's indescribable nightmare, more huge than universe itself, but modern human with all heap of skills and heights, is not just barely distinguishes from monkey, but even hardly can be verified from worm. You have no need to catch all ropes, just wholly modest and short one will be excessively enough, if at one day it will get tightened on your neck. And look at people at here. They don't believe that some unpoisoned food exists, they simply look for more sweet variant of poison. If you will heed all truths at once, you'll undeclinably start thinking - why have I fallen in this horror only now, why haven't I done it much earlier, just why... Then, instead of all countless tryings, I would commit one single suicide at youth. It is much better not to have such sort of thoughts, not to get caught by them at all - for even shortest fleeting minute. Don't bet on giving up to days and you will cope to stay away of last ones' going. And don't refuse from taking risks. Or getting fallen in adventures. The less of confidence has gait, the more of properness gains route..."
At here speech's lasting has got ended.

XVI
In lost in darkness empty room - with firmness fallen into peacefulness languor meek sleepy silhouette of drinking lonely evening Elena Yuryevna Lnyanykh, who is impassively remaining self in bed and reaping poisons of vain dreaming.
"Well, once again I am at home. And once again, of course, alone. How much bitter it is, how unfair - till hardest bursting into tears and wild howls. And I am needing in another - in warmth, in ecstasy of shame, in understanding and devotion..."
Elena Yuryevna has yawned and, having casually spreaded thirsty legs, gone with her fingertips sweet impudent moisture of full sin forbidden places, with shyness plunging into gently blooming folds and with straightforwardness submerging into pleasure of full of shamelessness and fervor carnal games, intoxicating with excessiveness of bliss.
And then, with trembling licking fingers and going back from sultry waves of orgasm's squall, that had remoted her away from frames of world, she has enjoyingly drawn smile and, seeing sunset, tasted juices once again: “How little bliss in fact is needed, after all, for to express oneself as happy. How mad and mindless is this world, how much forgotten by all best. How unforgivably injustified and aimless. How stupid, pointless and wrecked. And I am asking just for tiny tiny drop of simple unity and care. And maybe I'll still cope to find... If I'm so tirelessly craving for such ending.”
Elena Yuryevna has lazily got up and, having timidly extinguished last room's light, gone into thickets of night sleep - the only place at cursed today, where it's still possible to rest and hide from pain.

XVII
Already long and dreary 28 of years have passed since writing of first novel "At dry lake", which with great easiness has given birth to others. There was whole series of them: "Where is the South", "The searching service for forgotten and unfound" and "After clouds will be sun". And right at now has been finished one another: "Don't seek and you will cope to find."
Semyon Fadeevich has somnolently sighed and, with slight tiresomeness looking by nude sides, begun to think of right epigraph.
"My earthly term is almost ended. And, as currently turns out, completely fruitlessly and solely in vain - with no achievements and no unity or flame. All I am having - just these papers of my books. And what's most tragical and dreary - all of concluded in them thoughts are rid of any further going, except of hopeless way in stove. I have to send them to world's wideness, have to preserve and leave alive..." - the hero has returned to thoughts and then continued with next message:
"Life at my days is greatly dark. I'll even dare to say scary. But it so happens onto earth that era's darkness is main source of future light. So, perhaps, here to utter fortune it'll also turn to be like that... There are no truly weighty aims, no proper targets, paths and senses at torn from chances lost today, but into one of far tomorrows, as I most deeply inly faith, exists some tiny saving chance on something worthy, high and pure, full of both meaning, love and prudence. And priceless miracle of closeness and care will be accessible to all, to everyone, who've been just born. I most sincerely believe, that each of humans will be needed and wholly justified and occupied by reason at every point of own presence at vastly spreaded planet's pier right till the point of departure from its cradle - which will be also quite not sudden and most straightforwardly determined by some aim." - Semyon Fadeevich has hesitantly sighed:
"I think, I'll finish this next day..."

XVIII
In midst of sleepy lonely boredom of strained by ampliness of rain and lost in bonds of vague shadows wasteful lands, was keeping stretching growing evening. Along of hollowness of streets, was calmly blowing almost practically absent, rid of most feeble tension wind. Tart and imputing sadness silence was slowly flooding over places with smooth impenetrable shawl. No stars, no sun, no passers-by. Only permanent abyss of void. Dark sleepy houses, conjuncted shabby roofs and long thin wires, numbly following in distance. No brisk noteworthiness, no fussiness, no life.
Anton Efimovich Tsvetnykh, preserving pain and fading, is coyly trampling puddles' surface and building thoughts of earthly things.
"Eh, existence, one deserted desert. What joys are given here to us... Except of fatal right to think and to experience despair. Why, what for - who will say..."
The hero has made bitter sigh and, still not having any answer, accelerated speed of step and sent own voyage back to home.

XIX
Within of lonely timid walls of midday's library's apartment, among magazines and books, is coyly sitting lifeless figure - Elena Yuryevna Lnyanykh, already tragically aged and still unsolvably unneeded. Her pensive gaze is slowly sliding shelves and hiding bitterness and inner devastation. Day's term is meek and apathetic. No news, no feelings, no requests.
At one of moments sudden episode of knocking is sharply interrupting fading and from the entrance is coming pale-faced boy: "I'm here to see you, let me in, please."
"Come in, Arkady, you're to read?"
"I'm constant loser, fool and jester. I am too lazy for to read. But I have brought you something else. My dad is master death's meeting. I mean, he organizes funerals and etc. Some person recently has died. And he was burying him - as always. That one was lonely and, that's why, his corpse was buried on the money of the city. But by occasion they have found in his house some of writings. And not just one, but five at once. I have collected them and brought - let someone smart will risk to read them, if I myself am just an idiot in all. I'll leave texts here on width of chair. And don't be angry for my daring to distract."
Elena Yuryevna has wearily stood up, then lifted faded bunch of papers and, having bashfully unfolded, with utter fervor delved to read. Worn sheets were woven in five novels: "At dry lake", "Where is the South", "The searching service for forgotten and unfound", "After clouds will be sun" and "Don't seek and you will cope to find."
So, having barely grasped tomes, she almost instantly has fallen into shiver and plunged in state, which, as a rule, is called as shock: "How much immeasurably deep, how much profound. And still entirely unknown. I have to save them, to immortalize forever - for to preserve on further centuries alive. Heads week ago have introduced us new reading digital database, I guess, it's heaviest of fortunes. I'll read and add in open space. And they will never disappear, will never vanish or get lost."
Elena Yuryevna has sighed and, having taken cozy pose, returned to fairyness of reading.

AFTERWORD:
In lonely capsule of forsaken starship's hull, in midst of rid of living parsecs, is flying sleepy pensive youth, with name Alvierius, which once again as long ago is highly modern in his era. He is indifferently fussing, researching catalogue of latest world's inventions, consuming rushes, drinks juice and gaining thoughts of timeless things.
"My faithful robot!"
"Yes, my traveler, I'm here..." - has softly sounded hoarse speaker of ship's system.
"Please, read me something from unknown ancient authors, from lost forgotten distant times of start of internet and wireless broadcastings."
"Already reading. Author, title: Semyon Fadeevich Propazhin "Don't seek and you will cope to find." Should I start with epigraph or plot?"
"From text. Epigraph will be later."
So, having heeded to the novel, the hero has begun to listen to epigraph and, right as last one has got finished, has harshlu shrunk and amply sobbed: "Long hundred thousands of years have passed since period this text had got own birth. And how much fervently its author was believing, that world will manage to turn better. That most unbearable of problems such as rejectedness and lack of understanding will be undoubtedly solved and left exclusively in past. He was awaiting for anotherness, for sense. And I am flying into starship, with all of benefits and funs, assisting tools and helpful living's simplifiers. But where is happiness? It's absent. Sea of robots and digital marvels, free instant teleport within of each star system, tons of sunk in prosperity colonies - at almost practically every single one of main livable galaxies' clusters. But state of loneliness, in spite of all inventions, remains as powerful and restless as before. And no of things can drive it out. Who will support, who'll understand, who'll be as close as no one other. Does it depends on fruits of progress? I'm not sure. For anyone who isn't puzzled with religion, God's presence has to be just reckless, although, if you will try to fall in deep reflections, you'll likely cope to justify those who are faithful to confessions - after all, if we see any picture, then it must have some sort of artist, all is right. And even if he is away of draft of picture, and hides in some another room or even due to some occasions is maybe not alive at all, then anyway he had been having to exist in time of drawing, for to explain us current presence of the picture. Such logic also is quite usable to ones, who faith in science or in mixed combined approach - after all, the same making of picture could rather easily be done by flow of wind, by leaves or series of raindrops - world's pier could be created by itself, in probabilistical way, by will of chance, enumeratedly excessive and brought together in one variant of being, combinatorially won from all the rest. It's quite explainable, quite plain to be acceptef acceptable and not perceived as purest rave. But what indeed is by a lot much more infernal is our constant search for sense, for some supreme holistic meaning, produced by logic and idea, by higher purpose, holding all. It's a disease to seek for presence of such aim. What in a fact do we declare by this - yes, we have canvas - right in front, there is no not matter who and how has produced it, it could arose here by itself, could be copied or brought from aside, but if we finally already have this picture, then we must also have some viewers of its plots. And there is someone, who's unknown, for whose saint viewing whole damned picture had been done. Yes, we have no information of its author, in can be simply just self-painted, we're informed, but viewer's presence is inarguably fair. And this strange viewer is life's meaning, its logic, target, aim and sense. And role ofviewer is not weaker than the god's one - not being even a creator, to serve as owner of this all. Faith into logic is straight poison. You're here to seek, to fulfill higher will and not more. One will be killed by rushing train, another one will end with suicide at youth, third will transform in worst of whores and will spend in such way whole life's term. But all of this will be completely not in vain - for someone's whim, in someone's sake. In sake of meaning, that inhabit each of doings, which's not a subject, you can actually reach, but a subject you have to believe in. What had been going God before of world's creation? Whom he was, what was trying to do? For such a question, any priest will kick away your last of teeth, will send as far, as you will never cope to trample. But I can ask another question, where was that very mighty viewer? Where was life's sense before its start? And what exactly was it made of? No one will ever risk to answer. Just look around - all is pointless and painful, shaky, meaningless, vain. You cannot justify this world by any purpose. No slightest matter, how much meaningful it'll be. Even handful of sand is, after all, more complicated, than current cradle of this world. Such understanding, that whole being is just vain, that any meaning is not more than just a fiction, that you yourself is just a temporary flash for to absorb flaws of existence and drink oblivion and pain, is not most soothening of burdens. If someone offer me to test taste of all lips, to eat all dishes and to fall in all of feelings, what's more - all this, of course, at once and for eternity or more, I would just to have chance not to be born and not to know - both world, its people and myself. And not to feel - either pleasure or pain, or enlightenment, or bemusement, or firmness of mind. Simply nothing. Neither breathing of hope, nor despair, neither loneliness' torments, nor bonds. "
Here odd dance of these thoughts was disturbed:
"Was found new notification." - same faithful robot has announced in smooth voice: "For yours tomorrow, it'll be Thursday, 16 of May, 100211 year, you have appointed at 14:00 act of voluntary accepting of immortality of self. Would you like to confirm or would it'll be righter to reschedule?"
"Please cancel. And switch off my mind - in deepest sleep of hibernation."
"For length of day?"
"No, at this time, I guess, forever."