Next to dry fountain

I
At sort of distance from streets going, in bonds of pallid alley's shadows, in front of waterless dry fountain, for ten of years stably closed, is standing faceless pensive figure, without water - a laconic flavor image, Andrei Olegovich Nesvoiy, eternal prisoner of thinking and constant seeker for life's sense.
“Once again, I'm in purposeless walking, in useless trudging back and forth. Again in streets, in lonely wasting. In search for better and for self. Who'll truly answer, what to strive for, what to expect, await and wish. You can whole century keep tryings, but anyway remain forlorn - both by luck's presence and attention. From time to time you're even ready for to die, but still remain for further torments. You can't explain it, right as well as can't exchange.”
The hero has let deep long sigh, looked over latitudes of quarter and sent route's vector towards line of sunk in vagueness horizon: to doors of local trinkets' shop.
Path's width is desertedly empty, forsaken, featureless and hazed. No cars, no people, no expression. Only faintness and fog, nothing else. Inside of walls of tiny shop with greenish signing board "Dreams' World" is also tiresomely vacant. Only sellers and dust.
"I'd like to look at something bright."
“We're having talismans. Three sorts. Bird, fish and trident. Which one you're ready to prefer? At least some will suit you? "
"I'm glad with all, but what's of price?"
"Fifty dollars for each."
"Why so immeasurably much?"
"What to do, mood of time is like that..."
Here once again with vainness back. Without fish, without bird and with no trident, but with great thirst to buy them all.

II
Days' pace is tirelessly speedy and year's term, which has and already left behind, was with effortlessness replaced by going further. And once again in peaceful walls of semi-empty, sunk in drowsiness “Dreams' world” is fraily standing same coy figure, Andrei Olegovich, this time with needful scope of money and into previous intentions to buy both trident, bird and fish.
“Are you sane? All was bought long ago."
“ Sad to   Eh, they didn’t get it. Not fate. "

III
In midst of drowsy evening darkness — two full of dreariness lost persons: Makar Yegorovich Stepnoy and Pavel Frantsevich Poteshny, one is foundryman and blacksmith, the other - comrade and assistant. In all of ventures and affairs. Time's spending lasts in smoothest manner - in conversations, thoughts and peace.
"How madly cumbersome and twisted is our mad confusing world, how deadly complex, strange and tricky - in each of only teeming spots..." — has sighed with sadness one of speakers and delved in ampliness of grief.
"It's mainest essence of this world, the more of speediness have clocks, the more laziness has time - this is unbeatable, undying. All, what's from side is wholly trivial and banal, if to dig deeper, is immeasurably tricky - till most unspeakable of grades. And not too sober it's to bet or build believings. The more chaotical are prophets, the more straightforward is fate's course. And even fogginess and frailness aren't so much dangerously fatal. But the more careful is bending, the more severe, sharp and harsh is cutting off. No slightest matter, what of tools rely you on, if aim is dead, you will not blossom. And it's not given to get satisfied and calmed. The more serene is fruit of peace, the more untamable and deft is worm of worries. And the more doleful it is to wait for carrot, the more enjoyable it is to wait for stick."
"The more habitual is noose, the more exclusive is neck's cracking. And the more bright is spark of start, the more of pallidness and fright has ash of end. But the more zealous is betting, the more indifferent is luck. The more of friendliness and calm has snake's appearance, the more short path leads to its poison and your death. The more of standardness has truth, the more of twistedness has lying. And the less visible is bell, the more of acuteness and strength has thirst for ringing. But who can know, what it's for... The more of gloominess have planets, the more of brightness has stars' view."
"The more chaotic is facts' swarm, the more harmonious is thinking. The more impressive is your play, the less impressed are game and fortune. The less of artfulness have buildings, the more of artfulness have scopes of their ruins. But you can't study food by poison as well as cannot learn realities by dreams. The more of shining shows book's cover, the more fadedness show lines. And the more pure are calmness' waters, the thicker sediment runs up in them is storm. The more indifferent is thrower, the more of carefulness show those ones, who catch."
"With greater loudness cries clown, with stronger joyfulness laughs circus laughs. The more it's difficult to burn, the less it's difficult to smolder. There are no handful of convenient of routes, if you are stepping in uncomfortable boots. With higher talent you break pots, with lower skillfulness you sculpt them. The less essential is going, the more self-confident is gait. And the more moderate is giver, the more of hungriness and thirst shows one, who takes. The more of sharpness hides in claws, the more of slickiness and abruptness have cliffs."
"The weaker proudness brings plague, the stronger shamefulness brings feast. With have to live with this, it's law. The more less of faith you have in infinite and timeless, the more of faith you have in passable and short. The more of motleyness have letters, the less weightiness have words. If you're not enemy to cup, you can't keep friendship with the hands, which carry hammers. But how to hurry - you can learn from each of fools, but how to come in time - it's secret. And all is obstinately dead. And the more hard it is to remember state of calm, the less it's easy to forget of state of storms. That is both axiom and law. With higher skillfulness hides knife, with greater aptness it sends thrustings."
"The more chaotical are paints, the more harmonical is canvas. The more destructive is game's ending, the more constructive is it's start. And the more tearful to live without dam, the more habitual to live without river. The more of grace and flexibility has neck, the more harsh, short and stiff is thread of last one's leash. But chaos also works as compass. And even frighteningly apt. The more switched off is brush of reason, the more impeccable and bright are paints of fate."
"I will continue next of earthly. One friend will come, not nearly regular, not empty. He is clerk into funeral service, one, who gives help to pass forever, without traces and return. With him, it's nice to talk of all - both of each everyday of doings and of all mysteries and tricks, which aren't expressible in words. What's much more meaningful in essence and into influence on fate."
"Well, it's quite promising, I'm feeling. I'll be most restlessly delighted. Links with unthinkable are great. Much more then any ones of others."
At here, have gradually parted. Without words and long goodbyeings, but with quite palpable hope's glimpse.

IV
In midst of little fainted room, rid of each single slightest trace of any vividness and fervor, is vainly stretching term of day meek faded figure - Efim Dementievich Mirskikh, failed wistful artist and unfixably stern dreamer, full of entirely unreal, but highly teasing mind and heart plans, undertakings and ideas. Day's course is moderate and flaccid, torn from emotions and forlorn. At clocks already time of dinner. In mood - tight flabbiness and yearning - most faithful satellites of every lonely soul.
"Once again no of zeal, no of magic. Just doom's insipidness and fright. As if I am in state of corpse, forever locked in bonds of coffin without outlet and rest. From time to time you're even ready to start howling, but then dejectedly remember, that course of century will always stay the same - no single drop of slightest matter, what sort of measures and attemptings will be invented and implied. And not to gain another basics, not to arrange sane proper sense and prudent way of living's schedule. This world prefers to fade and suffer, to stay unsettled, sick and vain. And not to change, not to improve it. Just to accept - as worst of lots."
The hero has got slowly up and, in confusion fraily looking by gray sides with coy eyes' pair, stepped over shabbiness of threshold and taken path in depths of streets.
By sides, as well as in soul's grave, one naked vacuum and sorrow. No life, no vividness, no passion. Just void, tiredness and doom. Day's course, as well as pace of time, is sluggish, careless and lazy. In distance - outskirts' landscape: thick pensive steadiness of boredom, tart lifeless pallidness of fog and mourning passiveness of fright.
"Where to get stuck in bonds of reason, to fall in pricelessness of sense or to, at least, turn firmly able to find indeed reliable cause to let mind's pier to get prostrated and forgotten, for even shortest fleeting term, but having coped to meet with rescue. Does being's cradle have such places among of last ones' endless scope, where only aimfulness and bliss. And no of sorrows and perplexion. Just timeless constancy of peace and everlasting state of balance with depths of circumstances' storm and with response from chances' abyss. Who'll help to melt in waves of care or to gain openness to dreams. What makes us purposeful and fruitful, what carries happiness and bloom, if no of victories have weight and no of outcomes are perfect. I'd much more like just to get lost, to slip away and disappear. As if I never have been born. Life can't exist for pain and hardships, can't be so pointless and vain, can't last exclusively for nothing with strictest absence of free spaces for any promising of plannings and any meaningful of deals. By sides - just facelessness and mist. Same haze, same houses, same longing. Right like as hundreds years ago... Where here in  abyss of days' fuss, in pit of tireless exhaustment and sturdy reigning of distress can be ignited and maintained indeed trustworthy sense's soil and truly fair routes for heights, for greatness, miracles and flight, for warmth of unity, for passion and for fulfilling of requests for fullness, fairyness and heat. Where here, in wrecking empty depths of incompleteness, murk and sorrow, are planted seeds of saint and timeless, of perfect, prominent and deep. But you still try, believe and seek. And then just die and leave life's play - with no results and no attainments. Not richest ending for fate's program, not best of lots for earthly term. But we still stay here... Even me...”
Yefim Dementievich has sighed, looked into nearest cafe, sat next to window, swiftly eaten, then calmly stood, paid and gone back.

V
Next to impassive foggy window, where only lifelessness and haze, is sitting deeply lifeless figure - Natalya Karpovna Besvetnykh, till tears sad and joyless lady, torn off from vividness and hopes and lost in pain and fruitless dreaming. Her rid of ardor mournful day is unintentionally passive, exhausted, dreary and forlorn. With no of brightness or delight and no of purpose and intentions. Just doom and grayness. Nothing else. Like into coffin and not better. And with unending curse of thoughts.
"One new vain morning once again. Once again once new ticket in torments. And once again just with myself. Like into grave or into prison, with no attention and no warmth. In only hopelessness and fading. As if at all I'm not alive. And not to lessen this damn gap between of givenness and dreamings. I have to try, to keep attempts, to strive ahead and to take risks. If you'll give up at state of river, you'll never cope to turn in sea. But where to find demanded zeal... And how to pass nets of days' vainness and not to lose oneself and strengths. What am I actually doing? If to be honest with myself. In terms of prudence not too much. I am just suffering and fainting. Like breathing corpse, not more exciting. With no maintainable of pleasures and no possessable of heights. And, what's the worst, with no of bliss. And no, at least, uncertain chances on any other share's course. Just overwhelmingness of burdens and all-consumingness of doom. And not to part with devastation, not to get out of fright's chains. I'll once again let self in streets. Once again for a while at this day my poor mind will find salvation. Then back in dreariness. Or sleep."
And, indeed, day was spent just like that and then with luck replaced by evening, same into mood of inner plots. And, indeed, as in hell. Not more fine.

VI
Next to washed out with rain window, in midst of muted faded room, both sullen, featureless and lonely - hugged into shawl of sorrow figure: Maria Lvovna Ostorozhnykh, slave of stage in walls of one of local theaters. Her wholly tired, empty gaze, not much more passionate than dead one, is dismal, fearful and faint.
“Once again time to play new performance. Once again to pretend and to shine. To bath in glory and to reign at tons of posters. And what's inside... Who'll ever ask... Darkness, tragedy, pain. As harsh and terrible as nothing else and ever. Sometimes it's easier to die than to ascend at width of ramp. Just again and again. But what for... To hide own grief and to dissolve in others' smiles. To spin, to wiggle, to rejoice. And into empty hole of heart - void, vacuum, doom, rags of better and nothing helpful, warm or bright. As in grave, not more nice, not more pleasant. Face sinks in soulless make-up. Mind drowns in wretchedness and mourning. And, as before, I'm staying lonely. And, as before, with one myself...”
Voice of the telephone has rung: “We are playing tonight. Let me remind you not to miss."
"Thanks. I remember. I'll arrive."
"Yes, we are waiting. Hall is full."

VII
Under sunk into haze disk of sun, splashing abysmal plenty of rays, is growing out early day. By sides - free vastness of expanses. Sweet peaceful motleyness and fuss. Above of places - tent of sky, inexhaustibly limitless, endless and unimaginably deep. Mass of thick, slightly sugary air is friendly, silky and pathetic. Lands are selfless and fresh. Heat is attractively enchanting and full of playfulness and joy.
Andrey Olegovich Nesvoy, directing steps in depths of distance, is vice versa to surroundings of world most inexcusably downtrodden and plunged in thoughtfulness and gloom.
"Where is it possible at here to fall in unity with meaning, to meet with genuinest reasons and to get keys from hidden depths of all unthinkable and timeless. By whose of whims we are alive and for which outcomes and endings... Where into chaos of events are seeds of greatness and perfection, of what's appointed from start or even long and long before, before of forming of fates' patterns and drawing vectors of events and even launch of reality itself. What for I am? For which of targets. If all I have comes to one sufferings and losses and brings not more than devastation and never dying taste of pain. But I still keep myself alive. Try to strive up and to move forward. But what's at finish, at final point of route's track. Just bonds of nothingness and coffin. With no of fruits, results and gains. What a course, what a plot, what a share... And even talismans aren't mine. Even there I've not coped to succeed. In spite of endlessness of dreamings. And someone else has gladly managed. Has turned in lucky glad obtainer. And I've remained in loser's state. It's so habitual, so known - to fail, to fall and to give up. To contemplate and make mistakes. And to be emptified and broken. With no of chances and of hopes. Just with one bitterness, with sorrow. And although fate is just at start and disk of sun is full of lighting, I have no benefits, no bliss. And, what's most terrible, no future..."
The hero has with faintness sighed and, having fallen in confusion, led path in haziness of distance - away from dreariness of thoughts and from unneeded aimless self, forever trapped in last ones' shackles.

VIII
In midst of chained in fussing pavement, full of pedestrians and noise, is rolling vividness of day. By sides - rich splendor of lands' vastness. In depths of air - taste of peace.
Natalya Karpovna Besvetnykh, who has fled out from walls' prison, is once again directing route in widely spreaded town's boredom. In all accessible for view - bliss, comfort, lifefulness and heat. Inside - awkwardness and sorrow.
"Here I am. In streets' pier, in dust's reigning. In buildings' grayness and impassiveness of views. Wholly alien, lost and forgotten, torn off from unity with better and stuck in loneliness and thoughts. With what I'm able to get soothened, relaxed, inspired and amused. Where is my paradise, my rescue. My place for blossoming and flight. Where it is, who indeed will report..."
Here, as if straight from secret bins, have bursted out swarm of children and rushed in distance of sidewalk, like purest whirlwind and not weaker, having hastily lost in fog's depths. From one of backpacks of the kids, have fallen out plushy rabbit and left to lie at ground's width. Then, after barely a minute, ragged straying family of mother and her son, have crept to flesh of fallen toy and delved in tedious discussion.
"Take it up, we'll hardly cope to buy such items ourselves, you at least will have thing to play with, if you're too lazy to be helping me with begging..."
"I do not need in it at all, give me instead some piece of food!"
"Where will I find it? Have you thought? Look at that - give me something to eat. If you refuse to beg yourself, you have to stay in constant hunger. I'm spending hours for each penny and you're just wishing to consum..."
They've tried to argue. Then gone back.
Natalya Karpovna has bent and, having neatly picked lost rabbit, meekly taken with self: "Do not worry, small friend, be serene - I'll never let you from my care."

IX
At feast of teapots and cups - storm of exaltedness and fuss: ones drink, ones pour, ones simply look. All works together - exhibition and consuming. Right into middle group of tables - Andrei Olegovich Nesvoiy: beholds, walks, baths in boredom's thickets, takes over essence of traditions and gets used to surrounding mugs. On tables, turned in tablecloth - not frail excessiveness of eatings: all kinds and variants of dishes, snacks, drinks and other things for gobbling. With swift addition of excitement, songs and dancings. At little distance, next to edge of eating space huge weighty tray with pancakes' pillar. On rack in center - samovar. Left from the such one - cup with honey. And at the right one of the side, a massive bowl with cottage cheese and some odd slurry - plump red-faced boy with hunchbacked granny. He promptly chewing, laughing, swirling and sipping pinkish viscous drink and then with suddenness gets choked, begins to cough and call for help.
“You, brainless animal, have lost remains of mind? Are you an elephant or what? You are an idiot, my dear. Shame on you. Shame and curse. You need help? Oh, I'll give!"
Here, having taken guy by neck, she has got up and sent own fist between his eyes: “I will help, I will certainly help...”
“Time to get out. As intensively as given. And never come to this place back..." - Andrei Olegovich has jumped, as if caught up by higher power, and with straightforwardness of lynx rushed into outlet of streets' net - to wander, shake and cure mind's flesh.

X
In midst of darkening cafe, under tiresome dullness of lamps, is drinking coffee weary figure - Maria Lvovna, who is dissolving into sadness and despair. Her numb frail gaze is inexpressible and lifeless. Thoughts full of sorrow. Mind switched off. In soul is pain. In plate - soup's mass. And onto face - makeup and tears.
“I’m once again, as always, waiting. Once again getting lost into grief. I'm still with hope. And with zeal's presence. With best of strivings and attempts. But what for... For new dose of next void. For disappointment and doom. And tons of loneliness and torments. Not most demandable of lots. Not most appropriate of shares. What for I'm necessary here... I guess not more than just for nothing."
She has indifferently sighed, sent few of gazes into window and, having quickly paid, gone back.

XI
Again quiet room, again three shadows - Makar Yegorovich Stepnoy, next Pavel Frantsevich Poteshny, and with them both - Yefim Savelyevich Podlunny, the very funeral arranger, at first quite gloomy, but still perfectly alive.
"What's wrong with our world, it's not that it's so wretched and unsightly..." - Makar Yegorovich has sighed and delved in steadiness of stupor.
"Nice question. All indeed is foggy. But this is also not so bad. The more chaotical is mousetraps' locating, the smoother rows has flock of mice. And, the more strong is thirst for cold, the more unsteady, shaky, flickering and flimsy are asks for pass in fire's bonds. The more primitive and vain is dish of door, the exalted, odd and tricky is key's poison. And, the more long is path by circle, the more it's short - by line, which's straight. The more of sanity has headsman, the less of sanity has court." - without slightest dose of optimism or hope has slowly told him Pavel Frantsevich with anguish.
"The more appealing is rain's sound, the less enjoyable is shiver from its chill. It's also pure straightforward truth. The more insistently you hurry, the more indifferently meet with being late. And the more meaningful is purpose, the more cold-blooded are its tools. This is most basical of basics. The more unique and bright is shell, the more of facelessness hides essence. And the less suitable was wood, the more it's painless to see ashes. The more adopted is winds' course, the less adopted is sails' tuning." - Efim Savelyevich has drearily responded and, having stopped, gone numb again.
"The more indifferent are headsmen, the more continuous are crimes. It's also fact and rather fatal. And the more curative is stick, the more of harmfulness has carrot. Do not forget this sad truth. The more of tenderness have keys, the more of ruthlessness have notes and last ones' playing. You'll never hide yourself from this, no slightest matter, how you're trying. The more chaotical and pointless are roads, the more harmonious and artful are their sides. And the more needable is salt to mind and heart, the more indifferent and cold is flesh to wounds. But it's more easy to crack pot, than to agree to pour its water. Now slightest matter,how it's dreary, this leads exclusively in hell."
"The more controllable is sowing, the less controllable are fruits. This is main tragedy and trouble. And the more timidly looks swindler, the more of wildness have his tricks. The more worn out is earth's surface, the more unflown is sky's width. And the more cold is one, who hits, the less concerned is one, who misses. But, having parted with haystacks, you have no sense to seek for needles. This is too as evident as sad. The more of roundness at here show angles' peaks, the more severe angularity have circles. But the more acute is aim's loss, the more insistent is involvement in tools' searching. So do not suffer, don't get lost.The more chaotical and wild is storm of past, the more harmonious and neat is calm of future."
"The more cold-bloodedly you're parting with last match, the more excitedly you start to wait for fire. The more dissatisfied is one, who has been saved, the more of thankfulness shows one, who has been perished. With greater anxiousness at here we fall asleep, with higher frequentness we dream not to wake up. The bigger volume of simplicity have deeds, the deeper level of obscurity have reasons. And the more tempting and majestical is goal, the more deplorable and hard is cost of reaching. The more inactive is leaves' growing, the more intensive is their fall. The more admitable is picking, the less admitable are keys."
"The less corruptible are headsmen, the more impartial guillotines as well. But all inconfident ones tremble, and all convinced ones just rejoice. But anyway not to predict, what is awaiting - either dashingly graceful and rich or inconsolably inglorious and skimpy. The more full, amplified and thick is flock of dreams, the less significant and vast is flock of chances. The stronger is thread's length, the smaller are its beads. The taller height has ladder's rising, the less reliable are its stairs."
"But there are questions first of all to ourselves. With less responsibly we're sowing seeds of sparks, with less of interest we're reaping fruits of fire. But world indeed is much more complex, much more exotic, unpredictable and deep than pebbles' handful or flask's bulb. The more of friendliness have hooks, the more of naughtiness have fishes. The more sipped out is drinks' liquid, the more untasted is food's pulp. And the more meager are recallings, the more of lavishness has falling in forgettance. But if you can't remain in doors, you'll never cope to stuck in window. And the more dark is sand grain's plague, the flamboyant is sand's feast. This is most obstinate of facts. And the more mutual is hatred, the less responded and demandable is love. With higher neatness glass gets hold, with less concerning it gets broken."
"But risks are also rather fruitful, from time to time they're full of help. The more predictable is flight, the more infirm is grasp for air. And the more burdensome is calm, the more of weightlessness has storming. So do not think, just strive and dare. The more of sorrow is dissolved, the more of hope is left for taking. The less assuredly you climb, the more relaxedly you waver, slip and fall. But dangers really are tameless. The more indistinctly look hooks, the more voluminous are catchings. The more invisible is cage, the more serene is mood of beasts."
"The more cold-bloodedly leak arguments of dispute, the more hot-hearted is its tone. The firmer density has ground, with greater stubbornness we dig. The more disturbable is peace, the less destructible are worries. The more servile is calm of finds, the more self-willed is storm of losses. The more of weightiness has goal, the more of weightless has givenness of tools. And the more dubious is moral, the more of confidence has moralists' devotion. But still be braver, climb, strive up. The more of recklessness has rascal, the more of frightfulness have ones, who keep control."

XII
In midst of cluttering cafe - rich feast of visitors and colors. Each one is dashing, bright and vivid. Without any real reason, ghost delight is sternly reigning here and there, with utter thickness impregnating all around in all-consuming timid bliss. Day's course is languid and impassive, with drop of playfulness and fervor, but with slight mix of limpness too. Behind of windows - dance of boredom: sun's rays, street's width and copper roofs. Completely trivial and hopelessly vain picture. With no excitement and no magic, no grace or novelty and zeal. Next to ensemble of few massive marble columns, at sort of distance from the center of hall's space, between of frames with old stained glass and sooted gates of vacant fireplace's gap, Andrey Olegovich Nesvoy, who, as before, remaining lost, is stretching out feeble leisure, what once again is wholly lifeless and deadly rid of any hinting on even weakest signs of flame. He, vainly seeking for prostration, is idly crumpling edge of napkin and staring fadedness of gaze at smoothly faceless modest set of stuck at tables food consumers - in timid search for rare ones free to attract and fill with hope. And, as it happens, if you're searching, from time to time you risk to find. So, term of steady hour later, at one of few of grouped in pairs resting chairs, has shyly landed some unknown pretty lady, who almost instantly with highest scale of ease has coped to turn in hardest magnet and forced trailed hero to get up and to attempt to build acquaintance.
"I've come for you. For path to unity and warmness. To mutuality of hearts. I'd be immeasurably happy - till harshest waves of utter trembling in every single body's part."
"What do I need you for? Give answer. If you will even gladly burst with rainbow-tinted jets of gleaming from strength of happiness and bliss, I'll brought to you by my agreement, what outlandish priceless profit will I receive from this myself? Which ones of benefits I'll get? At least, most doubtful and useless."
"All you will ask for... Me... Attachment..."
"Too small, too meaningless - go out."
"Well, not all meetings end with prudence."
At this, talk's longitude was over.

XIII
Among of fussiness and chaos of freshly grown construction site - stiff restless blossoming of work: noise, clanging, beating, hammers' roaring, saws' howls and sprawling of new pits. Between of crane and excavator - three full of vigor burly loafers, two into robe and third in rags.
"I've called one whore and asked for visit, she was so glad from being used, that even almost has gone hoarse from strength of moaning - so hard and tireless was craving for being taken in all holes. I've stuffed her poor guts so deeply, that left with crater at backside hard and with not weaker torn apart slit of worn out putrid mouth."
"And I knocked out three of teeth of my ill-fated second wife. So I'm in thinking for whole day - with what of cunts to come together. For not to stay in care's lack."
"And I've gone mad at birthday party, spent whole paycheck and then successfully gained debts. For term of night I have destroyed all sets of dishes, damned bar's employees had insanity to have. I was supposing just to burn them, but drunk too much and dropped in sleep."
"Well, what to do, except of finishing of vodka and of next gathering of things and  soonest going back to home. Already midday, end of week."
"Yeah, greatly odd not to agree. If glass is full, life can't be empty, this is deathless."
"What are you staring at, dumb muzzle?" - one of the trio has aggressively jumped up and, having taken few of steps, stopped next to fearful pale young man, without reason stiffly frozen with slight bemusement on prostrated timid face.
"You haven't closed that distant sidewalk's sewage hatch — what if some person will have tragedy to fall..."
"Get out! Or we'll come and throw you. I hope, you've heeded..."
"Yes, I did... Please, just calm down. I'm already moving back and, not delaying, leaving out."
This poor fellow, by misleading of occasion, has inconsolably turned out to be no any other person, than lost in emptiness and searching Efim Dementievich Mirskikh.
He has dispassionately sighed and, numbly quickening own pace, delved into endlessness of sorrow: “What kind of world, what kind of people, what kind of century these days? How can we call all, what's around, as a life? Why does it happen, that such nits stay to exist? To breathe, to blink, to move through time, to reproduce. They have all benefits, all blisses. And I am just suffering and waiting - for warmth, for unity, for fullness, for future tireless possession with all accessible of feelings and all obtainable of states. And this distorted aimless garbage with no of meaning, no of love, no of superior intentions and no of cherished in inside - they too remain at earth with me, not going wilted and not travelling to grave. It's worst of facts mind can accept. I guess, I never will be able to rejoice here. No single minute anymore I will be satisfied or happy. All, what I'll manage to fulfill for rest of years - just to get older and to die, to waste remaining scope of chances and to dissolve in coffin's bonds - to indescribable delight of these grasped up with tightest ring, as swarm, surrounding me herods. Still how much meaningless, how broken are current days and life itself, how inexcusably imperfect. Till unrestrainable desire to climb in noose or to begin to cry and howl."
Frail vague figure, numbly vanishing in distance, with fright dispassionately deepening in fog, has slowly started to get fainter and, having gradually turned completely blurred, lost last distinguishable features and drowned in permanence of haze.

XIV
In front of lonely lifeless pier, where only murk and corpse of night, is tasting hopelessness embraced in pain's nets figure - Natalya Karpovna, who, having timidly got out of her house, is looking forward and devoting self thoughts:
“How much ridiculously empty is all, what's sent to us at here. Both days and fate, and set of aims. And routes of shares. And people's promises. And passions. And roots of causes and life's basics. And all of mysteries and secrets. And overdosing with excitement. And falling down in delight. All we are having is just dummy. Made up, false, pointless, futile. Todays, tomorrows. Years' changing. All is too purposeless, too vain. Too insufficient for better. Too inessential. Too wrong. Not to be happy, not to bloom. Not to turn needful, not to rise up till highest blisses, not to come true."
She has pathetically sighed and, having fraily turned around, without hurry trudged away.

XV
In midst of full of crowd foyer, soaked up with thirst for soon performance - feast of all miracles and joys - noise, shining, fussing, dance of shoes and swarm of necklines, waists and faces, dissolved in common sea of fervor. In air - density of ardor. In eyes - excitement, heat and zeal. Among of wasteful mirrors' abyss - clothed in new trendy black tailcoat, Andrei Olegovich Nesvoiy, who is beholding scope of others and searching someone for to date. And, as it quite frequently takes place, at one of points, right into few of shortest steps, next to small semi-arch at right, has unexpectedly arisen strange cute lady, in odd vast hat and with thick scarf.
"I'd be till trembling glad to talk, to find some mutual addictions and to devote in shy response saint dose of selflessness and warmth." - just having barely caught up, has straightly stretched exalted hero.
“Oh, how much wonderful, how lovely. Till long applause and restless scream. So endless idiots are rare. Just turn around and go out - without pauses and with highest scale of speed. Do not distract my mind from boredom. I'm not of cripples, not of you."
The hero has with tremor sighed, dropped into shiver and gone out.

XVI
Among of timid silent room, where only loneliness and evening, without hastening or fuss is tasting joyfulness of peace caught into idleness and dreams coy and prostrated female figure - Natalya Karpovna Besvetnykh, who at this loafing late hour is sharing emptiness and self. By sides - oblivion and void. In rambling mood mix of and fright, completely standard set of feeling, stiff and unchangable with time. Inside - sweet brokenness and boredom. In thoughts - frustration and distress.
"Again just loneliness and me. And no of warmth, no of adventures. Only sadness and doom. And pain's nets. Not to console, not to attain enjoyment's thickets. What to be glad with, what to call... What will amuse exhausted mind and tease extinguished tired flesh. What charms and wonders to await of. And where to hide from doom and self. From overwhelming constant worries and chains of anguish and regrets..."
She has mysteriously yawned and, having doubtfully frozen, with all sin-calling inner shiver, anticipating soon shame's heat, gone with own fingers slightly down and, having spreaded greedy hips, directing vector in lust's plenties, with trembling gently slided upwards by full of wetness tender folds, intoxicating with swift pleasure, without limits pouring in. Squall of raw wildness has rushed forward and, little later, having climbed at passion's peak, got unrestrainably resulted with stopless avalanche of moans.
"Oh, how much magical, how joyful. Like in pure paradise at sky. How truly gratifying is it - to be in harmony with self. How indescribably delightful. How madly glorious and nice." - she has with mutedness stretched out and, neatly licking drops of humidness from fingers, replaced them back and once again succumbed to bliss.

XVII
In harshly stuffed with people wagon, where only density of air, noise and taste of soot, is rushing forward in immovable encircling of samely sharing voyage others frail pensive figure, rid of expressions, zeal and strengths - Efim Dementievich Mirskikh, who, vainly traveling away of any aim, is sending self through miles of rails from one  forgotten tired lands to wholly similar another, with great attention amply clinging to gray windows, so much unnaturally large and by some reasons in same measure deadly native. Behind of glass - long lifeless vastness of landscape, meek warmth of early summer day, tart frisky spirit of wild freedom and all-consuming dreary bonds of richly blooming desolation. In soul's insides - fright and bemusement. In depths of carriage - usual fuss: mugs, swirling, mumbling, paper's rustling, laugh, bustling, puffing, songs and groans. On bench at left - team of old woman and granddaughter: they're letting gossips and discussing future boyfriends:
"Your Borka - idiot and scum. And, to worst trouble, almost beggar."
"And where to find more useful others... I'm not a queen, do not forget."
"Try, charm, steal their minds, be more bold. Do not relax, seek, gather, tempt..."
"I'd freely catch and tame them all. For to have seeds in each of hearts and to be ruling over them, as most all-mighty one of powers."
"That's how it should be, here you're right. To curb, to conquer and to break. To leave with pain and then to switch oneself on others. It's way to blossom, to seduce - to chain in shackles of devotion and to be timelessly supreme. There is a lot of needless boys. Both clumsy, arrogant and normal. Just take the richest one and play."
"Yes, I've completely lost last temper. Each one is either deadly poor or, what's not better, madly stupid."
"Lure, insist. I hope, you know, what to promise..."
"What kind of horror I behold..." - Efim Dementievich has sighed and closed himself in stupor's shield: "How is it possible to live and think like that. And to continue to be classified as human. Without fact of instant gaining of fair set of horns and hooves. How does this ugly filthy chaos not get immediately stopped, but vice versa thickly blossoms with, like burdock grown at outskirts. Has this unending stunning world indeed been sculpted for such creatures, for last ones' pitiful vile breed. As I am able to remark, neither holy sky's dome, which's above, is showing eagerness of falling at width of firmament of earth, nor planet's globe is sliding out of own axis. And if both their and mine existences are equal and put in fully common frames, then it's much righter just to die. Or, what's, I'm guessing, even better - not to be ever born at all. And not to breathe, not to come true. Not to be knowing of such madness and of its further twists and plots."
The hero has gone frowned and fainted and, having speedily got up, in utter sadness, sternly filling each soul's spot, begun to crawl to doors of exit - in pleasant emptiness of tambour, away from people and their talks and up to clattering of axles and to smooth notes of joints' song.

XVIII
In midst of sleepy depths of night, at lonely stop next to old pier - full of despair wilted figure: Maria Lvovna Ostorozhnykh, who, bathing mind in doom of thoughts, is sharing void of late walking and sipping bitterness of grief.
“Once again, as before, I am needless. And again just with sadness and self. And again no of hopes, no of pleasures. Just one new endlessly long evening and lost forgotten broken me. And again aftertaste of performance and aftersound of applause and rambling frames of crumpled learnt till pain offstage. Only roles have become slightly older and style of acting turned more dry. And I more lifeless and exhausted. And once again no drop of unity or warmth, no bliss of care and devotion. No even casual short-living vain relations. Only permanent burden of seeking and endless staying onto abysmal dead distance from all assuming bloom and heat. Damned dummy aimless popularity, so worthless, so rid of any frailest sense, from first of steps with zeal describing as great gift, as time frustratingly confirms, has smoothly turned completely fruitless and inconsolably unable to bring at least most vague closeness and fondness or even banal state of peace and freed from doubts inner balance, torn off from tears, fright and wounds. All of bright flowers that have simply just dried up and coped to left as faded shreds of barren memories from past. And I'm already far not young. And what I'm having in possession... No love, no partner, no emotions. No single moment to recall. And what's ahead... Just gloom and coffin. And no one single smallest chance on something mutual and weighty. Not to be cherished, not to blossom. Just to continue to rest purposeless and trifling, to look, to swirl, to heed to rubbish of deceptive admirations and to remain away of blissfulness of bonds. I'll get preserved not more than only as a photo - on someone's vacant dusty shelf, where into far forgotten childhood I have been called as star and dream. How deadly wrecked is show of life, how dreary, painful and frustrating. And almost ended in my case. No heavy matter, how it's scary to admit this. As no big difference and meaning, at current point of fate's route, how inexpressibly resultless, how false, mistaken, scanty, buffoonish and stupid is all, I formerly had failure to live with."
She has dispassionately sighed and, having thrown few extra gazes at lands' views, dropped into depths of numb oppression and, with indifferent limp gait, gone towards line of drowned in haziness horizon and lost in density of mist.

XIX
Along of somnolent gray street, without smallest grain of ardor and with no certainness in route, like doomed on constant timeless straying, rid of life's presence breathless ghost, is fraily trudging lost in painfulness and thoughts, torn off from tirelessly stubborn, but, to immeasurable grief, just right as always, still entirely resultless repeating tries to fall asleep devoting self to bonds of void puzzled figure - Andrei Olegovich Nesvoy, who, having secretly left home, is once again researching quarters and vainly bathing wasted self in mix of murk and desolation.
"No of bliss, no fun, no of pleasures. No of purposes, passions or hopes. Just one unending fruitless seeking and taste of bitterness and anguish, enshrouding me since being born. Where are accomplishments and gainings, where are attainments, heights and trophies... What of acquirements and findings have I turned able to extract? Not too much, if to look from today. Just devastation and regrets. And sadly useless trace of years. Without chances, joys or sense. Days last, roll, pass and rush away. Get lost and shallowed. Burn. Disperse. And I again remain forgotten. And drowned in emptiness and pain. With only memory and sorrows. And stay I here till end of time, I'll still be equally unneeded and inly broken and destroyed. There are no places, which await me. No tools and instruments, that possibly could help. I guess, my share has been cursed just from its start. But still too vexing, that in distant early youth I did not cope to buy those talismans - worst failure. Who knows, but maybe they indeed were sort of magic and bringing luck or fate's protection. Now it's indifferent already. But still offensive to admit, that not not with me they've passed through years...”
The hero has infirmly sighed and, having finally despaired, in tart downtroddening confusion with shaky stepping moved away.

XX
And again silent colorless room, and again three of pale wistful faces  - Makar Yegorovich Stepnoy and Pavel Frantsevich Poteshny, and slightly further, in armchair- Yefim Savelyevich Podlunnyi. Of course, again for conversation, for taste of sense and for new thoughts.
"What is behind of being's monster? What rules above of all exist? Because no shade of any secret, that even reasons should have reasons, and so it's seemingly in all. But, even knowing of all tricks, you're neither able to cut nets, nor free to find and mortify your catcher. This is as true as dark and sad. The more flamboyantly lasts sowing, the more of torpidness have reaping. The greater height has edge, the wider gap has abyss. No slightest matter, how exactly here you roll, you can't reject this, cannot break. The more reliably you are hidden, the more persistent will search."
"The more exhausted is slaves looking, the better tone has master's mood. The less of distinctness has sounding of stick, the higher tartness have attempts of carrot's grabbing. But the more guilty here is head, the more of innocence had guillotine's construction. The more it's hard to live with desert, the more it's soothing and serene to die with water. No smallest matter, how intensively you bloom, at end you'll wither just like others. And even easier and faster. And all, what's named at here as justice, is either abysmal deception, or rid of measure empty farce. Or even mockery and ticket to annoyance. And the more personal is win, the more collective are its prizes. In this no vanishingly empty ones of doubts. And, the more easy it's for you to live as thread, the more it's heavy to exist as last one's skein. The longer time lasts term of storm, the less informed is each of sailors of durability of boats. It's much more easy to collapse whole world itself, then to turn able to predict,what things are coming. The more indifferent is writing of text's length, the more of abruptness has point of its ending. The less its happy to ascend, the more it's cheerful to fall down. The more devalued are words, the more of pricelessness has silence."
"The more of wastefulness have memory's expances, the more of meagerness has shallow of forgettance. But spots for hope still keep to stay. The more indistinct is reality of roads, the more of picturesqueness hides in last ones' sides. It's not so evident, but true. The more of longness has route's path, the more of speediness has gait. Do not forget of this plain fact. The more unbearable are stakes, the more it's fun to go all-in. The more unchangable is food, the more updatable are spices."
"The more chaotical is hammer, the more of gracefulness have cracks. This is familiar till horror. The more of nakedness has shining of game's prizes, the more secretness has gloom of last ones' rules. The more insistently life calls, the more directly it drives out."
Here, after switching theme on mortal, they've meekly fallen in long pause, term of which after, conversation was continued:
"I will present you with something rare. As proof of mightiness of fate." - Efim Savelyevich has stood and, having clumsily unfolded paper bundle, grasped it with palms and slowly put at table's width: "Here you can see three ones of talismans. Quite equal. With bird, with fish and last with trident. So what unites them - who will guess? All their obtainers were of similar life's voyage - first one unknown local poet, with simple surname as Mirskikh, I believe. He has been hit by sudden tram - by too excessive scale of hurry. Right till immediate swift death. The second one - from poor neck of self-hung woman, her trickless surname is Besvetnykh, if I'm fair. She has been lonely for long period of presence, so, world apparently turned hateful and she has finally decided just to leave. And third is also not more happy - from one retired olden actress, who rather hastily drunk out till soon death, her hopeless surname Ostorozhnykh. She, after finishing at stage, by some of reasons, hasn't coped to find oneself, so has departed to sky's bonds from walls of shelter, with no of visitors and only bread's leftovers from all accessible of foods. So try to verify - what sort of doom it was..."
"I'd take them all and throw away. For not to spoil other shares." - Makar Yegorovich has shakily got up and, having frozen for a while, sat once again and delved in gloom.
Efim Savelyevich has yawned and then perplexedly responded: "That's proper deed. But even melt you them few thousands of times, you'll never manage to throw out what was entrusted from above for to be realized in share. And is this needable at all..."


AFTERWORD:
At lonely emptiness of sunk in heavy snows, completely desolate in time of winter's frosts ramshackle waterless dry fountain - rid of life's sings prostrated figure: Andrei Olegovich Nesvoiy, who is already fully fainted and, to rest sorrow, sadly old. In his frustrated lifeless eyes - tart painful mix of grief and illness. In rags of thoughts - storm of regrets. And no desires, no ideas. Just total brokenness and doom. And even pain is not as fresh as at past years. He's wholly powerless and silent. He is beholding world around and keeping steadiness and fright. Soon at some point his look suddenly shows panic and numbly dropped in most unthinkable of stupors - in midst of frozen mortal wasteland of chained in chill and torpor snows, right into center of the fountain - set of three talismans - with trident, fish and bird - exactly same as into distant early youth, when they were tragically missed.
"Eh, someone else has coped to spend fate's route as happy. Three ones of others' human lifes, as I am able to observe. Bet, wholly glorious and fruitful. And, by some reasons, all are here. What a mad mystery indeed. And me - unneeded, lost, forgotten. Till tears worthless, vain and cracked. But, maybe, even at today my humble time is still not wasted and I can simply slightly stretch ahead and take at once both them and luck. Looks rather feasible - let's try..." - the hero, having inly blossomed with almost instantly grown hope, has neatly bent and made few desperate attempts to grab and pick for bigger part of share's term so much wholeheartedly and flamingly demanded, since out flabbiest of traces dimmed, hazed and faded youngest days proclaimed as treasure sacred trinkets, but, even after hour's half of sturdy pointless persistence, was once again, right as at starting of life's route, to utter pain, left with no single drop of progress.
"Eh, as before, not mine is fortune. And none of talismans are mine. Still not a fate for me to get them. Like then in past still not a fate..."