Not to be opened till best days

I
In flaccid bonds of dim and muted dormant abyss of sunk in languor timid room, is slowly spending rid of purpose, full of oblivion day's term lost into thoughtfulness and doom, constrained by fright and anguish lady: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, vainly looking at faint nudity of walls, is bathing mind in dreams and sadness.
Time's pace, as well as state of mood, is frail, pathetic and exhausted. Soul is frustrated and confused. No news, no taste of expectations, no bloom or zestfulness and flame. Just steady tiresome oppression and curse of boredom and distress. All is immeasurably dreary and torn from any sing of joy. No inspiration, no amusements, no hope on better turns of plots.
"Once again no of bliss, no of passion. Just static barrenness and pain. Nets of forgottenness and fading and overwhelmingness of fuss. And not to break it, not to lessen, not to drive off from gap of fate. It's even odd to try or faith - there are no winds for absent sails. What to attempt, what to await of... What to extract from void's prison, what to assign as share's meaning and to endow with highest weight, if all I'm living in is aimless. Distorted, pointless and dead. Both entertainments and researchings, smart twisted words and silly primitive beliefs. No of world's plenties are enough. No of existing fruits and values. It's rather scary to conclude, but which of reasons do we have here for to continue to keep strivings and to remain to stay alive... No of indeed reliably evident and firm, if to be absolutely honest. For what, who'll clarify, of whims does rage and boil people's being and rise and broaden earthly stage? If all is frighteningly shaky, short-living, hesitant and frail. All of attainments, tricks and cares, of habits, weaknesses and strengths and prospects, changings and improvements. No ones of stairs lead to main, no of abilities gift rescue. Just plunge in dumminess and trifles and leave incurably behind. Eh, world, rave, fogginess and me. Lost, empty, alien and lonely. Like last occasional sun's ray at width of darkening sky's tent...”
She has emotionlessly sighed and, having finally decided to try to give time's wasting up, stood up, got dressed and walked away.

II
In slightly gloomy, faded chambers of rid of passion faceless room — completely featureless pale figure: Lev Alexandrovich Bezvestny, without slightest signs life and with no hopes on better prospects, lost into mourning life's beholder.
“Again day's peak. Sun in frame's abyss. And in inside dead flock of pains. No frailest matter, what you do. All is immeasurably aimless. To try, to hurry, to strive up... What for, if everything is useless. What will get changed, what will turn better. No ones of outcomes and deeds. What'll get transformed in fair miracle and marvel and will turn able to bring unity with biss. All is too meaningless, too wrong. And no of outlets, no rescue. Just pain and void. And doom's nets."
The hero has with weakness sighed and, having fallen into apathy and anguish, got up and taken path to house, where live his timelessly old friend - Kirill Arkhipovich Predsmertny, same hopeless pessimist in all.
So, having mutually greeted and sat in front of table's width, they've drunk few cups of foreign tea and delved in abysses of talking:
"How madly dubious is all - both world and time, and course of plots. How unforgivably inconstant, how vague, hesitant and wrong..."
"This is main essence of surrounding us fuss - to bring bemusement, to tease mind and to remain with pain and nothing. But even this, in spite of endlessness of risks, can rather calmly be for better. The more unsteady are events, the more unbridled are decisions. This leprous bitter fact is deathless. The more of breathlessness has night, the more of brightness has eyes' shining. And the more banal is route's course, the more exciting is sides' gap. But in dark times it's even key - both to hopes' gaining and to peace. The more of lifelessness has silence, the more vividness and zeal has thirst for sounds."
"The more chaotical and wild are lightning's flashings, the more pathetic is rain's noise. And the less benefits brings neck, the bigger fruitfulness and help brings noose's using. But scope of chances to get soothen is frustrating. The more it's easy to rise penny, the less it's difficult to drop few ones of dollars. And not to change it, not to cut. Here this is rooted right till stroma. The more forgotten are lost ships, the more of memories belong to found wreckage."
"This is as grievous as timeless. The more short-living are your earnings, the more long-living are your debts. And the more easy it's to split, the more it's hard to reassemble. And the more fleeing are attempts, the more undying are mistakings. And the more nicely world amazes, the more cold-bloodedly and stiffly it oppresses. But the more ragingly blows wind, the more exaltedly reign ribbons. The weaker you feel heights, the sharper you feel wings."
"The greater density had skin, the neater tenderness have needles. This is immeasurably true. And the more short is set of blisses, the more rich, plentiful and vast is set of torments. But even hunger have own eaters. And the more frightening it is to play with fire, the more it's fine to play with arsonist, it's fact. The more unprincipled is show, the more delighted are its viewers.”
“The more sharp, harsh and straight is uselessness of games, the more untamable and firm is zeal for bets. And the more sticky is each goal, the more of slickiness, as rule, have last one's tools. The shorter are your jumps, the longer are your falls. And the more easy it's to find required strengths, the less it's real to apply them. The more of harmlessness have notes, the harder injuries have strings. But the moris;tough is grip of frost, the more of grace has blizzard's glitter. The more chaotical are spiders, the more of neatness has their web."
"The thinner is your roof, the sweeter are rain's noises. This is as doubtless as nice. But, having learned which way to live without songs, there is mad risk of being left without strings. And the more graceful are waves' peaks, the more of facelessness have wrecks. The more entrustable is struggle, the more extractable is win. And the more colorless is circle, the of motleyness and vividness has corner. The more rejectable are prizes, the more preservable is fight for being glad with last ones' absence."
"The more of uselessness have trees, the more of usefulness have axes. The less remarkable is flight, the more indifferent is falling. And the more nicely you'll be drawn, the more disgustingly they'll manage to erase you. The more smooth style has pace of wheels, the more persistent, wild and deft is flock of sticks. This dreary principle is deathless. With higher skill lock was repaired, with not less skill is broken key. The more serene is width of surface, the more of deadliness has bottom. But the more hotly tavern burns, the more of cheerfulness has ringing of its dishes. This is how crazy here we live."
"I rather easily could tell all this myself - if at some point would get suddenly infected with mix of optimism and craving for all insober and insane. The more chaotical is circling of flakes' waltz, the more harmonious and smooth are drifts of snow. With such of sentences in frames of current days you'll never manage to inspire even madmen - if they, at least on any single trifling drop, have been informed of what is share, world and living. But the more dangerous is head, the more bemused and shocked is headsman. So, not entirely in vain it - to bath in hopes and to take risks. The less of prolific and profuse is being's soil, the more fertile are seeds of dreams. But this is also not what's provenly reliable and stably guaranteed in all of plots and twists. And the less glorious it is to live as rule, the more painful to exist as its exception. And not to hide from doom and grief. The more of haziness have heights, the less of fervor has ascending. And not to bloom, if all is barren and futile. Both empty goals and useless tools, and hollow farce of all, what's taking place around. And the more elegant is shell, the more of filthiness has essence. The more alluringly look leafage, the less attractively taste fruits."
"The greater depth has swamp of secrets, the smaller sense have sparks of learning. Life can't be different, can't pass in other manner. The more harmonious is engine, the more chaotic and its breaks. And the more faithfully life saves us, the more improperly spends next. With higher gradualness lasts acceleration, with harsher abruptness comes act of slowing down. And not to rescue from this doom. The more of ardor has excitement, the more cold-blooded, stiff and rough will containing of adventures. But the more pointless is feast, the more essential and weighty is next plague. In that hopeless is all the pain. But, the essence of the feast of empty-headed people, the more expressive the act of plague. In this no thimbleful of tiniest exceptions, no slightest matter how intensively you'll seek - with even bright as few suns lantern and huge as hula hoop's ring magnifying glass. And the more decently and neatly is made stick, the more of rottenness has carrot."
"The prouder are mills, the terribler is flour. And the more large is sail of purpose, the more of breathlessness and fright have winds of tools. The more majestical are winnings, the more of ugliness have fails. It's more attached to current days, than burr to sarafan of chintz. The more of breathlessness has bait, the more of gildedness has hook. And, the more broken is your compass, the more switched off are beacons too. The more correctable are flaws, the more abundant is their volume. And, the more generous and muddy are lie's waters, the more dissolvable in them is salt of truth. This is too obstinate, too steady. And the more graceful is mind's flesh, the sharper claws have beast of madness."
"The more of hopelessness have consequences' burden, the more indifferent are roots of last ones' cause. And the more plentiful are secrets, the less significant are chances to reveal. The more of scantiness has fullness, the more of ampliness has lack. This is frustratingly undying. But, the more simple are game's rules, the more indifferent is fortune. Without the constancy of risks, the world will immediately wilt. So strive and dare, climb, persist. The more of fruitfulness has protest, the more it's harmful to obey. Do not forget of this plain truth. And do not grieve of fightness' absence, of constant shakiness and fog. The more of guarantees we have to turn immortal, the less we try to cling for life."
"The more sold out is excitement, the more unstoppable are offers of buying anguish and regrets. And the more sad it is to live without hat, the more convenient it is not to have head. But still don't hurry to give up - try, rush, strive forward and keep sternness. The more missed out is your catch, the more intact remains your bait. But the more dry are logs of wood, the harder dampness show your matches. You cannot argue with this either. The higher volume of simplicity has cover, the greater trickiness hides in. And the more proper trees get burned, the more disgusting find preserving. The more elusive is excitement, the more of stickiness has pain. And the more sad it's to build towers, the more it's fun to break them off. And not to part with grief and anguish, not to depart from sorrow's bonds. The less of acuteness has needle, the longer time lasts piercing act. And the more faithfully you're running to light's gleaming, the more of shadows you remark. All what we have is either painfulness or madness. And the more vast and strong is sail, the more fragile is whole rest boat. With we'll live till death of world. The more forgotten get your scalds, the more intensified turns memory of fire."
"The more unknown is upcoming of next storm, the more insistent, firm and frank is faith in calm. Here I entirely agree. But, what's the saddest in life's learning, the more of things you understand, the more severe is your anguish."
Here, having ended length of speech, they've rather speedily got parted - till next of meetings, news and pains.

III
Behind of thin transparent curtain in inner space of deftly hidden private room next to  most distant of four walls of quite huge solemn restaurant's hall, is tasting loneliness and food meek drowned in fright and thinking lady - Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, having parted with home's abyss, is vainly waiting for right point for acquaintance and bathing self in boredom's depths. By muted sides - feast of banality and fuss: few rare faces and smooth timid dishes' noise. All is as static as futile. No of excitement or delight - just passive steadiness of peace and calm insipidness of languor. Soon close fireplace has sat unknown friendly youth in wide-brimmed hat and with prostratedness at face. Not womanizer, not Apollo. But still enough for to perplex. So, having instantly decided to approach, Marina Pavlovna has aimfully stood up and, having beaten usual fear, walked straightly up and slowly landed at free chair next to fellow:
"I'd like to offer you... Not something, but myself."
"Fine hint, as pitiful as useless. What's more improper, weird and clumsy, than view of scarecrow of you. As if you're talisman for hooking of luck's absence."
"Great time to ending of your leisure... Most rich and plentiful of wishes - for every chapter of next life." - the heroine has dolefully sighed and, having modestly gone back, collected things and went away:
"How madly broken, wrong and filthy is current givenness of world. How much inglorious and ugly. Hard to describe how deeply spoiled is existence...”
She has upspeeded pace of gait and, having bashfully dissolved, lost into featureless numb thickets of filled with pain and sadness fog.

IV
In midst of pain-absorbing abyss of lonely desolate streets' net, is stretching terribly vain voyage lost into thoughts and sorrow figure - Kirill Arkhipovich Predsmertny, who from excess of inner torments has left home's prison and replaced oneself to lands. By faded sides, freed from life's presence - tart restless fullness of distress: mist, void, facelessness and silence. Right till horizon and not less. Day's time is idle, shy and sluggish. Lethargic, somnolent and smooth. Mood's tuning, copying what's around, is also close to state of corpse.
"How deadly wrong and sick is being. How sadly pointless and flawed. What is indeed completely fair, what is not dummy and not faked? All of affairs, strives and spheres are wholly hollow, false and vain. Both dreams, requests, demands and passions. Bets on upcoming and plans' lengths. All is too banal, too deceptive. Dark, hazed, chaotic and uncertain as flown and melted distant past. But all is different for every one of fates. Take even air - is it actually common? Is it indeed reliably same? One breathes with happy chest, one other - with frustrated. One with hope and with faith, one - with pain and despair. And paths are also not the same. And scale of luck and of fruits' prudence. And not to shake this, not to beat. Just to accept as other horror. To keep to suffer as all others and to to dissolve as them at end. Perfect game, perfect rules, perfect future. Best, guess, to die right here and now..."
The hero has with silence sighed and, having slowly turned around, delved into pessimism and let walk's route to home.

V
Next to post office, into yard at parcels' sorting, in shade of flimsy summer roof - lean, bleak and rid of features figure - Lev Aleksandrovich Bezvestny, completely smashed by weight of thoughts and all-consumingly extinguished, like broken lantern in murk's nets. He, idly wandering through town, again is bathing in regrets and feeding soul with pain and sorrow - from fallen givenness of living with chances' shortness and defenselessness of dreams.
"What kind of world do we exist in... What kind of being, time and fate. Like into genuinest hell. With no of slightest consolations and no of causes to rejoice. With nothing meaningful and worthy. What ones of currencies, who'll answer, were ever buying any happiness or sense? For whole unendingly long term of past scholastic human presence was talking place, at least, one single proven case of not in vain burnt out share... Was anyone indeed indisputably loved and frankly doubtlessly needed - not as a victim or a trophy, but as a reason to exist. Was ever written any fate, which from beginning and till end was neither alien, nor useless - for even minute of own length. Or will it - tons of years later or right at finishing of times. Will it turn possible one day to be both fully understood and incorruptibly demanded, torn off from dirtiness and falsehood and clothed in wrapping of prosperity and sense. Here, if to pay attentive look, are getting sorted not much less than few of hundreds of fresh parcels. Does any one of all of them hide something purposeful and sacred? At least, in smallest of degrees. Do heaps of letters carry particles of meaning? No each of them, but maybe some most aimful one... What's real value of all promises and meetings. Of never ending separations and daily teeming swarms of fates. It would be stunningly surprising, if it would really be true...”
The hero has with sadness yawned and, having gazed in depths of distance, dropped into further dose of thoughts till some upcomed next random point, when he has swiftly turned around and dragged oneself in bonds of home.

VI
In midst of local exhibition, among of lots of massive vases and tons of other not more useful less remarkable porcelain trash - storm of persistent reckless fury: rows of delighted fussy crowd, waltz of tart motleyness and mix of voices, hum and laugh. All wholly standard, smooth and calm - till each most pointless of trifles. Just usual scurrying, nothing else. In front of largest one of racks, what's not excessively surprising, is huddling biggest scope of guests. Each one is zestfully assertive, insistent, brazen, deft and brisk. Among of flock of dashing others, like the rest of the zealous, like spring of water into barrenness of desert - meek and laconic wistful figure: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, shyly passing through all surrounding disorder, is contemplating its wild madness, with dolor yawning, pouring sadness in soul's void and keeping state of silence, passiveness and fright. In her frustrating dreary thoughts - thick sticky tartness of oppression, in heart - distress and devastation. No hopes, no impulses, no ardor. Just doom, upsetness and detachment.
"What are you staring at, dumbheader? Are you just baiting me to smash your stupid muzzle? With that huge heavy marble vase, for most enjoyable example. Run out. Or to hit you first?" - one of the ladies at the ending part of queue has sharply shouted at pensive youth in front, with vigor apting in his skull with leather hull of trinkets' bag.
"What kind of agony we live in? What kind of utter ruthless horror?!" - Marina Pavlovna has sighed and, having dropped her vague gaze, not being willing to remain, with no of hesitance, stepped out: "Ones are awaiting, searching, calling, so madly wanting to come true at once as someone's prize and slave, with zeal desiring to surrender, to throw oneself in stove of love. And to devote till last of spots. And here she even can't allow to be observed. And even threaten to hit face. And I'm alone. I try, seek, beg. But no one takes me, no one wants."
She has dispassionately frozen and, having gradually kept unsteady walking, got lost in abyss of streets longness, in fog, prostratedness and gloom.

VII
In midst of lonely sleepy room with vase of flowers onto table - frail and frustrated female figure: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, sharing passiveness of peace, is drinking anguish and regretting.
"Once again I'm alone. Once again, as before, in despair. With length of time and with myself..." - she has indifferently sighed and, having shyly stopped at table, moved up to flowers and forgetfully got frozen: three bright red roses, full of color and fresh aroma in its thickest peak of bloom, with utter tartness, flame and passion consumed in tenderness and bliss. To inhale. To exhale. To hold in. She has got plunged in state of stupor and then, returning back to self, walked up and, having fiddled at her wardrobe, brought out heavy motley box and put on vacant width of chair and, having landed next oneself, dropped into ampliness of thoughts.
Here it makes sense to make report, that on the box, right on its top, was taking place small modest texting: "Not to be opened till best days." In bongs of box, time after time, her not completely hopeless nature was letting different cute trinkets - those, which, according to soul's plans, were having aim of turning useful at better period of life. And now, after dose of looking, she's also ended at decision to transfer flowers in herbarium in future and, having dried them till such state, to put in box to wait for future and to remain then of today. Soon, having caught oneself at thirst for to read something deep and timeless, her pensive silhouette has once again got up and, having picked small tome of poetry from shelf, delved into wistfulness of lines:
“Next to port's pier, at width of small old square
Are meekly gathering first passengers of ship
Long copper pipes, supporting last ones' shares
Are sadly sounding before of start of trip

At crowd's faces - silence, doom and tears
Thick wistful yearning - outcome of thoughts
Ones, who're at deck, beholding standers near
Are gladly wavering with hands from windows' spots

Ones are in longing, ones - in grief and fright
Each with some personal awaitings and intentions
In spite of fact how much uniting at this time
Are port, ship, anchor and next travelling direction

But not to play at once at all of pipes
And not to hide all people's tears in one cloth
Not all of words will be appropriate to fly
Not all of sailers will be met by someone close

And stage of world will stay, believe, the same
With pipes, with tears and repeatedness of journeys
With equal visitors of further endless sails
And equal tension of awaiters of returning"
"How much profound, deep and weighty. As none of other words and themes. After all, someone also is able - to feel this world not less than me. Someone also indeed is alive. I'm not alone in being's abyss. Not fully lost. If only something will bring up such fates together... For not to miss each other's presence. Not to get vanished for in vain.”
She has stood up and, having breathed with fumes of flowers, put on silk shawl and, having taken bag and keys, closed door and let oneself in streets.

VIII
In lonely fadedness of room, two full of dolor pensive faces - Lev Alexandrovich in chair, Kirill Arkhipovich - at stool.
"What's wrong with being and days' going? If all we have - just grief and doom. What does explain all facts and turnings and crowns reality itself, preserving hiddenness and silence, but being mighty over all..." - Lev Alexandrovich has sighed and, slightly shivering, got frozen.
"It's hardly possible to answer. And not so useful, I suppose. All is too flickering, too dummy. The more dependently acts thimble, the more untamable is needle. And the more careless is cover, the more frustrating is what's wrapped. But even this can help and soothen. The more of lifelessness has desert, the more serene is water's taste. The lower painfulness brings wrongness, the less you're trying to be right. But the more eatenly looks carrot, the more worn out is its stick. The higher stakes get bet on fire, the smaller tears get devoted to its ash. But maybe this is also joy - not to distinguish feast and plague. The darker is sky's abyss, the brighter are birds' wings. This is as fair, as supportive. The more of ugliness have rules, the more of grace has their forbidding. But the more short is path to notes, the more remoted is keys' presence. This is main tragedy, main curse. And the more lenient are rules, the more of rigorness has game's going."
"The more defenseless is glass' surface, the less of guilt has one who cracks. This is as old as world itself. But still not much is to have hopes for. The more serene is view of master, the higher tension has slave's leash. What's fun - sometimes it's even helpful. The more impassable is darkness, the more swift ripening has flame. The lower price have horse's shoes, the more sincere is their clanging."
"What isn't sown will never rise, what isn't trampled will not wither. Do not forget of simplest this. And do not fall for tricks of being. The less remarkable are shackles, with lower zeal you try to free. The less perceptible is tenderness of words, the more perceptible is heaviness of pauses. And the more hard it's to get warmed, the more it's plain to get burnt out. But this is maybe even fine. The more of emptiness have pockets, the less of interest have thieves."
"The more reliably you feel stick, the more reliably you're believing into carrot. The more of grace has mirrors' shining, the more it's easy to hide facelessness of mug. But the more difficult it is to drive off fire, the more it's simple to get rid of each of warmed. And the more sad it's to ascend, the more it's funny to fall down. The more unsuitable and worn is raft of peace, the more beautiness and grace has storm of worries."
"The more experienced is shooter, the less predictably he fails. Sometimes it's really quite fair. But the more trodden, stepped and worn is path to fear, the more it's easy to start trample path into horror and deadlock. And the more sown are seeds of buds, the more reaped out are thorns' fruits. It's less forbiddable of laws. The more exalted are your thoughts, the more severe are your doubts. And the more plentiful is film, the shorter time here it gets shown. The more of ampliness have dreams, the less of firmness has their living. But still strive forward and believe. The more predictable is fading, the more of pricelessness has bloom."
"The less explainably dies sound, the more of selflessness it leaves. But this is fair just for dreamings. And the more straight is path to problems, the more of twistedness has path to their solutions. The more of strength has faith in chance, the less of weight has faith in reason. And the more valuable is nail, which was extracted, the more disgusting is the one, which has got stuck. This is as fair, as oppressive. Till howls like wind's ones at North Pole. With higher sacredness you're holding length of candle, the more cold-heartedly it burns."
"The more less predictable are jumps, the more exciting is their greatness. But do not part with zeal to hope. And drive away all what is needless. It's still much easier to part at state of fly, than to have problems with next elephant's departing. Without knowledge of this truth, there is mad risk to waste entire life on falsehood. Do not forget of simple fact - the more of nastiness has taste of tar of meetings, the more of daintiness has taste of partings honey."

IX
In midst of featureless gray abyss of rid of passion lonely streets, is taking place bright frisky rabble of school's meeting - both students, parents, teachers, viewers and even wordish fat-faced man from highest government of city, because indeed what sort of study can be without of authorities' worshipping. Each one is bottomlessly cheerful, fresh and sunk out in excitement. On holes of faces - swarm of smiles, in words of speechings - rave and boasting.
"And now, to make you even gladder, let's launch balloons in depths of sky - in your upcoming better future!" - has said some person to the kids and they rushed up with zeal and shouts.
"What an incredible deception. What a damned mockery and farce." - Kirill Arkhipovich Predsmertny, who, to unluckiness of self, was standing next to crowd's placement, where he has stopped while act of walk: "After all, who of them will be happy? At least, one single rare soul. Who will find love and cause to bloom. Who'll be not wasted, burnt and rotten, but truly needed and embraced in sense and grace. I don't believe, that it can really turn so."
Kirill Arkhipovich has sighed, glanced once again at rage of action and, having delved in pain and doom, trudged into fogginess of distance - away from dumminess and self.

X
In midst of tiresome impenetrable thickets of rid of ardor empty streets, where only endlessness of fog and lands' prostration, in utter measure having fallen into pain, is trampling sidewalk pale numb figure - Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, having lost oneself in sadness, is walking out through of city and sipping dreariness and doom.
“What kind of living we exist in... With no attainments and no bliss. With only constant stopless waiting and with no causes to rejoice. With no encouragement. No guarantees. No fire. As if I long ago am corpsed. I'm here. And happiness is somewhere. And not to find it, not to take. Not to extract from common void. Not to acquire. Not to tame. Not to mold up from flesh of time. Just to remain, as always, needless and to get vanished at life's end. How deadly hopeless it's, how scary. But I still try, persist, await... But, like in past, just days and years nothing happens. I'm simply keeping to get older and slowly fading with soul's gap. And once again remain unneeded. And, as before, consume one pain."

XI
In midst of crowded tram stop - swarm of awaiters for next wagon: mugs, bodies, all of human forms - hunchbacked and angular, and bald, petty, quarrelsome, useless, strong just in one - in own huge number, just like ants. Soon, puffing, rattling and erupting scary noises, is rising swollen hull of tram. All are beginning to rush forward. Next to back doors, two ones of figures at certain point starting out certain fight - bald old low man with cane and bag and skinny youth man in hat and glasses. The last one, having swiftly lost, with howling clutching for own chest, is crawling out, spiting blood and deeply shaking.
The old man gradually climbing into carriage: "Come on, get up! I nee my seat! Quicker, quicker, damn shit, let me land."
All set of people have perplexedly stood up.
Among of them, who've rushed the first - Lev Alexandrovich Bezvestny, the most shocked from he had to observe: "What a reality. What sort of time and being. If you'll get suddenly prostrated - they will kill you. If you'll get awkwardly distracted - tear apart. Just shy and tremble. Shy and tremble. Otherwise death and shame. What a sick rubbing we exist in. Are this nits humans? Hard to faith."
The hero has moved slightly forward towards doors and, having quickly jumped away, in fright run out - away from people and their illness and up to streets and to soon night, which had already slowly started to lay down with smooth wrapping above of sleepiness of faceless languid lands.

XII
Among of walls of small dark room, in stealthy manner having hidden self from others, is coyly sitting slightly sleepy lonely figure - Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, having fallen into bliss of evening dusk, is meekly resting, amply savoring time's passing and drowning self in bonds of peace. All is calm, idle, smooth and remoted. No ones of strivings, thoughts or worries. Just soft desire to get decently forgotten and to receive own dose of shamefulness and thrilling.
"Again in loneliness, in void. And no one near for to satisfy and soothe. How much it's absurd, how unfair. Straight right till tears and not less..."
Marina Pavlovna has sighed and, slowly lowering her fingers close to bosom, at first, for moment having fearfully distracted, without waiting spreaded hips and jumped in storminess of heat, involuntarily with trembling suffocating and gladly choking on sharp avalanche of joy. And now, just having reached main peak and even having coped to stretch it for few minutes, she, having grabbed self from behind and with no hesitance, as bullet, rushed with tart fullness through of spectrum of all pleasures, gone limp and fallen into pause.
"Oh, how much wonderful, how awesome. As in best possible of worlds. What a great miracle is body, what an immeasurably priceless magic gift..."
She has playfully smilingly yawned and, having neatly licked own fingers, without blushing over face, not wasting time, returned them back.

XIII
And once again meek conversation, and once again two last one's slaves - Lev Alexandrovich at wall, Kirill Arkhipovich at windows.
“What does build up today's existence? Not too a lot, if to be frank. Just doom and dreariness, disorder. All-mighty, bottomless and stern. World is just morbid, sick, unhealthy. In spite of progress and inventions. And all another heights and fruits. And the less glorious is film, the more delighted are its viewers. And not to live as firewood in lands, with fashion to praise ashes. The less respectable is work, the more respectable is wornness. The more approvable is picking, the less approvable are keys. And the more wishable is stick, the more rejectable is carrot. Here it's exclusively like that. And the more dubious are words, the more convincing is their talker. But the more foggy are life's beacons, the more invisible are rocks. The more chaotical is brush, the more holistical is portrait. And the more randomly you flaming has been lit, the more spontaneous is risk to be extinguished. This is most tirelessly true. The more disgustingly looks bait, the higher ampliness have catchings. This is the way here we exist."
"If you desire to believe, no ones of facts will ever stop you. And hopings' soil is as plural as birds' sizing. The more attentively is getting held your coffin, the more inspiredly gets frozen there your corpse. All things depend on viewing point. And the more fine is life in chaos, the more indifferent is coincidences' lack. But pain indeed is all-consuming. And the more close is bottom's surface, the more it's vain to study waves. But, to be fair, this is also not so fatal. The less of power have your wings, the more of strength has thirst for flying. The only actually needed is plausibility of sky. But the more vain are playing's rules, the less of usefulness have prizes. And the more fervently last routes, the more resultlessly they end."
"The less employed at here is carrot, the more of tiredness gets stick. And the less arsonist is punished, the more immeasurably blamed instead is one, who've come to rescue and extinguish. Here it's exclusively like that. But the more merciful are traps, the more of heartlessness have beasts. The more of lifelessness have strings, the more gracefulness has playing. And the less needable is fire, the more demandable is flood."
"With lower passion you are burning, with higher passion you are permitting self to fade. And the more aimlessly strings waver, by vainer reasons they get torn. But, if you have no meets with mousetrap's construction, you can't conclude of price of cheese. This is as basical as world. And the more changeable is balance, the more immovable is chaos, this is fact.. The swifter pace has storm of sorrows, the more of breathlessness and fright has calm of hopes. You're looking, waiting, striving forward. Convince own mind, that life has sense. But the more loud people cry from lack of oars, the less they grieve from oarsmen' deaths. And the less weightiness has head, more of weightiness has guillotine's implying. The less of coziness has ship, the more of coziness has bottom. And the more pointless are problems, the less of meaning has attainment of solutions. And the more speedily you bloom, with sadder earliness you wither. This is as tireless as sick. And the more pleasantly looks fruit, the more of niceness and attractiveness have worms. It's too unbeatable, too stiff. And the more groundless is feast, the more explainable plague. And not to blossom, not to soar. The more habitual are keys, the more indistinct is doors' looking. But the more worn is fur of brush, the more of triedness has canvas. And the more apt are compass' settings, the more of ramblingness has route. But ones, who're burnt, can leave at least some dose of ash, but last ones' burners - just pure nothing. This is enough for to keep hope."
"Here I entirely agree. In strongest possible of manners. But, what's not hidden into seeds, will never cope to rise in harvest. And the more colorful is feast, the more of haze have eyes of viewers. The more of sturdiness has safe, the more defenseless is its password. The of distinctness has sign, the more closed out is receiver. But it's quite hard to boast with hat without head. This is main point of all given. The more invisibly and modestly looks hedgehog, the more it's acute, then touch. But the more careless is play, the more indifferent are viewers. And no one's guilt, that world is mad. The more nice form have text without of own words, the more disgusting it's without of own pauses. This is reality of days. All is too fruitless, too imperfect. And the more complex is original beginnin, the more simplicity has way it gets fulfilled. And the more washable is face, the less removable are paints of its makeup. This is the only course of facts. And the more cheap is ship itself, the higher price have last one's holes. But still do not refuse from hopes - at least most pointless and vague. The more corruptible are lumberjacks themselves, the less corruptible are axes."
Here, having spent last scopes of ardor, they've said goodbyeings and got gradually parted.

XIV
Inside of lonely lovely day, in bonds of wasteful empty park, is blooming restlessness of calmness. No usual walkers, no vain fuss. Just soothing peacefulness and mist. Right into midst of this shy picture, just like nail's length in coffin deck - frail thoughtful figure: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, already painfully not young and stiffly rid of last excitement. From all emotions - devastation and perplexion. And no of plannings or delight. Or even shortest inspirations.
"Again new day. Again new boredom. Again lost me. Again alone. again. And life's at end. And not too much for me is left. Just to get dead and disappear. In grave. In nothing else, but grave." - she has emotionlessly sighed shyly and, moment later having suddenly caught up with edge of gaze unknown idly sitting figure - right onto nearest vacant bench, without minimal delay jumped up and tried to get acquainted:
"Good day! Best promises, my dear. I'd like to ask for something common... If we'll be able to achieve."
"I've left last iron into pawnshop. You are less worthy, then few pennies, they have paid. No slightest matter how you try to praise yourself. You should go home. Just right now. Or into can for worst of trash."
"Awesome, bye." - Marina Pavlovna has sighed and, in indifference replacing self away, dropped into helplessness and pain: "What a merciless going of fate. What a purposeless cursed earthly term. What indeed..."
She has again with mourning sighed and, having hopelessly got faded, dragged self away - back in home's walls.

XV
In midst of silence of dark quarter, where only painfulness and gloom, is stretching course of aimless voyaging frail figure - Lev Alexandrovich Bezvestny, who, having left nude set of walls, is going forward from nowhere to nowhere. By sides, as well as into heart - vast feast of hopelessness and anguish. Slush, grayness, facelessness and doom. Fog, desolation and despair.
"Neither days, nor myself are alive - no inspiration, no bright feelings, no joy, no blossoming, no zeal. How madly wrong. How much immeasurably bitter. How deadly stupid. Till worst cries. No goals, no tools, no luck, no chances. Just fruitless constancy of path - like in some morbid ugly show, where neither plot takes place, no prize. Not to blossom at here. Not to fly. Just to get lost and to regret..."
Lev Alexandrovich has sighed and, having let own mind in thoughts, without hurry walked to home.

XVI
In midst of wasteful empty spaces lonely room — shy and frustrated faded figure: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, having finally lost self, is sadly looking into distance without hope and in pain's bonds.
“Well, life's at and. And, as before, no drop of fruitfulness or prudence. No bliss, no feelings, no success. What have I managed to accomplish, what have collected from days' length... Apart of hopelessness and void. I was in dreamings, was awaiting for best days. Was putting trinkets and believing into future. And now no future, no best days. There is no purpose to await, deceiving self and twining nets of new regrets. All is burnt. All is far far behind. And no of vague second chances, no further harvests, no awards. Just purest nothingness. And grave. What will I do - just disappear. That's all. That's frighteningly all."
She has dispassionately sighed and, having grabbed oneself and box, gone into endlessness of streets. By sides - indifference and boredom: no of pedestrians or colors, no cars, no rushing. Only fog. And so, having slightly walked through quarters, Marina Pavlovna has sat at distant bench and, having sighed, let self in bitter mash of thoughts:
“My term has passed, I understand. Of course, quite painful, but it's living. How unforgivably in vain. How madly awkward. How resultless. And no of things can be returned. Ahead - oblivion, departing. Away. Away from all I had. From not too much, of to be honest. How much frustrating, after all. How madly wrong."
She has hopelessly yawned and, having drearily decided to leave pitiful meaningless box right at here - on bench among of empty alleys, stood slowly up and shyly trampled to horizon in fog, oblivion and winds.


AFTERWORD:
Next to old bench - gray tired: Lev Aleksandrovich Bezvestny, who, sadly breathlessly returning from recent funeral, where, to immeasurable pain, Kirill Arkhipovich Predsmertny has passed away from world, has looked in sleepiness of park and unexpectedly got frozen: on not remarkable shy, as if in cinema or dreaming, is calmly laying small strange box. On space of top - short peaceful texting: "Not to be opened till best days..."
"Oh, someone also was believing, keeping hopes. In our world it's deadly doomed to stay unopened. No better days, no brighter times. Just pains and doom. I guess, I'll take it. For, at least, to leave unopened. And when I'll die, it'll maybe come to other hands and maybe be truly will be useful..."
Lev Alexandrovich has shakily bent down and, having grabbed forgotten box, embraced its width with both of arms and meekly dragged from park to home.