Xviii english version of novels collection

Prologue:

Look at the sowing of young grains
Which have departed from old hands
At massive plow, hackneying field
And at horizon with small mill

And if you're seriously wise
Then, only having thrown first sight
You'll with whole distinctness remark
How close to autumn leaves get died

How harvest rots in heavy bags
How not alive is one, whose hands
Were dropping seeds and trudging plow
Which years later rusts alone


The stingy.

Pale abundantly plaintive and colorless fog was inactively thickening up over tenderly tented dark river, lovely strained into sleepy embraces of faint tightening morning dim dusk. Numb unfortunate cheerlessly bleak faded canopy of deep gloomy and drowsy sky's dome was coyly breezing with wet lonely pensive dampness. Frail offhandedly walking cold wind was with languidness singing around. Neat slender contours of old liquid and watery forest, so harshly thin and so much passionless and lonely, were with drowsiness wakening up from dissolving away faceless haze and were refilling with soft dulcet timid glowing of being barely engaging clear dawn. Broken angular shadows were shyly huddling by the lowlands's expanses, with vainness shakily retreating in lifeless emptiness of mournfully frustrated lost into torpor wistful outskirts of suburbs. Gray formless clouds were reluctantly extending to horizon. Supposedly exactly from nowhere was pleasurably blowing with soft warm. At short steep, abrupt slope was relaxedly sitting Semyon Andreevich, strong, hunchy young man with sullen eyes, in dolor looking into turbidness of distance. His sad straight gaze was frowned and gloomy, steady dreary appearance - quiet and depressed. Black frizzy curls were with adroitness gliding along his strong and swarthy neck, affectionately smoothly flowing down on humid shiny glossy skin. On stiff and tired joyless face was skimpy flaunting of indifferent cold mask of tart despondency and sorrow. The hero was in act of waiting. Was sternly looking in nowhere and getting chained by lazy boredom, fussily twirling metal button onto shirt with restless couple of his fingers. Soon, fifty meters from this trivial location, dumb muted crack of crunching branches had been heard and, out gape of sharply spreaded low bushes, has weakly come odd rigid figure - Oleg Egorovich, himself in front of eyes. He has clumsily made his short way to the water, thrown heavy bag of tough dense fabric on freely vacant width of sand and, having carefully taken from the last one long metal stick of fishing rod, with deftness sat on trampled heated surface.
"What an ill-fated fortune's section had so much wrongly brought him here!?" - has abruptly thought rushed internally up Semen Andreevich: "He still has been found and delivered, just in space I had peacefully chosen – of course, by some unknown mystery, not less, I have no other explanations. At now I know - all of my plans are under threat of being uglified and wrecked."
Here it'll be prudent to report of personality of visited peace-breaker: Oleg Yegorovich was far from being loved by people's plenty. The stingy - such static permanent nickname had firmly fixed to him from youth. The hero, hidden, secretive, dissatisfied, cantankerous and with atrocity collecting every penny, was brightly serving as a figure, not only alien, but straightly indicative, performing sort of self-exposing timeless standard of blown till limits human's stinginess and dryness. All life's term Oleg Egorovich was changelessly alone. After finishing of the Guards College and departing from parental family, he've begun to engage into entrepreneurship – directly from his earliest youth's days. He was buying furniture, paintings, gold, jewelry and leather, and then was luckily reselling them in his own shop and just from hands. Such way life's years were exchanging one by one. Money were accumulating into chests. Business was developing. And Oleg Yegorovich himself was slowly aging and becoming more closed, more stingy and more doomed. So, having clearly immodest scopes of money, he was not changing clothes for years' dosens, was never leaving native land and never was permitting people to take money - to any single one of souls. This was the most distinctive of rest features - he did not have such things like mercy or compassion, did not burden himself with such pointless matter. He was living without of others, was only carefully watching at last ones' various huge flock from his own permanent estrangement and periodically richly criticizing.
And now, in fear of his comments, Semyon Andreevich was abysmally nervous and inexpressibly perplexed: "Why, why exactly in this hour and why exactly at this place!? Morning. Earliness. Weekend. But he is here. And even fishing rod is taken.."
Oleg Egorovich has slowly turned around and briefly noticed rushed compatriot's alarm: "Await for someone?"
"Yes, and you even fully know – for whom concretely and what for." - has fraily mumbled in response Semyon Andreevich.
"If so, then sad is your next future. Wrong, unholy and dark. You're ruining yourself, getting buried – with zeal, completely and forever."
"You're maybe right, but who forbids?"
"We are free to do all. Sky allows. I either will not put restrictions. I've come exactly not to stare or to gossip. My deal is bottomlessly simpler – to catch some fish and to cook soup. And what's of you - keep to stay further. If you is fool not just in aspects, but completely."
"Damn you!" - boiled up embarrassed interlocutor has thought, when simultaneously Anna Stepanovna has quite invisibly creeped up: "Standing, yearning?" - has laughed the lady, having secretly approached her puzzled fellow.
"Yes. Longing."
"But what exactly are you hope for? Anyway I will never be yours."
"No piece of matter will or not. It is so much useless to be trying to curb and tune demands and calls of human's heart with force of will. It is impossible, unreal to reject this, to throw away and to forget."
"If to be talking of vain yours - there is no value in it's beating. Anyway, you’ll remain as nobody. And time is tragically fast... Why do you still keep blissful smiling? I'm not yours anyway."
"Since now I cannot even dream?"
"Someone else maybe easily can. But you most definitely cannot."
"But nevertheless it was just you, just you was given by some reason, was sent and handed as main goal."
"Was sent by whom?"
"By fate."
"You're funny. Right as others just funny and stupid. Like, actually, all at nowadays."
"Maybe I'm truly funny in moments, but I'm feeling myself very sad. And you only exacerbate, hurt, callously offering regrettings, pains and tortures. But I hope - you will bring something bright, something better."
"Be glad, that I have come to you at all, be grateful for this lenient omission. Bright news are not for everyone at here, not for each usual miserable person, shadows and darkness, as days prove, require place and reason either. With only joys and nothing else it will also sad and bitter."
"Sometimes I want this bitterness so much. Exorbitantly! Restlessly. Not weaker."
"Things, we want, if you still do not know, vice versa get turned into objects, we are deprived of here the most. Don't wish a lot for not to lose last staying smallness."
"I do not hope for anything at all, don’t hope as well as don't expect. I just behave due to my mind. Due to my feelings. And I don’t think, this can be shameful or improper."
"You've so got used to empty matters? It means, you're also inly empty, empty, sick and defective. I have no feelings. But you remain to run and beg. What for, explain me, do you need in such an infamy? You're sternly asking me to be just simply kinder, ask not to drive, not to refuse. Isn’t it nauseous for you? Isn't it filthy and disgusting?"
"From beloved hands even slops taste with sweetness."
"You are silly. You will undoubtedly stay for all the life as constant nobody's property, as rubbish."
"But if I will proclaim myself as yours and only?"
"Dream more. And take a walk along the rainbow in addition. Hope, you’ll at least fall into river and get drowned. It'll be more useful for this world. You're just aimless. And it's not biggest of your sins, besides to this you've somehow guessed to start to want me. You truly had nobody else for to defame with your affection?"
"You even do not want to be my idol?"
"Do not want."
"For not long. For a moment, at least."
"Maybe to kiss you?"
"I will perceive it as pure miracle and treasure."
"Such an idiot! Have you really believed? What can be taken from a tragedy like you ..."
"I will gladly and strictly with pleasure give you all of the values I have."
"What a sweet stupidity. You should be left in fairy tales. Or in madhouse. Nowhere else."
"You once again try to offend me, to reject. But anyway you is so needful, so attractive - like some devilish morbid obsession."
"All your obsession now will melt in term of seconds. I am going to go. There’s enough of work at home - without any of such tedious dumb contacts. And do not ask me for next meeting. We have nothing to talk and to keep. It's too aimless."
"Allow, at least, to knit a wreath and then to put it on your forehead."
"What else of whims do you pretend on?!" - Anna Stepanovna has swiftly spun around and gone out, having deftly and playfully plodded along of narrow twisted path, and then hastily melted away behind of branches of thick maples, with neatness carefully hidden her independent teasing silhouette from view.
Semyon Andreevich has timidly numbed gaze and fallen silent.
"Well, expectedly perfect, have you spoken again both a lot and with use? With undoubted joy, peaceful solace and purest presence of success? What is most notable and funny - that it's stably away of results or even minimal development and growth." - has called the character Oleg Egorovich from back.
"In name of what you once again proceed to pester? I am already feeling bad - without any our dialogues."
"Semyon Andreevich, think over, you were all life sane, calm and sober. And far and far not mad or stupid. You've even coped to finish college with top marks. But you've decided to ruin whole past yourself! To come directly just in hugs of devil’s hands. If you express such strong desire to get lost, I will advice to try rush to any war, in it's conditions it will be, at least, much faster."
"I'm going to the devil, ruining last myself ... With what damned heresy you fill me? What kind of devil can she be? Fragile, beautiful, harmless. And only outwardly proud, cold and strict. But inside..."
"And just in this is similarity's main peak: the devil’s task here is to force you to believe, that you is definitely stronger, that he's more weak and more defenseless. To force your person to believe and to deceive at first next step. He even never will convince you – you'll devotedly run after him by yourself. He'll also never think to slander or accuse you – you'll gladly do it by own hands. He will try to palm off you a virtue, with help of which one next to finish you'll get lost. Note and preserve in dephs of memory, that no of people get invited into hell, they always go to there exclusively themselves. Now of such flawful thing as mind. Here it's like house, made of cards: as soon as essence of the last one will be shaken at least a little bit more hard than you've got used, all its past power will quite instantly get crumbled, will fly apart, to worst of sorrows having tracelessly destroyed all your previous heights and achievements with own ruthlessly endless immensity. Under mind's wrecks not one of dozens of the brightest human heads have got unrescuably perished. And you are stubbornly entrusting to its weakness all main roles. So much funny."
"All of you, all without exceptions, are just trying to laugh at my pains. It clearly follows from your reasonings and claims, that God does not have difference from devil. He openly commits same scopes of wiliness and crimes. And even finish is most often also equal."
"Not fully so. God is just outside. At least, that one, which's true. There are pure tons of newly minted saints. Such sea, that looks more like a swamp. And, what's the worst, all each of us most hotly want here is just to step inside of it as soon as possible and out of returning."
"Great. In such case try to wean me from her once again. Yes, why not. Repeat once more, in hundredth time. More and more. More and over and over. Undoubtedly, you'll as usual say, that you, as always, simply struggle with fool-making. But for glory of what have you made this remarks and conclusions? I do not heed them anyway. It's exactly impossible to get rid of prescribed living role. No crumb of matter – is it a diabolical one, or divine."
"Here you are thinking mainly absolutely right. Personally you yourself even nearly have no blame in established life's route or its content. Why does the dog bark being sitting on the chain? Because like that it was created, was made by world to grin and yap. Both its position and behavior are completely transparent and plain. Now further. Take a look at a person of slave. He has no rights, no liberties, no pleasures - only almighty master, that is all. Only master and forever allotted unchangeable place at his feet. We have ancient tribes, we have fanatics, we have persons obsessed with some purpose. And they all have particular roles. Just that ones, which with variable periodicity similarly falls to us too from unknown invisible source - roles to love, roles to hope or to meet. All we do this inexplainably, not ourselves, but only by the will of life's conditions, by the call of inevitability. Someone chasing a whore, someone chasing a Messiah, but both of them do it from equal hopelessness. In the first case from the crappy one, and in the second one - from happy. You silly think you have separated your eyelids and that’s all - you have opened your gaze at whole world. It doesn’t work like that at all. A lot of things here are invisible, unclear, inaccessible to our eyes. And you with equal degree of bravery ride by the roads and their sides. You crave for encouragements. Crave for approval from someone else’s opinion. Not from the right one, by the way. You want to be justified. No one matter by whom, even straighly by hell. We can't please everyone. It's mad."
"I please exclusively myself, please my own passions."
"What kind of passions do you have - to warm up person, who rejects you and sends back?"
"I want to get some unity, some fondness. But I don’t know what's required for this bliss. That's why I’m struggling, attempting and vainly trying to persist, to win by power, by amount of my vigor. Does here exist some other ways to bonds of peace? I'm not sure. What is needed for it, who will say... That's task we'll solve more than whole life."
"Faith me concretely and without any doubts - there are no of big tasks humans have here. Any eternal thinking or reasoning are not prescribed either. All that each person truly needs is to determine one plain thing - what into fate is fully yours and what is alien and needless. Determine, learn and do not trample not yours paths."
"And if nothing is yours. Like whole world is entirely foreign. What then to do and to await?"
"World is big, everyone once will find proper corner. Not in everyone's case it will be vast and hospitable, not in everyone's case comfortable, but fully personal and native. And what's of you - never have even minimal thought of any trying of becoming squeezed and planted into alien beginnings. There you will meet one dirt, one falsehood. Please, forever most firmly remember - you will never be able to build unity with each one of extraneous people. Believe, you never will be filled with right intentions in frames of alien and hazed. This is an axiom, a law. You want happiness, but you don't know how exactly does it look, what it has in own actual essence? You don’t know this, but anyway want. It never comes to such of people."
"At least I’m free to search and seek, free not to wait, not to waste share. And with your excellent great logic I must sit all my life with hands down and with no of attempts and requests."
"And what does this wild freedom give? Which ones of benefits do really you get from vain possession of your will? Say, what for was it tailored and given? For an ability to manipulate you, to entice and control. For being capable to bury your past voyage with help of your own helpless hands. Will gives birth to some zeal, to initiative. And such one, as you've probably heard, is always punishable, sinful. Insidious. It leads you into devilish quagmire, in tragedy. Transports your soul right to death's gates - with your own legs. No of doubts, you have your strong will. But who commands and rule with all its actions? Who sets your goals? Who has inspired you with volume of ideals, to which odd ones you're trying to be faithful? It is quite possible for all entrusted life to pray in zestfulness to demon. And then to take most deep and serious offense at deeds of God, which hasn't taken you is paradise's walls. You incessantly play here an idiot, but at the same unlucky time, time quite successless for your personal existence, you with tart shamelessness demand such of applause as if you play as highest genius of planet."
"So brightly clear, that your only goal and plan is just to prove me, that I'm total hopeless fool, to compress me with arguments and to puzzle my consciousness, nothing more. Isn't so?"
"Even nearly not. All I want - just to warn you and only. Just to warn, to protect your brain's pier from regrets. And if about mind's confusion - as a casual ordinary phenomenon, it is, of course, till pain familiar to all. If you have never been percieved at here as fool, then you most certainly can't name oneself as sage. Any exhortations exist exclusively for chance not to believe them. But I am really expecting from lost you not an involvement in confusion, I vice versa am expecting something mindful: some firm awareness, head's straightness, some mental peak, illumination. I want your reckless tired soul to be finally saved. More precisely, I greatly want it to deserve this being saved. Then all your further life's events will completely depend on the care of luck and on random."
"I’m not a man of luck or case. No matter, am I dumb or wise."
"For love of heaven mutuality is needed."
"Let's they'll try to show love unrequitedly. Them also would be useful to feel torments. Now I have to go back. Lucky fishing."
Semyon Andreevich has left.
Oleg Yegorovich has silently thrown gaze at whitish canopy of sky: "Definitely, people are strange. Their paths and fates are concretely miraculous. They all want something own, something special. And any universe's sources present one steadiness and fog. Human's life is a long mashy swamp. Long, but still always temporary. What it is in a fact? Disgustful trip around world. Such a voyage sometimes can be sent. All the eternity will stoplessly remember. And what's about poor me - I undeniably have need to get some fish. Leaving empty is wrong, crappy sign."
The float has gurgled over water and silently declared term of waiting. Quite soon all plenty of surrounding expanses has turned foggy. Muddy tops of the trees have indistinguishably delved into gradual merging with grayness. Unexpectedly small drops of rain have rushed down into passionless falling. Old decrepitly looking dark barge has with smooth splashing sailed away.
"One shy moderate couple of fishes will be certainly fully enough." - has thought Oleg Egorovich with doom: "Fully right, just a couple of fishes... Nothing more. Only one single couple. Only one single couple and all."

II
Into silent and drowsy log house, moderately old and lavishly spacious, were sitting two unnoticeable people: that one, whose flesh was situating next to fireplace, was none other than Semyon Andreevich, and that one, who was sitting in front of the window was Anna Stepanovna. It has already passed about a whole month since they were meeting on the shore of local river. So, having begged one extra date, strained timid hero was again with shyness looking at his passion, with zeal appealing for loyalty and kindness and sadly listening to jeers.
"Well, with what will you embarrass me today? With which of tales?" - has displeasedly and contemptuously extended irritated and malcontent lady.
"I'm planing to implore you once again for your lenient mild condescension, for your saint indulgent goodwill, even if it'll be totally faked."
"You again incorrigibly feed sick yourself with nonsensical barren dead hopes, with futile empty dreams. Anyway, it could be tolerable, even maybe pretty, if there was at least tiniest something truly seeming as great in you're really dreaming about. What did you find in me? Why are so much tenaciously trying to catch? As if indeed there is no equal free replacement of damned me."
"I needn't it, needn't any of other of values. Need no of treasures, no of plenties, but you, you is necessary, exclusively you and no one other."
"This is nonsense. Utter nonsense from starting to end. And not less. But you've still somehow led me to yourself, caught me, fished me out and gravitated. What for is this resultless ours meeting?"
"For simple being here together, for my enjoying of my you. Maybe here I will never reach happiness, but at least I will see how it looks."
"You're so stupid. Just stupid or sick. You should find someone, who at least will provide you with sex, otherwise you'll live totally wasted."
"Maybe it’s even sweeter to me in such way — fully vain, maybe this is just what my heart wants."
"You is surely sick. Be confident, my skirt will clearestly never rise for you. So, better even don't attempt to beg."
"I feel quite good without aiming on your skirt, with just one right to be just near."
"Please, calm down and not less quicker than immediately fade. You is so much insolent and impudent. In degree of pure rave. It's so hard to get rid of your presence. Here and now you is so persistently get straightly sent away, but in response mad you yourself with utter stubbornness of ram is contrariwise with vigor trying to cling back. Pour me tea and right now, my boyfriend."
Semyon Andreevich has hastily got up and stepped to samovar. Behind of dark and creaking shutters has elongated back and forth deeply spiritless dead autumn coolness.
"Wind is growing." - with some bitterness in distinctly distempered voice has pronounced bemused puzzled young man: "That's meaning it's the end of our summer."
"It's even nearly not so. If it ever was started at all." - has abruptly interrupted Anna Stepanovna: "When it has become ours? You is raving again. You is totally raving and besides making it so unbearably lengthened. And where is your damn tea? It was promised."
"And it'll be just right now." - Semyon Andreevich has nimbly and vividly rushed to the table with tray.
"Cups are old." - has remarked him the lady: "Everything you have is so gray, so frustratingly dead. Even just you yourself is entirely like a wax statue. Is it a life at all? Can it ever be named with such word? Like a cursed one. Not less. Like a corpse."
"It's tied on you. And if main aim is far away, then no joy and no happiness, alas."
"Find this joy, find this happiness, do it. If it's so much desirable and unthinkable. And today here and now, in fact, you inconsolably have only timeless longing, despair, withering, ruining. Even more, you yourself always look like ruins."
"Do not be angry. Anyway, we are slightly together right now."
"This is in sphere of your dreams, nowhere else. And in frames of available reality - ubiquitous desolation and you, full of own rave and deadly strange. Doesn't look like a present of fate."
"I will get totally improved. Do not swear so hard."
"It will be surely much better, if ugly you as soon as possible will die. I'm seriosly."
So they've drunk rests of tea. Semyon Andreevich has lazily got up and looked at Anna Stepanovna: "Will I see you again?"
"What else! Such requests not for you. We have totally different roads. They will go apart."
"Your life, your choice. You are feeling it better."
Dialog's going has finished.
Semyon Andreevich has sat for half an hour and then got up and, having failed to stay with longing, gone to tavern. Has calmed. Has drunk. Didn’t feel better. On the way back has unexpectedly approached Oleg Yegorovich.
"You're again fully twirling around her figure?"
"You so deeply and so thoroughly know it. Guess, you literally see through of walls. How can such foresight be possible at all?"
"Very easily. Everything is recognizably written on your face. It's observable simply and without efforts."
"You is aware, I cannot cope with storm of feelings."
"I am. But what do feelings mean? What a kind of guarantor they are? If they aren't mutual, aren't comprehensive, but exclusively external. External. One-sided. Unrequited. Imagine a glass - faceted or round, their real difference is small. People say, that, if you'll fill it with water and then will put in there a diamond, you'll be fully unable of to distinguish it with eyes. So, I was checking and has firmly got persuaded, that here they really don’t lie. If someone will put up in front of you two glasses - one with a diamond and the other one without, and then you will be forced to choose, you, most likely, will have no chances in detecting of your precious stone. And with relationships all is not more trustworthy: in each of them is equal passion, in each of them take own place love confessions, but where exactly is sincerity and love? Any average pointless actress can with easiness tearfully cry, being parting or hearing refusal. And she also can many times promise to wait you – even longer, than will cope to live. But you stubbornly put all your soul on the tempest of purest empiricism. It’s not good in results and their harvests."
"Yes, I’m putting. And do not see some other viable replacement of such tryings. By what else can I live here, just say. Separated warming of ourselves with only one abundance of luminous thoughts in own effect is awfully similar to straight freezing. That's why I'm humbly amply chasing this unbearable gloomy reality, amply trying to grab, at least, most vain and trifling something."
"You succumb to the world. Such type of actions is a hellish crippling madness."
"But how can we not succumb to frames of world? World is big, how, tell me, will you cope alone, if it will fall on you at once and with whole power, if will lay on your shoulders with whole amount of own weight! You will bend, will retreat and give up. That's too fair."
"Exactly here your thoughts are wrong. It’s not much harder to be arguing with all the actuality than with a single small schoolboy. What is this world for you in practice? In which of spheres is it really successful? Which priceless values does it have? Crowds of people. In great abundance and mad plenty. But in no one of them can be indeed somehow visible true human - all are pitiable, evil; poisoned, ugly and miserable, fully soaked up with only one meanness, with dirt and filth, like railway sleepers with excess of creosote. And the same fact of their so countless amount is also far not a marvelous miracle: if ones will totally die out, the other ones will gladly give birth to same next. At here already there were a lot of cases of plague, a lot of floods, a lot of fires and so on, but they still did not die. And, what's more, they will never die out. Vice versa will only reproduce themselves even more zealously. They will not disappear as a population. Be sure. Now let's return back to the dispute. Which differences and distinctions are with whom it to keep - with a separate ugly representative from this nasty reality or with the same damned whole reality itself as with a swamp, which one have spawned all own misfortunes, all troubles, sufferings, all dirts and each one of the same rotten opponents? There is no difference. Pretend you are talking with someone lost and he equally convincingly persuades you that cheating and betrayals are normal, that enriching oneself by making wars is entirely appropriate tradition - yes, slightly violent, but fully valiant and heroic, such person will similarly justify all acquainted of troubles and sorrows, will explain any devil with God's providence and will lead up you to that marsh, where he is situated himself. And you everyday permanently see our reality, where people die, get sick, betray, abuse and hurt. So, what kind of satan has created this sick world? Everywhere is horror. In every corner and each space. Millennial tragedy. Not less. And do not wrangle, you can’t argue with this facts. So, literally here and now, everywhere and just in front of you, in the greatest abundance there are a lot of deprived ones, of freaks, cripples and traitors. You regularly clearly see them all. And they have absolutely equal rights on being. They get quite calmly reproduced, get undisturbably erected. And get erected by that one by whom was sculpted the whole world and even you. That means, that all of this is appropriate, normal and justified, if our creator had allowed it. So it turns out that in sky sits total tyrant. And, as a fact, you even can’t say vice versa, can't think about this in other way, if you have really examined all life's costs. But some kindness also obviously exists. Very rare, but still. Is not it both more right and senseful to believe only straightly in it and to deny all needless rest - like night dream or sick empty obsession. Does not it seem to you from simple voice of logic, that undeniably should be unknown someone, who stand above of God and devil both, that must be sort of some idea, which at one time had somehow brought poor them together and forced to give hazed hopeless birth to this lost world. You is able to think exclusively in style you was inspired, but it's a way you can't go far. Any current of rules and of borders, and even all of your own personal desires have been created and entrusted not by you. This world has given you both tempo, strings and notes. In such conditions, please explain what a musician here you are? You're not an author for your song of fate. You are only a trivial victim. And the most really unfortunate of things is that you even most immeasurably like it."
"You, so much deeply knowing everything and all. You, Oleg Egorovich, one who instantly sees every point in any others' lines of life, have you yourself here something valuable inly? Is you really happy in here, or have maybe achieved any heights?"
"Try to learn: being here much more smarter than the others, the main task and main thing is just not to start thinking about yourself as about last fool. Any alien opinion undeclinably try to defame you, to break you down and to destroy. Let yourself to believe it in real and you'll get instantest defeat. If you'll listen to every adviser, you'll die. So, if summarize all what is of opinion, it'll be better for you to get yours. And what about passionate blaming of me in the unison with the others – this is utterly simple and easy. Even I can reproach me myself. But what good is from it, what resultful. You should try not to fracture your life. Many others don’t have any chances at all and, what's more, never will, but you happily have. And they really can happen. Can provide you great actual prospects for perpetual countless times. Useful, beautiful, honest and graceful. But you run just for those who deny and betray."
"But if I'll run for those who conversely encourage, will not they one a day just equally betray me and abuse?"
"Well, there you at least will get some pleasure. Please, endeavor to take into mind: vainly choosing between of role of an idiot and alike role of a complete idiot, with no wavering seek for the first. You are trying to live as a mentally stunned. Such ones like you do not hold on life's scores for too long. What just for do you need this hell's torments? Drop them out. Throw off from your shoulders - like a stone, or a slavish tight robe. Throw off and follow for the light. Or you is thirsty just for darkness?"
"What is this light inside of self? - same deception and fog. One moment or two – and it will hastily dissipate, meanly left only vacuum, void. You will never be full of world's goodness. If all here is a mousetrap, it’s much better at all not wait for the cheese."
"You can see both surrounding wildness and filthy essence of most harmful of life's things, but incorrigibly stay totally unable to play at here not by their rules. Just don't stop stomping all you're able to observe. And deny any law! Despise both everyone and everything you're knowing. You are pleasing an abyss, a swamp. Be yourself. Such way it's, at least, much more cozy to die – into freedom and bliss."
"To ones is freedom, to another ones - just key from its doors, and to other ones else — only one fictive shape, unavailable image. It is not sent here for lost me, not prescribed. Not bequeathed by the heavenly chancery."
"So, if this chancery was mine ..."
"It’s time for me to say goodbye. I am going to sleep just right now – need to wake up too early tomorrow: I'll be mowing the hay, then will go to the fair. And you also have things for to do."
"Then good luck."
The heroes have with muteness gone apart.
Semyon Andreevich, as it was pastly told, has gone to bed, and Oleg Egorovich has slowly trudged ahead along of fully empty country road, languidly gazing into hazed alienated width of distance and getting moderately used to unexpected deplorable anxiety. The district has lazily descended into thick evening. Deep dark shawl of cold hung up night's murk has deftly skirted faint lamentably rare yellow windows. There was by some reasons too dreary. Soon quite reluctantly has swum shy muddy circle of pale passionless silvery moon. The last cart has left way. Bleak numb expanses have reflectively got frozen.
Oleg Yegorovich has come in bonds of house, climbed onto porch and slowly vanished in inside.

III
Into gray, smoky tedious building of local tiny railway station were unhurriedly crowding in groups packs of arriving motley people. In the midst of their hustle and bustle, crooked porters, lean barefoot beggars and idly wandering stray children were standing Semyon Andreevich and Anna Stepanovna. Rainy maudlinly tearful wind was quite sleepily ruffling their highly raised satiny collars and unhurriedly driving away fallen yellow and susurrous foliage. Cold and damp steady stiff breathless air was a little bit bitter and was inspiring simultaneous odd set both of excitement, fright and sadness.
"Soon our train will come to here. Just two of hours - and we'll gladly be in city." - has modestly remarked Semyon Andreevich.
"It is possible to get literally crazy in two hours spent into pair with you." - has grinned Anna Stepanovna and offhandedly straightened her coat.
It was supposed to be going into nearest province, to the town with modest name "Stoneless" - for some gifts for his Anna Stepanovna, which were so difficultly finally imposed.
Fully bottomless time, that had secretly hung everywhere, was with sluggishness creeping around. Grayish overcast tiresome sky was in tough timidness and dolor turning wrapped into insipid dimmish veil, and so countless gathered up teeming people were arriving again and again, with mad deftness appearing up into hall from every side of here and there. Soon, in blurred and inclement distance, behind of whitish pallid canopy of fog, blackish angular body of big and noisy locomotive has got finally shown and with assertiveness produced long and boomingly sinister hoot. Rushed passengers have instantly surrounded whole space of narrow edge of tight old platform. Act of landing was firmly announced. The heroes have indifferently trudged to slowing wagons. Semyon Andreevich has jumped up onto stair, thrown off his heavyweight suitcase and extended his hand to Anna Stepanovna.
"Thank you. At least some benefit from your vain presence here." - has strictly answered the lady: "Why are you standing as a statue, zany, run for taking free places, move faster, or you still didn't manage to know, all of seats will be occupied out after several seconds."
Semyon Andreevich has immediately agreed and obediently rushed to the salon.
And indeed, only few of free places are left. The hero has luckily noticed first of such ones, quickly put there own bag, then set Anna Stepanovna down: "And I myself will stand in front of you."
"You all the life will similarly stand – as total blockhead both outwardly and inside, no ones of doubts in this sorrow. You are so much wretched, so much sordid, all things you do are so heavy, so ugly and clumsy. You is straight jerk, not more, not less, if to describe you in one word. You is jerk, just a jerk. Tell what else can be said."
"Well, enough being angry. After all, we ride now not for quarrels."
"I guess, that probably only just dead one can reconcile with a person like you. Well, seriously, how are you even simply able to stay so measurelessly dull? What is wrong with your brain and your self?... Huh!"
"Love, I guess... Rather morbid, but still."
"When will this childhood cope to end? You is strange. Badly strange, unforgivably."
"I'm rather ordinary in all, except of fact, that my lost heart is attached to constrained my mind you."
"Please, give up all your this verbal rubbish. Chirp such fables to others - less sane. What's of me, I don’t like them, you see. You vice versa just annoy. And eventually - what kind of habit truly is this: to tell me ravings time by time upon each road? With no delays calm inly down, close mouth and forget of how to speak. And Even so, I can assure, there is no of reliable salvation from you."
Semyon Andreevich has will-lessly come silent.
"By what are guided here intentions of a human, what exactly reigns up in his head?" - has thought he, coyly looking at Anna Stepanovna: "I'm begging her of happiness, of incorruptible mutuality for us both, and what's she... To which of purposes and aimings her indefatigable nature does belong, to which of truths? To which of ideals does gravitate her heart?"
The hero has languidly sighed.
Anna Stepanovna was sitting silently. Her white, deftly curling hair were gently sliding along of tenderly rosy delicate cheeks. Stiffly stringent cold gaze was monotonously and skeptically examining out window's landscapes, and her thin graceful nimble fingers were reluctantly twisting small neat sparkling pearl bracelet on neck. She was good, beautiful and impersonal at the same time. There was some flame into her, some temper, but there was no soul. Only empty unbridled wild passion, girlish pride and significant natural arrogance. Nothing else.
The train was steadily following into the distance, gray opened spaces of vicinities were crawling past into passively foggy square windows, bleak horizon's line was shining with houses and arable lands, and plangent and so woefully chill wind was freely walking, passing near.
At one of stations an amusingly odd randon couple has uncouthly dropped in into wagon - a fat and stoopedly short old man, bald and stocky, and a young pretty sleepy frail lady, quiet and depressed, clearly fresher than her aged companion and noticeably much more meek and timid.
"Why is you aiming at my place?" - angried woman's companion has menacingly called her soul out: "You ought to seat your husband first. Your madness has too blossomed, too increased. It would be so right and good to hit your ridge with heavy stick – for you to know the price of following ahead."
 The lady has quite instantly apologized, helped to companion with carrying of suitcase, neatly put it on shelf, then taken out small thick brush and begun to clean husband's rugged boots.
"Better, better rub! Look at her! Like a boiled. Or seek. Such a goosey!"
Semyon Andreevich has glanced in female's eyes. Deeply shy, bitter sorrow was so clearly being read in all her limply suffering view.
"This is how now we live – ones unloved with unloving them others. We run, tolerate, rush. But what for? And by whose weird mad whim? We are searching, but not for to find, are achieving for simple being put to aside, walking, waiting - again and again. All the life for being closer to coffin. All of this is so stupid and wrong. Aimless. Morbid." - Semyon Andreyevich has drearily looked down.
Long beep has passed and train's speed has got dropped. The carriage has slowly arrived to Stoneless. Time to go out.
Anna Stepanovna has contemptuously called her prostrated friend out, then pulled over creased collar and with indifference reached width of exit. Gray and rain-flooded platform was uninspired and lifeless. Rare liquid trees' crowns were sleepily wafting with perennial tragical withering. Heavy old taxis were languorously languishing at the exanimate monotonous brick building of station. Everything was just boring and perishable – city, faces and frozen terrain. Everything was dilapidated and empty. Colorless, unceremonious and awkward.
"Just the same longing as in village." - has drily commented the lady.
"Now we’re finally moving to shopping. It's more of fun there. At the same peaceful time, I’ll show you the college where I've been studying."
"No problem. Show. But was some sense to climb so high for to return back to the village?"
"I've returned just for you. What, just explain, means this city without your presence?"
"It signify, even here no one has agreed to give sex."
"I wasn't ever asking them myself."
"That is even much stupider then. Well, start riding me along these bleak dead neighborhoods."
Semyon Andreevich has called a taxi, then sat his fractious girlfriend inside and sent an order of to follow to square. The car has docily trudged up into route.
On the crowded with stalls and goods' stands noisy square tons of people were scurrying along back and forth. Were with strenuousness dragging some boxes, loudly calling for tasting of gingerbread cookies and bagels and continuously clinking with trolleys and dishes. Busy city was living into frames of its usual rhythm - fully trivial and entirely meaningless. People were replacing each other, products were gradually becoming sold, and confidently fluent money were measuredly ringing onto nude greedy surfaces of the trays. All and everything is deadly ordinary. All and everything just right as always.
The heroes have approached one of jewelry stores, then slowly squeezed selves in inside and Semyon Andreevich with shy ardor has insurely pointed up at the shop's showcase: "And right now, into sake of all better, just admire and choose!"
"I am choosing, am choosing, don’t worry. At least something I'll get from you here. So much time had been killed by the meetings, maybe will be pay off... No of grief, if not fully, but partially."
The lady has with bravery got bare her cutely glossy pale-skinned neck and with assuredness begun cold numb selecting from shown her bijouterie's heap. The process has quite calmly coped to be without pauses lasted for a full quarter of an hour and then to turn with gladness ended at stop on pair of necklaces - pearl and emerald ones.
"I'll take these." - has drily said Anna Stepanovna and stepped aside. Semyon Andreevich has paid and also slowly moved away: "Got you pleased?"
"Yes, bearable. Let's at now go back. All is done."
"But let's visit some local cafe for at least. We’ll relax. Our train anyway will be only in evening."
"Well, let's go." - the lady has thrown dissatisfied cold glance at Semyon Andreyevich: "Anyway so much shabby you are. Lke a caricature, not less."
Semyon Andreevich has wordlessly stayed silent.
Into walls of cafe, in which one our couple have come, there was rather crowded and fun. The visitors were clinking with their glasses, deft forks were ringing by the dishes, with pleasure singing into unison's sweet noise of small old radio at window.
"It is so gratifying here. So madly easy, nice and great." - has involuntarily admired the youth: "Just usual ordinary tavern, nothing more, but my soul still comes back to full living and even blossoms as in church."
"Even such ones like you, piece of nothing, so earnestly pretend on having soul!" - Anna Stepanovna has laughed: "Nowadays everyone has decided to boast he has soul. All of freaks have suddenly become huge personalities. Even you! So ridiculous."
"You again try to prick me, to hurt. Beg you - stop, have some mercy."
"But what for do you need it - my mercy? You yourself also should make little leniency and become a human. But it will not come out, I so clearly know in advance. Don't show your poor servility, that's amazingly useless and dull. Order me some food better. Until they'll bring it we'll be most certainly awaiting not less than for an hour's half."
"Express your will - just choose and order." - Semyon Andreevich has taken out worn, outrageously greasy menu.
"This book exists in highest unison with you. Just matches in extremalest degree. At once in everything and all." - has expressively chortled Anna Stepanovna, having bursted with laughting, then selected the items she needed and returned menu back. The waiter has assertively come up.
Soon the order has also been brought.
"Enjoy." - has said with timidness the young man.
"And you yourself eat also not away of throat." - Anna Stepanovna has smirked: "As if without of your tendernesses I will not be able to throw my food into my mouth. Enough of your intrusive being."
Semyon Andreevich has once again kept silence.
The meal was spent quite uninterestingly and vainly. The heroes have eaten, exchanged with brief impassive glances and then gone through of exit's door back.
And again into cabin of taxi.
Fully boring, typically painted car has picked them up and rushed off into distance.
"Just here I pastly had been living." - has shyly pointed at one of nearest buildings Semyon Andreevich.
"It's quite observable from side - the grayest house in whole town. It was probably straightly impossible to find a house which's wretched more."
"Okay, you do not like again."
"But what exactly should I like? Your ugly previous poor hut? You was living in it like biryuk, and you're living right now not better. You're demanding again and again some admiration from my side, some straight excitement. In your opinion, I should all time of life remain in endless wild delight? What's the reason for it? Maybe you? There is no more strength to keep fight with your stupidness."
Semyon Andreevich has kept same total silence.
After while they've arrived to the station. The latter one was fully empty, only few rare solitary workers were keeping going back and forth and similarly rare sellers were unemotionally shouting about merits of their breathlessly dried fish.
And that's the finish of all day.
Then again was train route, again similar gray boring wagon and identical tedious rattling of wheels and again coming back to the village. The locomotive has arrived.
Semyon Andreevich has supportively given his lady a hand and made a way inside of carriage. The voyage has got started. The platform has got melted.
"What for exactly have we ridden... So unclear." - has sullenly concluded the hero: "Somehow stupidly drags my cursed fate, somehow lost is all given. Or myself I'm like that..."
And again back to vastness of village.
"Get up, outgrown sleepyhead." - Anna Stepanovna has sharply called youth out: "And you will say you aren't silly!? Half of carriage's passengers has already left, and you is reasoning again and stupidly amusing damned yourself with mash of childish dreamy thoughts. Eternal simpleton, let's move as rest, get up!"
Semyon Andreevich has instantly caught self and immediately fussed towards to exit.
The station was gloomy and quiet, surroundings were blowing with soft cold, two shunting trains were lonely humming far in distance.
"Now I'll go." - has calmly said Anna Stepanovna: "And, of course, do not follow for me, don't commit even minimal step. That predictably isn't allowed. Such a way we will wander until deepest midnight. Thanks for trip. And for presents. They are lovely... Indeed. Maybe, someone, who's really worthwhile, one a day will admire with me clothed in this pretty trinkets, maybe even will fall into love. Let's our God will somehow facilitate to this."
Lady has drily said brief goodbye and after hurriedly retreated back to home.
Semyon Andreevich was left again alone.
"What a stupid and hard silly fate here I have..." - has drawled he, slowly stepping between of opened gaps of puddles: "Stupid, anguished and curved."
First of lights have got burned. Bleak canvas of young stretchable night has densely enveloped all serene, slightly downcast district. The wind has helplessly got howled.
Semyon Andreevich has passively come home, closed the gates and laid down on bed: "What to say, if to describe my current life... Darkness. Trouble. What is going with it... I don't know. Maybe God doesn't love me, or fate. Total curse."
The hero has closed out tired eyes and then lifelessly turned to the wall: "Right now and here I need to sleep. Just sleep and sleep and nothing else."
Has got fallen asleep.

IV
One more couple of months have already been flown far away.
All familiar rural expanses have got impoverished and wilted. Outside of pale-faced misted windows has erupted young cold and severely ferocious winter. The village had regretfully got empty and depopulated.
On a small lonely rink, flooded down into lowland, were unhurriedly riding two persons - all the same Anna Stepanovna and Semyon Andreevich. Their vague silhouettes were deftly looping onto freshly frozen ice, measuredly writing out some plain repeating pirouettes.
"At least, you've deigned me this joint riding." - the young man has forgetfully smiled: "It's already straight holiday for my being."
"You have too miserable festivities, I'll say." - has mindfully remarked disgruntled lady: "You do not change yourself at all."
"I even nearly don't try to catch such changes. I'm again and again so much longing... Again exclusively of single you and only."
"What a sick incorrigible dullard!"
"Exactly here I will not even argue or deny. Very well, maybe all is just so. But, anyway, I am only the one that already I poorly am."
"It's too much clear, that you will not be ever another. Fools never change themselves, it's fact. That’s something stubbornly innate, as I am guessing. Something ineradicable."
"But you yourself is also only scolding. Just again and again. And if about mine shy being, I can assuredly declare, it would be greatest one of things just to embrace you."
"Don't even think!"
"Or to kiss."
"It's much better to find my own lips turned dried out than to be fondling with a person as you are. Enough of ravings! Stop. Lean to others with your molesting offers. You so much excellently see, that I feel nauseous from you. But still keep pestering me further."
"I again fully am in your oppressive proscription. Just straightly literally like leper."
"All right, such one you truly are. Any fool is like leper, not more weighty or nice. You should be ashamed of getting acquainted with people, should be ashamed of the very fact you're alive. But you vice versa is rushing ahead in rletions."
"Find at least single drop of some kindness, I'm begging."
"For someone else’s soul I'll easily find sea, will find kindness and passion, and female fawning. And for your poor spirit - just hell! I’m not a mad one to be caring of all idiots and morons."
"But I'm not stranger idiot, my dear, not an alien one."
"From which indefinite of times, tell, did you manage to become related? Damned vain dreamer! All you do comes to chatters and asks. You is sick, if you have no shame."
"I simply love you, love and want, simply wish."
"Such a peacebreaker. Just not less than nightmare!"
Skating has continued.
Soon thickly lavish vicious blizzard has with persistence risen up and begun to lay down at district.
"Let's go, otherwise it will fill up all roads, we'll stuck. The ride has turned to occur short. But, as a plus, due to this I've at least not got tired of you." - has sharply ordered Anna Stepanovna and, not waiting for any reaction, swiftly wandered back to rink's side. Semyon Andreevich has hastened too.
They have folded their skates, briefly looked at each other and started silent stomping back.
Stable noise of thin echoing snowstorm was starting sounding more and more distinct. The sky was dark, wet sad coldness of chill was imperceptibly trying to crawl under myriad of powerless clothes.
Semyon Andreevich has even decided to hug his stiff passion, but, of course, didn't dare.
Soon the village's overcast square has finally got stealthily appeared.
The heroes have parted.
 
V
It was an early early spring. First spots of ice have gradually begun to melt, single streams have with ardentness flowed into distance. All local spaces have slowly started waking up from winter drowsiness and doom. Along with them, Anna Stepanovna has also suddenly got totally transformed - has become so much kinder, that even has come to Semen Andreyevich herself - for modest mix of tea and sweets. Such instant difference in mood has so terribly shocked and dumbfounded the hero, that he's literally opened his mouth by the will of insurmountable amazement.
"I've come to you, just decided to visit." - has smiled the lady: "Though will laugh at cursed you once again. You obviously is far not against."
"I am always most conversely for. Come on – be a guest, take a seat."
"I’ll easily find out, where to land - without any of instructions. Tell, what for are you trying to show extra mind, if you do not have even a minimal one."
"You are trying to hurt whole my soul once again. Do not quarrel once more. I am begging."
"Set me a table, an unfinished storyteller."
Semyon Andreevich has rushed for tablecloth: "Just one minute, my native."
Anna Stepanovna has immediately sharply and in displeasure snorted out: "From which of times have you become my relative, dumb moron?"
"Do not be angry so much."
The table was prepared.
"Regale yourself, rejoice."
"Which joys? About what are you? Just useless poor meal with poor interlocutor. Nothing good."
"That's all I have. For me it's quite enough."
"With such a wealth it's more right to be pauper." - the lady has with with keenness smirked again.
And yet, in spite of all of taunts and of reproaches, there was something new and unusual in her at this time, something obviously not peculiar before and even something slightly mysterious.
"Your tea is totally like slops, but sweets indeed are rather tasty." - the girl has zeal-lessly remarked: "You have really brought them from city?"
"Yes, just so."
"It's feelable. Observably not bad." - Anna Stepanovna has deftly untwisted her hair: "It's so hot here. You had organized fire like in severe frosts. Spring is standing in yard. Soon will be time for opening all windows and for glad singing cheerful songs."
"Would be good to have somebody here, with whom able I'll be to commit all such things..."
"Maybe will be just so at one day..."
"So much joyful with you, so much sweet."
"And without me it's so fixedly bitter?"
"Without you as in a swamp."
"And with me into similar way."
"I could not even ever believe, that I was waiting not in vain."
"It means you do not know how. Don't know how to believe. Not accustomed to do it."
"That's because there is no hope, no chance or guarantee at all."
"People easily live without any of this empty phenomena. Time is hasty. There is no place for such rave."
"You is right. Time is fierce."
"And you yourself again just dream, so much aimlessly ranting of nothing. And life meanwhile is going on."
"I'll gladly follow for its tempest, if this will be in pair with you."
"Once again stupid fantasies, once again just illusions and all. This is the point of pure zero. With what will you be ever happy? All you are saying and repeating is total stupid childish talk. It's only nauseous on soul from such a dullness. Other people make plans and develop, go up. And you? You will keep your strange tales just until deep deep oldness. Then will be sadly carried out into coffin. You are empty. Are fully defective."
"That's why just try to make me better."
"Am I stupid in your silly mind? To inhale own saint spirit in such a carrion like you. Grow yourself. Grow, ennoble. Maybe then someone'll take you in pair."
"But I never did want anyone, only you."
"As I am smeared completely with best honey. Again your tales. Enough. I have listened already, have known."
"Maybe tales, maybe they, who're aware, but I indeed so much desire to have some happiness, some joy."
"Everyone fully want it, believe me. This whim is really not new. Be wholly sure, it will be broken and endured, will go away and turn in dust. Pain will be finished, will evaporate. You'd be better to think of your future, of next deals and new plans."
"Without you I cannot think."
"With me your pointless ability to think is also not extremely resultative. Add me tea. As if you do not see at all, that it's already fully over."
The hero has immediately hurried.
"What exactly is keeping to occur inside your morbid fatuous head? What kind of utterly irrelevant of houghts?" - has extended cold Anna Stepanovna.
"My thoughts are different, but all about you."
"Oh, please, don't start. I know, had seen."
"But I'm really costantly thinking. Longly, anxiously. And daily passionately waiting for your mercy."
"Every kitten can calmly be longing. Everyone is quite able to feel. Even you, fully wretched, is demanding for love. Why don't you live with something earthly? With habitual, modest and plain. That's more foundational, more weighty."
"There are no foundations, no basics. At least, for lost since day of birth cursed hopeless me. Only barrenness, emptiness, void, being gredily ruthlessly eaten and torn by eternally strained expectation."
"Your current destiny is bad. Bad and low. As well as previous and further. How you're still even not disgusted from yourself?"
"I do not even notice myself. And never look in any mirrors. I am entirely in you."
"It looks like real tragedy, not less."
"Anyway, it already had happened."
"What will we do today together? Let's go, at least, for common walking through of village, at least, will look at local light."
"I'll be immeasurably happy with the right to accept such suggestion."
Semyon Andreevich has pushed the chairs back and slowly gone inside of hallway: "Where are we going? To the square?"
"We can most definitely go anywhere. Let's start, stop to submerge in aimless thinking."
The door has slammed and both of heroes have crawled out.
Nice young awakening was already entirely raging into free courtyard's pleasant pace - deep vast defenselessly exposed at running forward roads' length washed out puddles were sadly blackening and bubbling, thick heavy drops were smoothly rumbling at roofs' oldness and nimbly flowing endless streams were incessantly looping and bursting, with utter easiness and swiftness coming up and after time, away of rest, with not less vivid scale of speediness dispersing.
"Good and warm. Even festive." - has after while infirmly dared to remark Semyon Andreevich.
Anna Stepanovna has rigidly said nothing.
Their vague silhouettes have mutedly gone back.

VI
Ivan Kupala's day was coming. The land has finally returned oneself to life and got refilled with daily fuss. Bright sunny hours have perceptibly got lengthened. Nights have equally turned both more warm and more active. Time has started to pass incomparably bolder and faster. All of things have become slightly deeper. Colors' tints have with restlessness fervidly bloomed here and there, having instantly flooded with self each free spot, meek naked countryside's landscapes have overdosingly got clothed in growth of leaves, glades have dotted oneselves with first flowers.
And Semyon Andreevich with Anna Stepanovna have become, as it has slightly seemed, frankly closer. The lady has increasingly begun to pay responses on incoming invitations, begun to spend much more of vacant term of time in common meets and even gradually started to show own interest to talks. As if something has changed since this spring. Their joint dialogues have aquired some shy prospect, some strange hope, so unexpectedly inspired by unforeseen unknown circumstances' will.
So at now they were sitting on shore, exchanging out their intentions and calmly spending lovely tender conversation.
"Where are you looking all time? Somewhere far far away at horizon. What you're going to see in those places?" - has with dry smile got deftly interested out resting lady.
"I am thinking of fate."
"What for to think about last one - about fate you is possessing. Anyway, it is empty and worthless."
"That's why I'm thinking even more."
"You cannot fix it just with thoughts, try to move, to do something. Life can't be built on pure ephemerality."
"It is impossible to be fed with so indifferent particularities as well. What use I'll get from vain success. Will it ever become really joyful?"
"And into native devastation each thing is similar to fun? Which sort of comfort does bring hopelessness and pain, what bright and huge can be in it, in its dead depths."
"It gives faith, timid hope, that I'll indeed entice my happiness one day and you will suddenly gift mercy."
"There are a lot of fully lost, so I will not support all and everyone."
"I know lost ones are everywhere, and you yourself is only one..."
"And if to say about others, did you get deprived of each of them or what?"
"I do not look at others here. The spirit does not warm from last ones' flaming."
"You are thoughtless. Underdeveloped. Infantile in all and everything you do. You have neither independence, nor far-sightedness. Only totally primitive dreams. Why you're still tirelesslly stuffing me with trifles – with silly talks and aimless plans."
"But, admit, maybe not so much aimless they are. In life everything tends to come true. Fully occasionally, extremely rarely, but still."
"And due to whom are you so strange?"
"But how to live without dreams? Without them, as without of sun - no of heat, no of light, only darkness, bitter bitterness, hell."
"And under lighting of imaginary lumen it's just not smaller than unspeakable pure bliss? You is cheap storyteller, unconvincing."
"As a fact, it's so impossible to manage to convince you."
"But, anyway, you are still trying. You're with sternness sedulously begging and incessantly rushing aside. As if you've really believed, that you'll succeed in to seduce me, having easily bought by own stupidness."
"But what exactly can I do, if my dreams grow themselves."
"True, that's truth. If you was startingly constructed as a fool, the way is only one - to hang yourself."
"Yes, without possessing of you, it remains only noose, nothing more."
"Bad business is not tricky."
"All my madness is closing at you."
"What a cursed kind of fallen share – to be wasting own life on the people, like you."
"Stop getting evil, break it, kill, try to get used to me, to bring some dose of mercy."
"Even dog can't get used to the stick. And me too. I don’t intend to be adapting to the fools."
"Why so much rudely, so not warmly, not affectionately, why again so much coldly?"
"That's because you still cannot give up, cannot stop after all, can't recoil away. As if indeed attached by something mystic."
"But how else, if such necessity attacks."
"Just a damnation, not much less."
"I'm begging - rescue me from this. Have some pity and help."
"Helping to the others, you're just learning yourself not to do it. Stop your beggings. You is far very long not a child."
"I can be even slave, even animal."
"You even now is as dog on shortest leash."
"It truly would be so much pleasant to get from you at least a drop of petting fondling, to get some chance, even if it'll be wholly betraying."
"Why can't you, bonehead, just calm down?"
"And each smart one should just most instantly reject you?"
"They at all do not roam and don't pursue. They safe own time and look at others. And, of course, they should always be judged by one God, not by us. And cursed you is again so much foolishly crawling to me as a mongrel."
"Again you give me evilness, send scoldings..."
"If I will really be scolding, bet, you'll never be able to cope to come again back to your senses. I don’t swear. I'm just showing you truth. But for you, as for typical fool, it can't be joyful, bright or sweet. Okay. Let's leave it for hell's cradle. Term of evening is soon, I am going to wander. Once again back to void of home."
"But you didn’t appoint next meeting."
"We will meet at Ivan Kupala. Will walk directly here, will swim. I'm going to release my sinful soul. And now goodbye. I am already runing out."
Cute gentle contour of her tiny weightless figure has slowly slipped between of bushes, then deftly waved with motley canopy of skirt and insensibly melted in distance.
"Something strange. Even wittingly vague." - has judged Semyon Andreevich with fright: "What does foreshadow this, who'll answer... Something surely dark."


VII
The gray and deeply faded morning has smoothly closed with lonely canopy of sky. Was gradually getting cold and windy. The land was coming numb and sad. Shy heaven's veil was slowly starting to sow dampness. Gloomy district was frowning and freezing. Was persuasively going to rain. Semyon Andreevich has lifelessly got up and extended to self: "Today I strictly need to go to the city. Of course, for treats and regales for my dear."
He has put sweater on, then washed face, taken out old little bone comb and begun to improve own look.
"Some sort of marafet is done. So, now it's time to start my road."
The key has clicked. The door has closed.
Into faded dark building of station, just right next to its gray ticket office, were standing near two of people - Pavel Alekseevich, simultaneously stocky and puny agronomist, very arrogant, unprincipled, quite immoral and hollow both visually and internally, and Oleg Egorovich, already so notorious for Semen Andreevich.
Pavel Alekseevich was demanding from Oleg Yegorovich to sell him part of his yard's land, and Oleg Yegorovich in his turn was silently playing with cheekbones, as if just waiting for the end of conversation, but then so suddenly has taken instant rush and kicked with fist by nearest of walls: "Why can't you, Herod, just calm down, why do you, lousy cattle, squint all the time, damn sick snake’s throat!? You'll never NEVER see my land, vile and spiteful reptile. You, damned fallen and miserable nit. No of doubts, you'll rot into grave."
"Again you shove yourself! Too early. Your mouth better to shut up. Did you get here a lot? Will decrease in a moment. I’ll bring you down to this ground. My hands are long. You know well."
Semyon Andreevich has weakly got dumbfounded.
Oleg Yegorovich, not continuing to listen to the insulter, has turned back and approached the hero: "Peace to world, Semyon Andreevich."
"Such peace is similar to war. What has happened at here?"
"Yes, again this cursed shit has got surfaced. Now we'll sit into train, will get, at least, some chance to talk."
Deep long beep has intensively squealed. The platform has effortlessly revived. The locomotive has crawled up.
Oleg Egorovich has deftly jumped inside, taken one extra place for Semyon Andreevich and wiped the window.
"Why aren't you able to share even a piece of simple ground? So stingy, so miserable and greedy you are. You're so brightly showing deficit of soul." - has pricked Semyon Andreevich from start.
"Believe, you do not know much of this, Semyon. And if to tell, it'll take long time. You should remember simple thing, that Pavel Alekseevich is Judas, scary terrible nit. You'll never find such creatures even in eternity. Retain in mind my modest words. Nasty type is he, scary, disgustful. Shy away from his mug. Each one gets sorrow from his presence. Such kind of poison is enough for all alive."
"Seems as no one have easy life. And I was thinking I am suffering alone."
"Whole world consists of sufferers and only. Sufferers and Herods."
"We have quite crappy world, it turns."
"Just so it actually is."
"A strange thing is this fate... Strange and lightless."
"Completely everything and all, believe me, is quite dark and strange. So, you watch and so small looks each person in world, so much lost - into frames of wold's scale, in its lawlessness. But anyway his fate somehow stretches, curls like thread – longly, slowly. First intertwines with breed of others, then goes apart, but still comes being calmly built and doesn’t end. And to such of results can it come, through so much can extend time to time, that you'll never track down - nor its source, nor its history's essence. That is what any human's life is! - only vector and distance, not more. But one step to the left, or one step to the right – and disastrous and tragical finish no longer than instantly comes. And by what is it ruled, this dim life? Maybe, by factors, or by height of the sky? Very close, but still no. Almost everything gets controlled by soul's type. And it itself is already like ordinary seed. Now you have a sprout - scanty, languid and weak, into what does it threaten to turn? Just throw it into ground's width and await. Something formerly hidden will grow. An apple tree, or a cherry, or just only a grass. But you can’t tell a lot - into what after all it will decisively pour out. Such a way here it works both with life of a person. All is wholly conditioned by soul, is determined by its inner gamut. As who will person be, whom will become, which of depths will reveal – no of matter, in mind or in sympathy, all of this here is measured by soul. Even more, love and hatred are also totally prescribed just from the start. And no of difference at all, how exactly you're trying to rule your own soul; no difference, how much zealous you are doing it; no difference, how you are educated; no difference, in what society you are imprisoned, your innate contents will not move off from the previous trajectory, will not somehow get changed and improved, will not change. And just in that is so sad and unbearable truth, that we trample this world only feebly, factitiously. Deep in essence, everything is already decided - to whom in hell to be, and to whom into paradise. Longly beforehand, were constituted and made up all lists of souls, and only after all of that both of these instances were built. Both God and devil are neither masters here, nor servants. They are only plain givens - extremes. They are an audience. And you, of course, an actor. But who is, tell me, the producer? Did you think at least once? Who has sculpted the personality of God? And what for... As a fact, the whole world has got out strictly just from one single idea. And you yourself live here right now on the same land, where several millenniums ago the first saints were tormented, and where were walking dinosaurs, and also whores were amply writhing in their groanings. And you, your enemies, and every body, and slops inpuddle, and time's matter, and distant stars, and desires, and abstractions, and old ancient mountains, and all kinds of perversions - all these things are embodied confidently by one single mind. Are fulfilled just by one single person. It’s indescribably amazing. We are primitive wanderers. And so true is the thing – if you don’t know needful way, you look at everyone as at your personal life's guide. All we hope, all we wait for advisers. And then, according to their baleful instructions, we successfully roll into abyss, into pure undeclainable dying. And already directly at here we get lost and destroy our souls. Just those ones, which are substances quite and quite viscous. Throw something in it, and this thing will get stuck. Any insult, or hope, or desire. Or dream. All gets stuck. But here is needed being said, that far not all of dreams are really such ones. Each foolish dream is not a dream at all. Similarly it concerns an unrequited love."
"Here we're finally coming to love."
"Yes, we are. Love is strictly like rope. You hold one of its ends, and the other one end, as you've guessed, is held by person of your partner. It works so, that there is no distinction at all between of you and of your couple, no border, no difference. Even more: it can't be any difference in principle - albeit extremely small and relatival. You and your partner converge and unite into one common entity and nature. And if there are only dirt and betrayal, falsity and insincerity on the opposite end, then you also can't feel true high feelings. Love is functioning here right like Moon, like some mirror. This is something similar to reflected light. If there is so, that there is no source of main ray, no initial beam, then it'll be no of light. You're unable to feel something more, than your partner is feeling to you. This flight limit is one for you both. And if your love companion is fantom and has an empty wasteland in inside, then you also will never exalt, will never get straightened up, will never rise to promised warming, light and glow."
"But how then to be, to act... It's necessary somehow to survive."
"To live and to survive are quite different matters. What for to climb, if you have no of heights for to do it?"
"And if to stand still - is it joyful, fine or what? Is taste of happiness here only in final common ruination?"
"It’s better to die from hunger, than to try any poison. You need to understand - you can sit with a broken fate, you can sit with a broken life, even with a broken face - it doesn’t matter, but if your soul is broken, then you will not recover, will not ever get filled."
"I already am empty and restless. All the time."
"Any emptiness here, after all, is quite luminous. It can easily be at the start, then can similarly quite easily disappear. But if some dirt was poured and born - it will not vanish, will not get diminished, will not recede. You'll exist with its burden whole life. With faded out spoiled heart. With deathless feebleness in all."
"But I never had strength, never felt. Neither long long ago, nor in the present."
"Don’t think, and it will instantly appear. But, of course, if there is proper cause. Then at once you'll get bloomed, filled and colored."
"Nowadays, all gets painted in black – in bitter mourning. There is no good and with quite equal similarity will not ever appear. And any words, no matter how much flaming all they are, anyway will one day disappear, will just pass – like a boring vain echo. And goodbye, all the previous edifications. And again time to sit just alone. To become closed in troubles."
"Even now you is fully in them, as in some thick invisible mantle."
"That means it's more familiar for me, more close."
"You got closer with doomed, with depressing."
"It's not your deal to be deciding, with whom exactly me to hobnob. I am free to connect with any kind of death and sorrow, even straightly with grave."
"You look in stupidity, in disappointment."
"That's the best, the most suitable space for me here. An ideal shelter. If I'm so much ill, that all of treatments are just useless."
"You fade vainly, unjustifiedly."
"I know, that vainly. Clearly know. But it already had just happened – to get inside of spoiled swamp, so then, the last place for me also is prepared equally exactly just right there."
"You have taken this place by yourself."
"Oh yes, and I most certainly don't plan to share it or exchange."
"No one will take, be wholly sure."
"I will not give, I will not part with its cradle till death."
"Just right now I am burying you too. Am sadly burying you alive."
"That's what I need. Such a way it's much better, much sweeter."
"It's a pity for you, after all. You are going to suffer in vain." – has deeply sighed Oleg Yegorovich.
And already upcoming of station.
On this moment have wordlessly parted.

VIII
So highly ardently desired and long-awaited with whole endlessness of heart, planned as so promising Ivan Kupala's day has finally impartially come. At roughly steep and quite uneven abrupt coast has come to gather decent bunch of local villagers. All ones are satisfied and prettily dressed up. Nothing strange, now holiday. It's accepted in here to keep to celebrate right so.
Under stunted and old heavy maple have unhurriedly met two dim silhouettes. Stepan Andreyevich has tenderly hugged Anna Stepanovna: "Was you waiting for me? At least, slightly and only a little..."
"Tell, what for do I need in it, dear? But some vague desire for long having of good dose of some sins is still really present. Otherwise I would smash your dull face. But I'll try just to tolerate it. So it be, continue getting pleased, my stupider."
"So unexpected, so much nice."
"That's why rejoice. If it's allowed."
"Is all possible now?"
"In nth degree."
"What a kind and a sort of degree, tell, is that?"
"You will see."
"Real miracles ..." - has thought Semyon Andreevich and then warmly held out: "Let's be going in water!"
"In such a case, start drag me up."
The hero has with deftness grabbed Anna Stepanovna and pulled forward: "Be most sure, I will not give you back."
"You have sunk into madness again."
"You've given liberty yourself."
"Just even barely agree to give you something, and you'll never calm down. Why you're so awfully unstoppable?"
"But you didn't give yet."
"I even do not think to do it."
"I will steal you, will steal my enchantress."
"Crazy one... Ay, I am drowning, am drowning!"
"It only seems." - has snatched the lady Semyon Andreevich: "Here, after all, it’s deadly shallowed, all the bottom is visible."
"I am not a mermaid, be more careful."
"You have only got wet after all."
The swimming has passed.
Semyon Andreevich has taken out a towel and wrapped Anna Stepanovna: "Wipe off yourself. Though will get somehow warmed."
"I already feel warm. It would be better to get heated slightly differently - with some ardent and fervent perversions."
"You will send me away once again."
"Perhaps, will not. Maybe, even will gladly expose all my carnal of treasures myself."
"So much tempting it is! Such a great entertainer you are."
"You is also the same. Go down under of my skirt."
The hero has with timidness put hand under thin trembling tissue.
"Poke deeper! Don’t be so shy. Rise palm higher. Yes, exactly like that. Hold on here. Oh, pure bliss!"
"You are so tender, so airy!"
"Go on. Pet me, fondle. So much pleasant it's there!"
"Oh, madness. This is purest fantastic. Divine paradise. Real outer space."
"And to that location it's already forbidden" - Anna Stepanovna has stopped: "Ah, such a grace!"
"An unspeakable one!" - has supported Semyon Andreevich.
"Okay. Have played a little and enough. Now will bathe once again - and back home. End to fun. All things are good exclusively in measure."
Have swum once more.
Semyon Andreevich has followed up his passion till her home and then slowly trudged back.
In his in vain and unstoppably suffering heart has timidly arisen some unforeseen and obscure, so delightfully ravishing rapture.

IX
Deep static lonely august evening has smoothly laid on coy width of nude sleepy and murky terrain. Dreary cheerlessly tiresome shadows have thinly stretched far ahead along of fully empty length of numb colorless, lost in sleep roads, foggy yellow lanterns have with drowsiness silvered up, cold and viscous tart haze has with soft gentle meekness extended over deserted gloom of lowlands. Tightly clouded dismal localities with frustrated and weary perplexion has firmly plunged in breathless icyness of silence.
Andrei Semyonovich has quite carelessly gone to the hollow blackened terrace.
"Once again time for autumn has come. One another nice summer is burned. Our path is so short here, so brief. As, actually, term of life itself, as all being."
He's weakly sighed and idly gazed at the clouded soundless distance.
"What's awaiting us here, what is coming... Right ahead, people say, there is all the time for main changes. Not for joyful, of course. Not for good. Such a way does not happen in here, does not occur..."
Andrei Semenovich has stopped.
Strictly indifferent, persuasively wilted areas were measuredly echoing to stiff flooding heart's cavity sadness, so bitterly reverberating by dim tunes of upcoming and confidently impending autumnal anxiety. Dead and dolorous lands of forgetful calm district were torpidly and frostily melting in opaque night veil. From all of flatnesses and all of nooks and holes was slightly blowing with already approaching up fading.
"So, in all of the lowlands there are only thickets and murky impassability, and in fate's prospects even worse. Poor life, poor years... Into where are they flying, what for... So much far all we are from the light, so much are deprived of life's easiness."
The hero has deeply looked around and turned right towards to ravine.
"And so it is, that, after all, anyway some strange permanent feeling of sizable guilt for all being so incorrigibly exists - every day, every hour and moment, guilt for all of world's flaws, lacks, disadvantages and injustices, guilt for all human pains and for everything, that has not managed to come true. It is so obvious, so simple, that not you was creating this world and right you have no strength, no law - for to change it, transform or improve, but so hard, so unbearable gets in each time from own shy contemplation of all – of such life's hopelessness and grief. It is so annoying, so immeasurably heavy to be a witness of this horror, not even partially speaking about being in a role of its accomplice. Exactly everything is broken, all is not as it should, all of here is just wrong. But somewhere, probably, is gracefully existing real light. Maybe paradise even. Not for us. Not for me."
And already the edge of ravine in ahead.
"At least, will look at shine of stars." - Semyon Andreevich has sat onto cooled wetish grass and fallen down into thoughts. In the distance were faintly burning sleepy fearful lights. Turbid puffs of dense smoke were floating away from lonely dilapidated washhouse's chimney. Somewhere far was occasionally rustling green mellow foliage. In inside there was somehow sad - sad and languid, incomprehensibly disturbing and unbearably alarming, persuasively uncomfortable and even quite bitterly painful. Life was seemingly being just stoped and apathetically frozen - as if before of fatal jump in awaiting dead merciless abyss.
Somewhere far over line of horizon has pounded an approaching late train.
Semyon Andreevich has timidly cringed and then slided with hand along moisty wet stems of low wormwood.
"What for exactly do I live? For which of aims?"
Into thickness of thickets has started frequent stubborn rattling little viewless grasshopper. An opaque matt canopy of the blackest deep night has in full force got straightened over of numbly sullen shyly dim forgetful plain. Some old branch has with secretness creaked far in murk.
"What for to fight? For what to go? Be daily trying, thinking, hoping and expecting. So impossible it - to handle army of murk, hopelessness and pain."
Sleeping deserted area has slowly got completely frozen. Stiff shadows meekly have subsided. The disk of Moon has apathetically hovered in impassively veiled into dusk gloomy height. Everything has stoped.
Semyon Andreevich has reluctantly got up and sharply straightened his frock-coat: "Time to go home. Dawn is soon. Once again back to void of walls. All as always."
He has slowly got out onto road and, having easily increased frail tired pace, with full indifference and dolor vainly strodden along of empty broken tract.

X
Seeing off time of last summer days, so vainly floating far away in gap of distance, Semyon Andreevich and Anna Stepanovna were calmly casually walking along of painted into morning glowing street. Free and careless frail sloppy wind was effortlessly lazily scurrying - among gray, pale and pensive landscapes, rebelliously rustling in already quite faded and wilted tree crowns. Bleak serene, sleepy vastness was meekly getting numbed and bored under blurred deep haze of thin lonely and colorless fog, so thickly enveloped all of weary and calmly quiet arrays of monotonous morose quarters. First coy rays of arising up sun were unassumingly and humbly gliding over across of cloudy and timid flaccid district, shyly fondling all vague and delicate contours of forlorn low tiresome buildings. Single carts, worn and rare, were measuredly crawling by path's length. Local shops were begining to get widely opened.
"It's so great in around. So much calm and relaxed. And so beautiful. And the day also is so much careless. Pure enjoyment in all, nothing else."
"Anyone seeks for something directly particular, but you, fool, sees a holiday even in plague. What good is here? Grayness. Autumn. Boredom, desolation and gloominess. But you are admiring. With no reason, no matter or cause."
"Well, at least, I am warming myself by this littleness. No difference, what can be said by you, but it’s really nice in inside – both from our transitory mutual unity and from so persistently unendurable weather."
"And what exactly is it, that orientates you here only on pleasures? Why is you so?"
"Why? I want happiness. Even crooked, even frail."
"So crooked and frail - it’s not a happiness at all. You panhandle in here for the absolute scraps - of all big, great and bright. But you'll never be able to get consoled with them. You need to look for good and true, need to pretend on something worthy. Our fleeting life's time lasts not centuries, very soon all of things will be dwindled, dried up and gone off, whole their past arrogance will tracelessly come broken. And what's then? Or you've truly believed in one best? "
"Although it’s deadly strange, but I indeed do not give up - I believe in my luck and in miracles."
"Do you seriously know, how such ones even look like?"
"If they'll come true, you'll not misunderstand."
"Are you indeed so deeply stupid, that quite certainly mindlessly faith something same will ever straightly cope to occur? That it'll appear, that will visit your life and will eagerly jump out right into hands."
"Well, maybe not right into hands, but, at least, it'll get finally shown, it'll come dare to bare oneself."
"And what matter, what use will you have from such act? You will never be full with only one pure visibility, with wholly hollow and empty appearance."
"You should know, any miracle is pleasant even as an image. It's always cherished, precious, genuine."
"At me you're also only looking, admiring strictly from the side. Take, at least, me by hand, cling much nearer."
"At my short century, once more so much rarely rich condescension. I even was unable to expect."
"That means you do not know my desires, you can't read them, can't guess - by one sight, by thin notes of appearance."
"So much nice is your grace, so much sticky."
"You is dreaming and only. Once again you get fully unleashed."
"So madly variable you are."
"I? Why did you decide so? After what? I allow to take me by hand - yes, you may it, but vain dreaming you need to give up! Take care only of tomtit, and do not even try to be staring at crane."
"But it's so strongly desired to get out some crane from my tomtit."
"Such a great storyteller, such a hero lover. You're all the time wanting, dreaming, imagining. Pure curse instead of human life."
"Into couple with you I agree to have way even straightly in hell, even in marshy swamp, in any kind of obscurantism."
"So hugely said. Better fix me my garter. Just will be some little obscurantism for you."
"With incorruptible pleasure."
The hero has rushed to fix.
"Thank you." - has alluringly extended Anna Stepanovna and lazily snuggled up to her boyfriend: "Take me to the tavern."
"Just instantly."
Have turned around. Taken way right to the tavern.
In inside was exactly not crowded. Into dim, softly gray vague light of a turbid, pale lamp were sadly melting with deep silence lonely heavy green circular tables. Cutely whitish cold smoke was insensibly floating through. Not loud music, calm and faint, was sleepily playing in remote bleak farness. Were occasionally clinking voiced dishes.
Semyon Andreevich has seated his Anna Stepanovna next to oneself, then corrected disarranged tablecloth and handed out pallid faceless book of menu: "Choose the regales."
"Even something to choose is already not bad. To wet abyss throat for at least."
"This is also big matter."
"People say, that all rum here is tolerable. We should check."
In next moment have asked for a waiter.
Then have waited.
Soon the order was brought.
"And rum is really not poor." - has answered Anna Stepanovna: "Hellish thing."
"Yes. Intricate." - has told Semyon Andreevich and put his hand on Anna Stepanovna's skirt.
"You want to go there?"
The hero has nodded.
"Definitely no. Not today. Do not ask. Not each day a carnival. I believe, you will somehow overcome such a desire."
"I feel quite blissful even so – with no permittedness at all."
"That is even more joyful. It would be good to eat some meat in meal's addition. If it's here not excessively dense."
"I will order."
The meat was brought and was really not dense.
Such a way they've had lunch. Then exchanged with a couple of replicas and glances. Then have got gradually parted.

XI
Thick lonely grayness of rain's mass has languidly painted thinned and faded close street into icy and silent severity. Mortally indifferent drowsy sky's haze has slowly got crawled along with abundance of liquid dim tones, tiredly stretching over desolate horizon with deep bordering fogs. Highly desperate faded land's width has come hopelessly filled with irreversibly withered leaves. Fully broken and mottled with potholes old road has turned hastily inundated with profound long puddles.
Semyon Andreevich, having monotonously stepped through of empty and lifeless terrain, has got out to wide divarication, then exchanged one more couple of tiresome quarters and slowly entered in gray aged station's building.
He had to go to the city - to his longtime school friend, Alexei Konstantinovich, in lots of aspects very similarly minded and in some even fully clone like.
The hero has come to cash register, then quickly taken few of coins and handed them up in a small cold metal tray. The immediate scanty back trifle has almost instantly tinkled on its deep sloping bottom. Together with this, crumpled dirtily gray, elongated ticket has with swiftness appeared.
So, now it's possible to go.
The platform is persuasively not crowded - several families with children, one disproportionate old man with shoddy battered worn dog and several ragged teenage beggars. That's all the people.
This time without sellers, carts and bustle - not a season for peak.
Nothing more, nothing bright, just ordinary transport.
The train has languidly arrived. Rightly rounded iron doors, promptly opened with creak before platform, have sleepily squealed and then stopped into meek hospitality.
People have started their tight climbing in inside.
Each one has sat, settled, calmed.
Into wagon quite dark - the lamp is broken, outside of the window is also overcast. So, even newspaper to read is not feasible. By the way, there is no such one nearby.
Semyon Andreevich has nonchalantly turned to the glass and got frozen.
Vat variously colorful and shyly timid long landscape has stretched out. Steel wheels have ruefully rattled.
"What a miracle is it, the train!" - has involuntarily admired the hero: "Noises, puffs, creaks and squeaks, but still pulls us and drags right wherever we need. No one hesitation, there's something alive, something human into this huge bleak cast-iron engine. Just as if it’s inside inhabited by soul, as if it naturally feels all and everything and zealously does its best for to deliver each one of passengers to bonds of proper places. Such a charming harmony. It all time so much seems there is nothing special or marvelous - rambled knocking and ringing, some a type of completely disturbing uproar, but not so simple, even rather quite melodic, even kindly affectionate. Like it has come to here not less than straightly under of the pen of some composer. Nothing extra. Just beauty. Strangely industrial, dispassionately monolithic, but beauty. And it’s so simple. So clear in inside. As if primordially soldered with heart. How we were even living without trains? I'm sure, it's purely unreal to imagine."
Has sarted beckoning to sleep. Semyon Andreevich has lazily leaned back and got forgotten.
Then was long beep and growing fuss.
That's needed station.
The hero has with slowness taken his suitcase and moved to exit.
At calm platform is quiet. Drowsy city's expances are serene, nude and bleak. Streets are sad. Dismal area's vastness is deserted.
Vacant timely ordered taxi has deftly rushed into unendingness of road and quite soon was already driving up Semyon Andreevich to the desired entrance.
Then range of stairs.
Way is finished.
Alexey Konstantinovich, directly from the doorway, has put up his strong muscular hand, pulled the guest to oneself and then friendlily patted by shoulder: "So much longly weren't seeing each other. Come inside. Oh, how much heavily you've thinned."
"That's pure result of all I have. In the village nowadays only so." - has gone inside Semyon Andreevich.
"Our visitor, greet!" - has introduced nicely vivid and cheerful owner the guest to appeared out of bedroom young and pleasant shy woman, Elena Igorevna, his especially shiny and tenderly glossy newly-chosen darling.
"Look and meet, that's my lady." - has lively commented he to Semyon Andreevich: "We are knowning each other for only two weeks, but it seems we are truly acquainted for not less than a whole full-sized century. We have met at the tavern, by case. Have made identical mistakes with one closed door – have contemporaneously started to knock and hit in utility room. I've committed such rave by the reason of drunk poor eyes, and she - because of her girlish perplexity."
"Greetings." - Semyon Andreevich has nodded and sat down on vastness of chair.
The room was spacious and plentiful. Above the richly decorated, prettily wrapped in golden glossy tablecloth wide teeming table was with proudness hanging multi-tiered bright crystal chandelier. High heavy walls with darkly red wallpapers were boldly boasting with weighty oil paintings. Two large polished wardrobes were carefully stuffed right till the tops with all kinds of fat books and utensils. On the floor was thick colorful Persian rug. On the windows were fresh-looking white jalousies. In the corner was lonely piano.
"Good at here. Fine. Assertively cute." - has admired Semyon Andreevich: "And all have I - only darkness and cockroaches. Only longing and murk everywhere."
"You should go to us. But you are staying in the village. And what is there? Just hopelessness and nothing in addition."
"But what's about life of you? Into where did you cope to come settled?"
"Into fire department. Nowadays I've grown up till the unit commander. Month salary is decent. And next prospect is also not bad - they can transfer my person to neighboring province. If it will luckily fall out. And from there, as I think, it'll be really not so far till the capital. Entrusted service also is quite full and nice. Into there I have all and at once - money, honor, paid uniforms. The whole set."
"Real luck. I don't envy, but apparently should."
"And what's about being in the village? With what it's possible to entertain oneself in there?"
"There is fully nothing in there to be consoled with or amazed. Nothing common with lightness or joy. Nobody is wanting to welcome me there. All available money are scanty. No ones of prospects there at all. I am living right so, that there is no obvious difference between me and dead corpse. Only my poor head is still spinning and my eyes also are somehow blinking. That's all my chic."
"It was always so bitter, so sorrowful into our pitiable rural wilderness... It’s unbearably painful. And this pain is long centuries old. City feasts, village stays into poverty. Into here it's in blood. All grace is in the capital and only."
"I don’t have time for it. And can't be anyway commanding with my heart. I am rotting in there not by will - by vocation."
"What a terrible rank, what an awful life's route. Woeful fate, hopeless, desperate. And to whom do you owe with such selfless and deep restless courtesy?"
"So, one rogue cutie had got somehow vainly found. I've got hooked, got entirely broken in splinters. Now she is permanently standing in front of my, no matter - closed or opened, eyes are. Doesn’t leave my worn memory, doesn’t release."
"That's the easiest way to unconsciousness, to pit of memory-less state. You should reduce your reckless temper – such sick swiftness is utterly stupid. And then, with folishness in leaders, to next self-burning will be straightly just a step."
"I already am burned. Completely scorched. My angel is with charred wings. And also dead, as well as me."
"Most heavy tragedy in all. The most awful and real."
"Here and now there is not a funeral, but an actual mutual holiday!" - has interrupted Elena Igorevna: "Act more simple – just eat. Look on table, on food, it's ready, everything is freezing. If all is served, it’s great sin to refuse. Cut the same central goose. It is really yearning for you."
"This is true, this is practical." - has confirmed Alexey Konstantinovich: "Let's eat, we will have lots of times for to sadden. Even for to cry, if it will be desirable."
"Let's eat." - has nodded Semyon Andreevich and moved to the aforementioned bird.
Goose has laid out on the plates. Have poured fruit drink. Then have started the meal.
"And the appetizer is really noble." - has concluded brightened Semyon Andreevich: "Peerless. As if these dishes were prepared for some feast."
"All this is due to my Elena, my dear glory." - has boasted Alexey Konstantinovich: "Such a careful soul, purest angel."
"So much lucky you are. Very lucky. And what's of me, I'm mainly eating one leftovers." - has complained guesting fellow and numbly lowered his eyes.
"You should visit more often. Will, at least, feed yourself. I had found your address with quite obvious difficulty. Almost barely coped. And my unlucky modest letter was also going up for whole unbearably long month. I didn't manage to take risk to ride myself – was afraid to confuse you."
"No of worth to be going at all - just for becoming disappointed, not more. I have no pleasures into there. Only darkness."
"One murk is one, one else murk is another. Sometimes such things are getting done in it, that this literally captures whole spirit."
"I would eagerly do all the same by myself. But no one gives to."
"This is true curse. Not otherwise. It's not allowed not to give. It's even sinful." - Alexey Konstantinovich has smiled and looked at each other with Elena Igorevna. She was timidly laughing.
"She supports me in that." - Alexey Konstantinovich has prettily petted the lady by the canopy of her dress: "You is my outlet. My playful priceless light."
Semyon Andreevich has sighed: "And with me never so."
"Don't shy, eat. We are really glad of to feed you. We have also prepared the fish, it's just waiting." - Alexey Konstantinovich has pulled up further plate next to guest: "Look at him – so much emaciated, but still repeats to shy of food. Someone else would vigorously torn it up in parts. Do you consider we're of ones, who're in such cases can feel greedy..."
"Not accustomed like that."
"Yes, education and upbringing are deadly mighty all-consuming fierce fetters. It's so impossible to live with such of things. People don’t need them — neither morality, nor politeness or decency. Religion also is the same. There is call of conscience, of soul – all the other is totally needless."
"That's all true. Soul is main... But such one can be found today not in everyone."
"Yes, some of people live without it since birth, and, after all, they all are somehow still alive – are, as always, perennially rampaging, inexorably cheating and successfully growing own spitefulness and malevolence. Any creature is staying in process. It’s so hard time from time. Only here we are basking and warming - into personal modest closed peace. On great distance from rest. Most of people at now are indeed simply crazy, unacceptable."
"Into village, it is even worse. Life is small there as ant. Any rotten of deeds immediately climb up to the surface."
"That's thick point for sufferings. How do you even hold on?"
"Some a way... Neither dead, nor alive. Only single external faint look."
"Already well. At least, a look. At least, some style is calmly done."
"What is done? Completely false and empty visual deceit? And inside is stiff emptiness, murk..."
Have fallen silent.
From overnight staying Semyon Andreevich has refused. Although he was thoroughly begged. The hero has promised to come after week and also taken huge bottle of kvass and dry fish, carefully wrapped up for him into skin of newspaper.
"Everyone live with life, everyone live as people. Only I have in here one unceasingly incessant buffoonery and unendingly hopeless tomfoolery." - the hero has languidly shaken his head and trudged up to the station.
The train was given.
Inside its wagon emptiness and darkness. Again without any light.
The wheels have flabbily begun to rattle. The road has lazily got start.
And the meeting has decisively finished.
Again oblivion and yearning in ahead.
And again native platform of village has already exposed own gray edge.
Time for home.
And really so, right now its frames will unescapably be reached.

XII
Semyon Andreevich and Anna Stepanovna were motionlessly sitting into muted and hazily cloudy bedroom.
The hero was constantly looking at lady, slowly clutching her thin tender palms. And the lady was invariably staying totally silent.
"Good with you. Great." - has smiled the young man.
"Is it really so wonderful? Well, we're sitting together. Well, we're close to each other. But which results, tell, does it have? Which wholesome sense does it possess with? You just stare – with thirst for caresses. And what's next? What is consisted in the prospect? All is vague and foggy..."
"So much I desire to find, with which theme it'll be able for me to defeat you. What do you need? What's inside of your dreams?"
"Do you really think, you will ever be able to guess, what heart of woman truly wants? Every female wants peace. Peace, confidence and meaningful bright future. When whole soul blossoms and each particle of body wants to sing. But personally you promise only dullness and losses, completing withering, in which one vain you yourself was born and built. What's wrong with you? What can be accumulated in such couple, besides of troubles, which hazed profit? Tell me, what are you satisfied with? Tell, with what are you comforted here? All your chances promise only becoming exhausted."
"I would eagerly give fully everything, would sacrifice with all."
"So, you have nothing for this doing. Only lie me again in whole throat."
"Nothing is a pity! All for to be somehow closer to you."
"Well, why again about me? Am I really so highly desired?"
"Be sure - very very much."
"Well, press me, push. I would willingly participate in all this shamefulness myself - would get entirely soaked with such bliss. But what is actually standing behind of each of restless them? Only void..."
"So, all life what's around is also just vacuum."
"No matter, that vacuum. Yes, so. Yes, vacuum, but still with some specifics. And what am I getting with you? All is amorphous in there."
"We are living even in such conditions anyway and every time somehow cope with enduring of their frames, not becoming despondent or faded."
"We don't despond, but also feel no joy and no delight."
"On joys this time is strictly meager."
"But heart desires such of times, which will be totally another."
"Where to get them and where to find..."
"To to snatch them out from the fate."
"But how it is? By which of ways?"
"To conjoin in marriage, into stable wedlock. To get signed. And after that to be together. Then there will be no of troubles. And life will be released in flight. Away from any grayness of today and of sensual rags."
Semyon Andreevich was taken aback: "Is it really so possible?!"
"We must believe. Believe and hope. What will disturb us, what will harm? If it will be desired, it'll be immediately done."
"Will you agree?"
"If it will look from my point of view quite attractive - I'll agree, I'll come able."
"How wonderful it is! Just some holiday!"
"It would be so good and so well, if you would sell this worn and sordid house - this dead junk. So, then we will be fully able to drive selves in a better new one."
"But how to do it, to commit..."
"I faith, that, perhaps, you will cope. With help of sudden precious luck."
"I would be so much glad in such a case..."
"And even now don't be discouraged. You are thinking about desires, that is nice. Are your hands enough warm? No, cold. Come on, make them hotter by me. By my flesh."
"Wow, love."
"Yes, come on! Tenderer! And more frankly. Why are you shy? All my locations are already researched."
Have played up. The night has come.
"Stay at here." - has suggested Semyon Andreevich.
"No no, I’ll go, my dear. I'm full of fun. Enough. See me off."
"With greatest pleasure."
Has gone to see the lady off.

XIII
This morning, Semyon Andreevich has woken up initially puzzled and upset - at term of night he had an awful dream. It was seeming, that everything around is crumbling, crushing and burning - everything and all, just any of achievements.
And now it's morning.
The lonely gloomy sky is already exactly out of the window. It is time to get up. For to take some brief walk.
The hero has gathered, thrown on a sweater and left off.
Street's line is quiet. Fully gloomy and wholly dejected late autumn has already abundantly spreaded oneself just all over of local calm district. On the road are puddles. In the distance - thick clouds. In inside total longing.
After couple of quarters, first familiar silhouette has appeared - Oleg Yegorovich, fussy and awkward, was drowsily and restlessly wandering around of uninhabited neighborhood.
"I didn’t wait you." - Semyon Andreevich has theatrically waved his hands.
"We've got met by the morning hour. That means, we're having common ways. Where are you going and what for?"
"Without purpose or address at all."
"So, then let's go to the tavern."
Semyon Andreevich certainly was not expecting such a proposal and even got taken aback, but has agreed.
Morning tavern was bleak, quiet and fresh. There is no more sad show, than a dissolute place into early of hours. Hall is empty. No of people at all. Only single dejected waiter, negligently and carelessly fiddling with some bottles.
Have ordered the lunch and refused from the drinking.
Have begun to talk.
"Are you still rushing all around her skirt once again?" - Oleg Yegorovich has sadly shaken with his head.
"I can't do anything with it. I don't heed to your speeches."
"It is disastrous... Wrong and painful."
"For me it's too impossible to cope - with such obsession and desire, so heavily it attracts me in her captivity, in her passionate ties."
"The greatest trouble is exactly just in this: the softest fluff is that, which lies above of spikes. It's always sadly more attractive to look at totally pure trap, if such is beautiful and sweetened, than at insipid rid of grace and beauty chance. But if you'll fade inside, then finish – you'll come completely cracked and lost. And will be never saved and recovered."
"But, tell, what for to live at all, if you frustratingly don’t want to. And the fact, that with her there is certain swamp – where from exactly did you get this? Yes, it happens to feel rather sad, rather often she's utterly harsh and excessively cruel and proud. But all these things are so much little, are not much more than common usual daily stuff."
"Each one, who does not notice little things, comes deceived at one day in the big ones. Forever know and remember: there are no small of things at all. All in here is significant, all is meaningful, deep and important."
"No matter, even if right so. No slightest difference for me. I’ll stand across the way of fate and will not ever try to go anywhere. Let it will even crush me in crumbles, even cut me at once into shreds."
"So, for to stay across the way of own fate, you must know at first, into where it is going to go. By tradition, this thing is exclusively variable. And such a way at here it's able to turn out, that you will not be glad at all, even from you yourself."
"So, what to do? - to get used to the living..."
"Not happy thing, sometimes it's so. After all, there are forced measures too."
"So, all the life is as one huge forced measure - from its starting till end. If to look into essence. Try to adapt to it, to cope. Unlikely will be some success, it will not work in such a manner."
"In life important is one aim, one nude sense."
"What is it – sense?"
"Sense is substrate. Everyone has some own unique way, own substrate. That's as with food. Someone eats grass, someone eats carrion. Right similarly works it with the sense and with every and each of the values - all depends on your person, on your soul and your mind. Someone clings here to one, someone else clings as well to another. One is based onto right, other one - onto wrong. One scientist, of course completely crazy, has said one time, that we had come from fishes. By itself, total nonsense. But anyway, there is something common – we are clinging to every temptation and lure, as to some sort of special hook. And there are so much of these bad mental hooks, that you can’t even count."
"So, life inside is just like that."
"But what is life? Do you surely know? Life is your spoon, your chance to scoop from world all good or vice versa all destructive. So, everything depends exclusively on measure of perception."
"Yes, this perception is like drawbar: as only we becomes even slightly deceived, we right immediately hurry to succumb."
"Perception must be trained. Believe, you should with years and practice come provided with all of its advantageous positions. It works exactly like with tricks. They are mysterious and strange, but only from the viewer’s side. And from the place of illusionist himself, not more than nothing looks as magical or miraculous. And it's working the same with your head. Watch strictly only at the roots - in all of things. See only what you truly need to."
"So, sometimes you are looking so much, that then you want to disappear, to fall in abyss for perpetuity. And your life, after all, goes on..."
"Yes, goes... Both life and time are doing this. That’s why all this is so much bitter. Remember, everything, that burns, anyway leaves, at least, though something - smoke, or cinder, or ash, and only time here burns without any traces. You never will restore it or return. It’s going only to nowhere and only totally irrevocably each of times."
"To nowhere... Into dust of the roads..."
"And these roads are so different for everyone, so peculiar. For some of them even totally vain empty path will still come out to some big and worthwhile route, but for someone else even chic wide trajectory will decrease, get confused and transformed into wasteland, narrow down and then rot in nowhere, come faded, wasted, lost and died."
"With such a fate, beware of head - there is so much of fear, that it literally bursts. My poor consciousness at times comes confidently torn."
"Each consciousness is fruit of information. It is necessary to protect it from reality, to protect from the generally accepted. Any actual principles are indescribably wrong. But truly large human consciousness can't be crushed and destroyed. You will never be able to kill it. That’s like with pebble: it hurts a cat, but not an elephant."
"So it turns out - we all are animated tragedies. All are victims of path."
"There are no victims of path here at all. Here you have own road of fate and you yourself are, of course, its complete pure result. But after all, walking along life's road, you was doing something, was giving some kind of reaction - to all lights and all griefs. Anyone had some dirt. But someone brings up firm disgust to its matter, and someone becomes vice versa alike, having joined its mash. That’s the difference. Some a time you can come through of bitterest path as a human. And sometimes get stuck unsavably on almost royal blissful route."
"So what any of given ways is? - facts and people, you meet. But what is there - inside of them..."
"Just penetrate in human's head. In some of them the devils dance, in some the candles burn and smolder. Everyone has some own specifics. But in most of the heads stands deepest darkness. It stays common."
"Where to get happiness in this..."
"Faith, frue happiness really is, we ourselves can’t cope to take it. We only look at it directly from aside. Apparently, we need some kind of intermediary. As need money for buying of goods. Or need key for to open the door."
"Right chance is needed. Simple chance. But it happens here only occasionally. So we go and go with some way, all the time with weak hope remembering something already unavailable - passed and lost."
"Everyone has some sort of best time. Someone thinks of the past, someone thinks of the future. Some of this times invariably subordinate frames of present. Each one decides here, where to move oneself — to void's bonds or in nowhere. And life's plot is a matter, exclusively whimsical. Crack it, and it will immediately become worthless. Break the same cup, and you will easily make something nice out of its fragments - some small figures or pretty mosaic. But broken life suits only just for being thrown away. Just away to the garbage. If at once it has stumbled and died."
"Where can I get here my protection? Protection from ownerlessness."
"Into circumstances. Such saint ones are your shell. All accomplished things automatically save from all not accomplished ones. For example, something tolerable or even empty has happened, and that’s already fully all – your time, in current line of moving, is already filled up with its essence, and no trouble will take that spent place, no trouble will fill it with self. All what is good replaces all what's bed. Please, remember."
"So it turns out, that each single of events is deeply based on flock of others."
"That's right. This life is just like clocks - throw out even smallest of details, and it will stop itself forever - and you will never have such present, as it is just right now. Every fact, even small, every day, every meeting and moment has some personal volume of consequences. Exactly all is responding for centuries, covers up whole next endless eternity. Can you even imagine..."
"And there is only one true eternity – of human sufferings and patience. All the world is like that. And all of people are both so righteous and modest, so quiet and sinless. But in fact they are demons. There are only rusks in inside. Nasty nits."
"Behind any external severity and humble humility, asceticism and seriousness, ambitiousness and even selflessness, most often stays only emptiness. Remember, their ability to suffer does not apply to high of qualities. Any suffering should be for the sake of something, and even the most awful torment, but for the sake of purest nothing, is not more than an average manifestation of inner sadism, exactly in this case, aimed at oneselves. The same devil needs God even more than anyone of us – for to encourage and support the compliance of correctness and to point at injustices, at disadvantages and imperfections of the world, convincingly asking us to fix them, having sacrificed in the process with self. But that's all not for aim to improve this lost world - just in order to force you to burn whole yourself and then come ruthlessly deprived of the last, as a final result, having not corrected the original calamity at all. Never betray yourself, never sacrifice. This is most basic principle of holiness. Be indifferent, have no matter at all. Let will be all that should, don't prevent even dying of baby. There is will of good and there is will of evil - if you've got into touch with the last and you do tryings of to circumvent its depths, your result will be only worse. Leave any sufferings for sufferers. Avoid them without sympathizing. Be clearly knowing, that each devil preys here primarily on empathy, on trust."
"But sometimes you so highly feel sorry for someone. Or you do not feel sorry at all, but anyway interfere and participate. Come in assistance. You are looking for soul, that wasn't burnt, so fully wanting to believe in sort of light. To believe into people you meet. To attain some close person."
"To believe ... What a terrible verb. You can freely believe into anything. Though in demonic flattery. And you're going to faith. In our world this thing is etremely inappropriate. There is only trouble in all, only helplessness."
"With such a fate each our step leads us exclusively in coffin."
"So it had happened with us, that too narrow is so cherished path, which leads to paradise from here."
"That is right. Everywhere is lie."
"In this strange world lie doesn't exist at all. There is only truth at each corner. Only in the first case its role is played by really reliable information, and in the second one – by absolute deceit. Please note, that any weighty falsehood comes presented exclusively under deep mask. Lie and truth are only simple elements of erecting of some kind of reality - either valid or illusory."
"Wisely, meaningfully. It’s, probably, so difficult and hard to be here an intelligent person. I am sure, I'm unable on that."
"It’s not especially difficult to be. It’s difficult to manage to become - to reach own wisdom and insight. To find your personal right key to understanding. This world is fully like a dream — for to wake up, to get escaped from such one's trap for all of us here is required some sufficiently loud sound, some sort of irritant, that will be strong enough. That's why your head needs to absorb too huge and harmful scope of rave for next ability to cope to realize, that all around in own turn is also nothing deeper than obsession. But being smart means total loneliness, estrangement. Any superfluously heightened contemplation is also thing, as rule, quite tragical and painful."
"Do smart ones also make mistakes?"
"Here such a thing is taking place – fools come confused, shocked and discouraged by mind's cleverness, and smart ones - strictly vice versa by nonsense, stupidness and plainness. And only geniuses never carry care. World's pier is full of emptiness, of horror. There are no of meaningful goals, no of values. Both aims and tools are deeply sick. People put real genuine treasures in exchange on vain hollow wrappers and afterwards stay even glad and happy. This idiocy now is such guest, whose invitation is extremely into fashion. True state of recklessness is bottomlessly sticky. Inexhaustible, measureless, timeless. Any mindfulness has frames and limits, and pit of madness, as well as lack of sense, has both no margin and no shore."
"There is only darkness in here. As if God doesn't struggle with devil at all!"
"Here you are wrong. He cannot fight with him in principle, it's not his duty, task or aim. Only people themselves can be fighting with devil. No one else. But they are ruled here by one stubbornness, by arrogance, by desire to outperform someone else - doesn’t matter in what. That's why, they mostly do it in the smallest, in worst - in anger, meanness and unscrupulousness. Into this they are leaders. In decomposing and decay."
"So, after all, we're able only to get lost. To disappear."
"To disappear, it's too right. And we do it not even for a sip of some greatness, not for light. But for nothing. Remember please, for to get drowned, you do not need to have whole ocean, you can easily drown even almost in puddle. Or into swamp. But main of questions here, as always, is much deeper, where it's more likely to be ruined? In ocean's bonds reigns will of freedom. The same sharks into there are, as rule, rather rare. And into swamp you can find any creature, that can only exist. And each of them wants to get rid of your so strongly hateful presence. And right exactly in such tightness we first of all are getting lost. The worst phenomenon is company, uniteness. And the more high is your dependence on its ground, the worse influence it has. In such a case all your past inner world starts to come down to one single sudden person. To be immeasurably chained. That’s like with spatial perception: no smallest particle of matter how much far-sighted smart philosopher you are, but you enter close room and whole world limits self with its walls. And all the other space just simply disappears, although it doesn’t disappear and dissolve away of bonds of grasped up walls. You don’t see streets, don’t hear their sounds, don’t feel their weather and its changes. Whole life, as if most firmly cursed, begins with sadness to come down to your ill-fated little room. In fully similar sick manner you can depend at here on anything at all - on whore you love, on home tyrant, on local bully or on boldness of whims of bribe taker. And there is nothing to be done. No single chance on to replay."
"Why we are so much hospitable for these Herods and traitors?"
"Due to their cunningness and deftness. Remember, devil can quite easily be playing role of God, but God can never be in role of devil. And those times when devil's power is divine and omnipotent, is full of miracles and kind participation, then he is abysmally sweeter than any thinkable of godheads. And it is everytime indistinguishable. That's why, it's so extremely difficult to fight with nets and trickery of devil. And it's tons of times awfully worse to try to turn with him in friends. Moreover, to fall down in love. This is the straightest path to death."
"In all his trail. In all we have."
"Or emptiness. Inconstancy. You maybe see, vile and fallen of people time to time also like to show play in morality. But in them it's one-sided, short-living and most always exclusively fictitious. But you'll never manage to reveal and to disclose them. They never carry just one mask. The number of their guises is practically uncountable. And among of these masks alternates either goodness or anger. You take off a new one and believe into fact of its truth. But this is also one more fake. And it’s always directly like that."
"So after all, sometimes these fallen persons are rather eagerly make quarrels with themselves. So amazing!"
"This feature is the very salt: even God is not so many-sided as devil. It’s literally impossible to count all varieties of such nits. So, of course, they sometimes bite each other. But basically they just squeeze all good. They bring it down till pure wreckage and then happily lavishly gloat."
"Who we are here without mistakes, without any of omissions... Just imagine! The ideal ones, holy, genius! But there is nobody like that. They sipmply don’t exist, don't live."
"All good at here is strictly out of the ordinary. It had happened like that, had already become."
"So, what else can be said in addition - any person, we meet, is so mysterious, so passionately versatile and incomprehensible. Sometimes we're able on so scarily huge things - both on great and on terrible ones, no matter."
"Human is bottomless. That's the most dimensionless phenomenon ever. And either all this abyss is endlessly generous and lavish, or contrariwise is all-consuming and insatiable. There are no other ways to be."
"Still, it's much nicer to be smart. I am listening you and am coming amazed right from everything."
"All the difference lies into one simple fact, that for smart and intelligent person any mistakes and any stupidities are quite easily forgivable - without problems or delay, but for fool even mental illumination comes out only in wrong way. That’s all gradation, all their actual distinction."
"But why does course of our life from time to time start from full lowerness, from such a lost and rightless state - dead, insignificant and weak. Why does all truly ingenious get built exclusively on something tragic and petty?"
"The lower start has your ascending, the higher altitude will have next taken peaks. Please note, sometimes in order to turn smart, you need to come through utter scope of stupid things, of fullest rave."
"So much astonishing, so heavily frustrating!"
Have come silent.
Then have drunk glass of kvass.
"Are you rushing for her once again?" - has interrupted after pause Oleg Egorovich.
"Yes, still rushing..."
"You're aimed in abyss."
"Yes, maybe so. But today it’s already completely indifferent. I'm not a dog. I've still got used to fallen stick. So you was warning me quite right. But anyway, I can't behave another way."
"That's even sadder ..."
Time of silence again.
Have repeated kvass shot. At this time it has seemed not so pleasant.
"I am going to town next to midday." - has reported Oleg Egorovich.
"On business?"
"Exactly so. Just to the fair. Will you go with me?"
"I will stay. It's fussy there. At today I’m not interested in anything. I am sick of myself. At some another day - with joy. But not to fair - to the walk."
"Walking is tolerable even here. But in the city it’s indeed more free and pleasant. Maybe, air is different there. More deep and secular. On this I need to wish good luck."
"All the best to you too. Tell hello to the city from me – to each of streets."
"Okay, I'll tell."
At here have parted.

XIV
One more gloomy November day was indifferently carrying away thinned meager minutes of late lifeless weary autumn. The rain was dropping over roof. Were coldly blackening deep puddles. Few of occasional pedestrians were moving. Was slowly melting grayish fog.
Inside of cramped awkward room were sitting Semyon Andreevich and Anna Stepanovna. Their timid modest coexistence was neatly coyly stretching out into sleepy frail hugs and shy smooth conversation.
"Will the happiness be?"
"Will be, dear." - Anna Stepanovna has smiled: "What sort of hindrance can come? All is only for better."
"So captivating it's, that everything will surely come true."
"So, why not, if it was outlined."
"So marvelous indeed is this my life..."
"Not only yours, but our common."
"I am so overjoyed."
"Rejoice, my dear. Rejoice, enjoy. Take all from meeting. Taste whole me as a candy. And don't afraid to give yourself."
"Such an eminent bliss!"
"I am entirely for you - like highest treasure."
"Is all this real?"
"Yes, wholly real, my affectionate and honey. All is really real, my sugar."
"I wasn't even ever able to believe, that it truly can happened."
"And next bliss will not stop just on this! All will come one a day. All will be added, as we plan."
"With all my head would rush in that."
"So rush right now – so dashingly, so greedily and amply, as you, my lovely, only can. Gather in. In my sweet water, in tart abyss."
"Oh, you promote so great adventures."
"Yes, I’m promoting. So, just join."
"Once again under skirt?"
"Oh yes, of course."
"Will we have sex..."
"After wedding, not now."
"Let's then hurry with this."
"All will be. We will do. So, just fondle me all, just come on. Deliver me in deepest languor."
"You're even trembling! And already is wet."
"Yes, I'm trembling, am trembling, please come on, please just come!"
"Oh, my shameless."
"Yes, exactly like that."
And again lovely huddling. And again short goodbye.

XV
Into brightened and lavishly lightened by the first out-window snow spacious room were drinking tea Semyon Andreevich and Anna Stepanovna. Their usual gatherings for joy were at now especially festive - the new year was almost approaching. Calmly sweet atmosphere of incomprehensibly desired holiday was already generously hovering in astringent and sugary air.
"Now it is our turn to rush to implement great plans ..." - Anna Stepanovna has deftly stretched out: "I think, we need to settle down. Each new year ought to come with new life."
"In such a case, I am happily eager. Tell, in what should I wait for updates?"
"In same house, at least. Why not to take another one? Reliably solid, big and pretty."
"Where will we find it - who will build it for us?"
"As a juvenile one! Where to find? So much of property is persistently staying for sale. People rush to the city, go out. Prices also are penniless ones. It will be so much easy to take. There are no of problems for this, no of hurdles."
"So, after all, how can we actualize this matter in short time?"
"All will be settled, if to want to. We're only having to decide."
"That's greatly tempting. Even fabulous. What can I do and how to start?"
"It’s fully easy. I’ll try to find some worthwhile house, will look to know all of things, and you attempt to sell this one. And what's of me and my support – I'll sell my dacha for this venture. Then you'll transfer your money to me, I will add them and will go for to take picked up house. Then we’ll write out all of papers and will prepare for next housewarming party. And next will organize same wedding. Right after that, I’ll give you self. You is so waiting, is not so? "
"I am waiting each minute, not less."
"So, now you know really all. And while your house will be sold, you’ll live some time in local hotel. You'll not be left at there for long. Maybe, week... Week or two. And then we’ll sweetly play and bloom. You’ll be hungry of me. And I will easily surrender me to sex – after wedding, of course. It'll be so good to cope till spring – till its first days. Till first pure floods. It would be great. As in my dreams."
"I hotly totally agree. But I'm not sure, that even someone will ever willingly decide to buy this hut."
"I’ll try to think, to chat with people. Maybe, someone is looking for place. Some decent one and with reliably pretty penny. If it'll be so - I’ll let you know, you'll talk yourself of price and etc. And then you'll sell it and I'll sell my tiny dacha. And next we'll transfer to new place. To new nest. Long-awaited and bright."
"It would be just a paradise, not less."
"And it will be, my soul. After wedding. When I'll give you myself."
"I'm so much waiting – with whole heart."
"Wait, my sweetie. And in meantime, touch my wet charms. I'll give you all. Just after wedding."
"After wedding... All right."
And once again hot blissful hour of affection. And once again time to goodbye.

XVI
Stiff icy homeless restless blizzard, as an indefatigable guest, was wildly rushing by numb little courtyard, politely covering its lands with thick dense layer of fresh lavishly fallen white snow. Shyly sparse vague heights were downtrodenly cheerlessly graying far behind of old frozen frame's gap, meekly and measuredly sprawling by own mutedly colorless haze over chilled, dismal district. Pale sleepy distance was indifferently yearning in inconsolable January oblivion. An invariably turbid bleak sky was humbly blowing with stern hopelessness and sadness. Aged worn door time to time was quite wistfully creaking. Lonely lantern was timidly accumulating melancholy. Occasionally lowering by sides were faintly moving faded shadows.
Semyon Andreevich has already awoken, made strong tea and cut off piece of pie.
He had to go to the city. The irresponsibly promised visit was unforgivably delayed and right now was unable to wait anymore.
The hero has taken out his shy breakfast, then collected small bag, which was not rich on inner contents, and after that with vigor opened door of gates.
Now time to go to the station.
"In such a snowfall it's not surprising to get lost."
Semyon Andreevich has added stepping's pace.
"Cold. Uncomfortable."
And once again, as every time, tract, intersection, station, wagon.
It’s rather crowded on a snowy width of platform – each one of people is in hurry of to spend term of New Year holidays at city. The passengers are coming, the children are fussily scurrying with toys, all as always. Carriages with hand luggage are promptly lugging in around.
Long beep has sounded. The way has started to move up.
Outside of the glasses of windows, detached white neighborhoods of village have started crawling in away. The wheels have measuredly opened own meek rattling. Bleak roadside lights have turned on weak faint sparkling. Pure beauty, nothing more or less.
At city's station, it's quite picturesque too – right straightly everything is amply decorated with some garlands, with Christmas trees, nice motley ribbons and cute tinsel. Taxi drivers are also quite happy - grown up holiday prices are higher.
And now already needed door. And its voiced bell at whitish wall.
Alexei Konstantinovich, fresh and handsome, has good-naturedly greeted the guest, let him in and then pointed way to the covered table.
Right all of wishable is ready: from sadly lonely round olives and to huge heavy drake stuffed up with vegetables' flesh and overseas large plump pineapples.
At decorated with carved snowflakes spacious window is triumphantly richly flaunting tall and lush Christmas tree with red star, boldly towering up onto top. Sleepily shimmering pearl balls are lavishly hanging over festive and holiday body of this crawning room's splendidness tree, gently gleaming with faint, but affectionate glow. Multi-tinted long colorful garlands are carefreely sparkling in sweet embraces of thick long bright fluffy tinsel. Hesitantly, timidly and occasionally are glittering intricately cast thin crystal icicles. But even totally without all of that, whole space of house at this time is especially friendly and peaceful.
"Good at here. Pleasant, bright. Not only holiday, but fairy tale and feast." - Semyon Andreevich has sat at edge of table and adjusted his trousers: "Such a noble and fine atmosphere. Purest paradise."
"True comfort is like gold." - has answered Alexey Konstantinovich: "We try to keep it and to spud. Without coziness of home no light is nice, no earthly joy."
"Yes, such peace is great thing."
"And how are you? Again in poverty? What's of current fate's course? What's new in it, what big and good?"
"Yes, it seems even my poor fate has got fixed. We think of buying of new house. And see each other much more often... She is firmly insisting on wedding. Doesn't give me till it."
"I'm glad for you. Maybe all will become really right. Believe in good, and it will come. And now eat here. Eat and drink. Then we also will feast at your wedding."
"I would be madly cheerful. Everyone will be there."
"We all will come. Will not linger. Eat for now, relax. Will you try our drake?"
Smiling hero has nodded.
Alexey Konstantinovich has neatly taken out wide large silver knife and cut off weighty piece: "Now I'll treat you!"
Semyon Andreevich has thanked and started up to gobble meal.
The bird has really turned out to be dainty. By such a reason guts were forced to ask for giving of addition. Alexey Konstantinovich has gladly put huge extra portion.
"How wonderful is it sometimes at pier of simple human's evening, so much quiet and relaxed." - has thought pacified Semyon Andreevich: "It is so gratifying here. So fabulous, affectionate and cozy."
"So everything gets framed at here by hope. Hope for good. It may be very rich and wealthy, but without of sense, without outlet for soul - all of things will be dead, dead and hateful. Without rescue - my Elena. Without her I had been living here as corpse. Even in same dashing dumb luxury."
Elena Igorevna, who was silent before, has shyly smiled: "You have found your paradise."
"I was searching and found. As sky's treasure – so exorbitant and extremely valuable."
"You've endowed me with so peerless incomparability."
"You is entirely mine!"
"All am yours - in any way you want! As if since birth I has been made as your own timeless selfless toy."
"So much lovely you are into yours mutuality, into sweet reciprocity." - has admired Semyon Andreevich.
"Even people are getting surprised." - has boasted Alexey Konstantinovich.
"I am surprised, really, yes. But I'm glad even more."
"So, call us too - to rejoice with your happiness, with your next home carelessness."
"At first, I need to cope to reach it. To finish up my constant waiting."
"Waiting is an affair, quite languid. But sometimes rather pleasant and sweet, even truly addictive."
"And sometimes fully endless... And still barren in sorrowful end." - Semyon Andreevich has dropped his tired gaze and dejectedly sighed.
"Well, come on. All the life is ahead!" - has extended Alexey Konstantinovich.
"What is this life for me at all, if it is empty in inside. I am waiting all time for good twists. But any fate is matter, very very vague. And what is life, if it is aimless into essence."
"Aim is strong thing, that's right... It leads us even harder than a compass." - Alexey Konstantinovich has also come silent.
Elena Igorevna has taken out the compote, preliminarily brought from depths of cellar, and begun pour down into high china glasses: "Help yourself. Anyway, it's a holiday."
Have made few sips. Really pleasant.
In the evening have opened champagne.
Alexei Konstantinovich has frozen with a bottle and begun to come up with a toast: "For happiness - for everyone and all. For our future right on dreams and onto their realization."
"And for justification, for appropriateness of any internal impulses. For their relevance and usefulness." - has added Semyon Andreevich.
"And for that. Absolutely."
Have drunk. Then gladly have repeated.
Outside of the window, distant fireworks have begun to be fired. Late prolonged lonely blizzard has whined.
"That's already deep night. Time to sleep." - Alexey Konstantinovich has got up and begun to lay out the sofa: "You'll fall here, and we will go to the bedroom. I will leave the floor lamp slightly dimmed. For the absence of murk."
"Thank you." - Semyon Andreevich has also got up, reluctantly stretched out and sat onto aforementioned sofa: "Till morning."
"Till morning."
The hero has settled down. Then has fallen asleep.
The morning has come. First pale thin rays have shyly started to be crawling through of shrouded in winter immobility district. Gray sad sky has slowly turned into dim pinkish glow. Vague shadows have got stretched and fixed by sides' gaps. The land has gradually started to awaken and to come back to life. Has ridden heavy post machine. Still dark horizon, fully flooded with bleak morning shades, has slowly turned more outlined.
Semyon Andreyevich has drowsily opened his eyes: "All are still sleeping. I must wait."
An hour later both of owners have awoken. Elena Igorevna has taken out yesterday's compote, next let its volume into glasses and then supportively laid out light fish salad on waiting vastnesses of plates.
Have had breakfast.
Semyon Andreevich has shyly said goodbye, thrown on frock coat and then gone out to the exit. Alexey Konstantinovich has handed him his jacket, shaken hand, put large parcel with three remained pies and civilly accompanied to the taxi.
And again railway station. Gray ticket office, elongated faceless ticket and two hours of ride. Back to oneself. To expances of village. To daily life. To void's pier.

XVII
Into faded close room of the hotel, very cramped and lavishly filled with large bags, was graciously and thoughtfully sitting Semyon Andreevich. He had finally sold his past house and just an hour ago gladly transferred all money to Anna Stepanovna. So, now he was expecting further news and her next evening visit - with information, plans and joy. Time was silently crawling. Tight sleepy gloominess of room was impassively steadily darkening into silent oblivion. So indefatigably tireless blizzard was idleness vividly circling around. Dim pink floor lamp was monotonously burning in its cold soulless sorrow. Lonely morose shutters were calmly letting last weak sunshine to come in. An abundantly turbid and woozy horizon was slowly losing self in nets of dreary gloom. From time to time were fraily creaking bars of floors.
"Where is she going?" - has thought Semyon Andreyevich and glanced at face of watch: "It’s, as fact, total evening already."
Another hour has passed. On the threshold no one has managed to show up.
Semyon Andreevich has dejectedly sighed and anxiously cringed: "What a kind of misfortune it is? Where could she go?"
The hero has stretched out in the chair and continued to wait.
No one has come. Only night.
Semyon Andreevich has straightened his bed, then waited for another half of hour and with perplexion gone to sleep.
Foggy morning has come. Gray naked room has got evenly painted with the first slender rays. Whitish sun has slowly risen with itself above of sky. Outside of the window, single cars have reluctantly started to ride.
Semyon Andreevich has idly woken up, then gone to shower, from of breakfast refused. Next he has swiftly stepped for walk – for to reach Anna Stepanovna and to find out what concretely there had happened.
Outside is unpleasantly cold, the snow is tightly nailed to ground, there is no of blizzard at all, frequent snowdrifts are perfect and thick. Passers-by are quite rare.
The first quarter is passed, then the second. Everything is quiet, everything is motionless. Everything and all. After another three of quarters, the house of Anna Stepanovna has finally appeared - with red-clad roof and high thin shutters. Inside of there the hero never had permission to appear. He had been only vainly huddling onto threshold, for long time so devotedly waiting for the coming of unyielding inhabitant. So at now, after knocking in door, no one has come out to open. The hero has knocked again. Soon, some stranger has slowly appeared.
"To whom you are?"
"Where are the owners?" - has asked Semyon Andreevich.
"Guess, they have left. They've handed over home to us and then departed. In where, they have not burdened to report."
"Sorry then." - the hero has hastily turned around and with lifelessness strodden away. The gray deserted route has with indifferentness led him back to shy shelter of hotel.
And again pensive room, speedily filled with rambling things, and again bleak cold nudeness of walls.
Semyon Andreevich has tiredly leaned back in bonds of chair and dejectedly sighed: "Had she really disappeared?! Had she really robbed me and left?"
The hero has sighed again. Numb caustic and languid tart hopelessness has tightly closed over his fully lost crippled fate.
"I need to wait, to stop to think. Maybe, she had gone somewhere to look for some house and simply hadn't said of such intention. Sometimes it happens so. I have to wait."
Semyon Andreevich has chewed his modest meal and returned to the window. Young lonely sparkling vivid snow was with exaltedness chaotically circling behind of heavy shabby frame. Viscous dense playful flakes were silently lying onto neighboring roofs, wearily covering all their gradually thinning free area. Deep grayish smoke was sadly meekly flowing out from the high distant vent of the chimney. At width of road was bitterly blackening sharply naked melted ice. Were reluctantly and slightly awkwardly stretching last carts. Old murky arch was turning dark. Bleak faded lantern was obediently smoldering at the facade of opposite building. Rough and angular icicles were coyly silvering in breathlessness of coldness. Broken tiresome gates were, gaining dreariness, occasionally creaking.
The hero has with dolor closed the curtains and then helplessly climbed under blanket.
All of sounds have died, room has slowly dissolved, bonds of space got scattered.
"Still somewhere is warm."
Has warmed up, dozed off and dropped in sleep.
In the evening no one has similarly dared to show up. Money's volume was left for few days, not more long. The further living was unknown.
"What is now... What's coming..." - Semyon Andreevich has dismally got up and again gone to window. At the street was entirely dark. Only far into distance of cooled gloomy murk were offhandedly scattered some yellow lanterns. Wide pale neighboring squares of windows were insensibly starting to stop own soft light. Big turbid moon was, with slight languor ending hiding, with timid meekness peeping out of faint clouds. All the snow has already calmed down. Lifeless silence has reigned over mortified numbness of nature.
The hero has turned lamp's light off, sat on floor and clasped head with his hands: "That's all. Right now that's fully all. Now I'm lost."
Has unstopably weeped.

XVIII
On lonely threshold of large gloomy wooden house of Oleg Egorovich, was fraily standing lost inside Semyon Andreevich – was shyly knocking into door and, keeping hope on owner's mercy, was calmly waiting for his rescuing appearance. Soon, unhurried footsteps have come heard, old squeaky lock has clicked two times and depressed weary figure of gloomy inhabitant of the dwelling has weakly wordlessly appeared on its porch.
"So, I wasn't expecting of anyone! With what of aims did you come here?" - Oleg Yegorovich has held his weighty hand and let guest in.
"With not especially fine. With quite fatal, as fact." - has muttered Semyon Andreevich: "My life has stumbled. Has got cracked. It has finally found own lot – dead and hopeless."
"Describe, what horrible disaster has upcome."
"Heavy sorrow has come. An exorbitant one. She had robbed me. She had robbed me in once. And not by force – by promises and only. We had intentions to buy house. She said, we’ll mix up common money and will find some new one. I've sold my own and freely given all of cash. But she has simply disappeared. I am without single penny. All of things are at hotel. In the evening I have to move out. Where to go, to whom... I don’t know. I’ve come to you. So, maybe, you will leave me here. At least, for several next days."
"Okay, step in. But I must tell you of some news - you is not only one who's come so. I had sheltered one homeless teenager. He's introduced himself as Fedka. He was rootlessly straying by streets, when I've met him. Before of that he had been living into local boarding school, then has escaped and in such state was saved by me. So, I've, not thinking, executed my small dose of accessible personal kindness and turned unable to refuse. And now, as it occasionally has by fate's twists added, one more desperate settler has come."
"In tightness, but with happiness in command."
"Conditions are not too much cramped. The house is quite spacious. Even wasteful."
Semyon Andreevich has cautiously stepped. Quiet sleepy chambers have indifferently met with apathetic lonely silence. Monotonous thick walls were nonchalantly looking through murk with muted facelessness of paintings. Old, but exquisitely shaped furniture, was detachedly blackening next to deep corners with bizarre and daintily figured silhouettes. The floors were woefully and lamentably creaking.
Oleg Egorovich has habitually lit the light and then fixedly stopped right in front of the dresser. Called Fedka to appear.
Harshly slim and alarmingly slender teenager about sixteen years old has hastily descended somewhere from second floor. He's deftly moved own figure forward, quickly slapping with feet, and clumsily extended his thin frail hand: "Greetings to the guest. I am Fedka!"
Semyon Andreevich has shaken hands with frolic lodger and then neatly sat down on the old leather sofa.
"Here with you is another unfortunate one." - has introduced him Oleg Yegorovich: "Without house, sense and love. One a day he had handed all cash to his lady, and she has safely disappeared with every penny and each righteous bill of that bucks. So, now no one will find her trace."
"Who is she? Where from had she come?" - has inquired Fedka.
"Not worth attention or remarks, just ordinary average young nature, from the 17th lowlands' house, if you need such details. You don't know of her anyway." - has interrupted Oleg Egorovich.
"Where had she gone?"
"To nowhere. In particular, personally for me." - has dejectedly extended Semen Andreevich.
"It doesn’t happen such a way. Describe me her appearance and main features. I’ll find her out in a day. I can find truly everything here. I’m smart inside as brightest hundred of best brains." - has suggested him boastful Fedka.
Semyon Andreevich has gradually begun to characterize his ill-fated sweetheart.
"So, let's summarize. Her name is Anna. About 25 years old. Blond. Quite cute. I've understood. All right. For perfect searching totally enough." - Fedka has promptly jumped in air: "Uncle, give to me please a sheepskin coat. I will replace myself to square, next will quickly run back. Will ask some random stranger people."
Oleg Egorovich has reluctantly taken his sheepskin coat out: "Hold on. But be careful only. At one day you’ll come back with a beaten by somebody face."
"I don't care or mind. Person's face - not a vase, will come cured one a time."
Fedka has deftly got dressed and then hurriedly walked down the stairs: "Not much longer than instantly, wait, I'll come back. Sit for while, make some tea."
Oleg Egorovich has blankly closed the door, then louringly and slowly returned. Next put the samovar on fire.
"Where did you find him?" - has quite surprisedly asked Semyon Andreevich.
"Yes, such young miracles are now at every step. At the square had been wandering through. With smashed up by compatriots nose. So I had to provide him with roof. And now I need to do the same with you."
"And now you need to do the same with me..." - Semyon Andreevich has sighed and sadly lowered his gaze: "I will go to the hotel for things. Otherwise, they will throw them away."
"Yes, go. Come up, I'll open you the door."
Oleg Egorovich has seen off poor guest and lonely stayed to sit and wait.
Fedka has returned the first.
"I have found her out. I've even seen her face myself. She had settled with ours agronomist - with Pavel Alekseevich. In frames of now lives with him."
"Damn him. Damn up this worthless nasty creature!" - Oleg Yegorovich has suddenly got boiled: "Cursed bastard nit. Why he still didn't die, didn't rot!?"
"Explain me, uncle, why are you so angry at him? Did he offend you some a way?"
"Semyon will come and I will tell. I had to do it, anyway."
"Yes, he will come, will come right soon. Right from minute to minute."
And indeed, approximately after fifteen minutes, Semyon Andreevich has peacefully showed up with several suitcases and large bag.
"Such a plenty of things! Like ballerina has come up with solemn visit." - deft reckless Fedka has with shrilliness remarked.
"Enough of jokes! No one cause to be fun." - Oleg Egorovich has stopped.
"With our agronomist your lady spend her time. With Pavel Alekseevich." - the boy has hastily reported.
"I remember, you had been quarreling with him in one of days." - at such words Semen Andreevich has sluggishly turned to Oleg Egorovich.
"I had been quarreling, I know. And I will do it just until my trip to grave. I'll tell you now all the plot, if it has come at now so needful to be said." - Oleg Yegorovich has calmly sat in chair and begun his expositive telling: "It was a long of time ago. When I was young right so, as now are you. That time his father was alive - Alexei Dmitrievich. Putrid nit in inside. Actually, exactly the same, as his nefarious offspring. So one a day this old vile man has decided to take low possession of Julia Ivanovna, the one who was beloved here for my brother. And so it was, that they already were away of any grief quite successfully living together, and even for a long - about five-six common years. So, Alexei Dmitrievich also has fallen in desire - so impeccably luxurious was her breed - both with body's daintiness and with temper. This herod has started to entice her, to attract with rich gifts. And such way for whole year. After all, when he somehow has managed to break her, she has cracked and agreed. So, my poor Boris Yegorovich has even stopped his nightly sleeping. He's simply fallen into stupor. So was lasting for week. And then we've come one day to home, and he is hanging into noose. And near is laying little note - I couldn't bear it, couldn't overcome. Aleksey Dmitrievich was playing with her for six months and later has quite calmly left alone, then found similar one new, same mean rat. Exactly she has given birth to Pavlik. That’s all the truth. When my parents have found out all of this, they have immediately got most deeply hurted. Two years later they've both died. With difference in only two of months. First mommy, then father. So I've got left without anyone. And even now am alone."
"Such a purulent nit, such a bastard!" - Semyon Andreevich has maliciously clenched his fists.
"I'm also stunned about that. But still what will you do... Will only dirt your own life."
"I'll kill him. Kill with knife in throat. And if to say about slut – I'll tie her flesh to horse and let to field - for torments." - has suggested Fedka.
"Be quiet, get rid of useless rave, don’t be so zealous in suchlike. Without you, a lot of troubles are inextricably with us." - Oleg Egorovich has quickly interrupted.
"So, what to do?" - has sighed Semyon Andreevich.
"We'll live at first. In here, in what we have. So, next, maybe, some things will get changed." - Oleg Yegorovich has inactively reached for the samovar and poured tea: "Drink more. At least, will warm yourselves."
"Such a nasty village!" - has remarked Fedka and grabbed the cup.
"Don't singe yourself, be more attentive."
"The main is not to singe own soul. The skin will heal in anyway."
"Joyless year. In all." - has complained Semyon Andreevich.
"Year as year. People are scums." - has objected him revived Fedka.
"That's also true. Agree with you." - Semyon Andreevich has slowly sipped his tea and then got silent.
Oleg Egorovich has thrown slight glance at picked poor fellows and quietly yawned: "It’s time to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll try to cope with troubles. And in meantime, will rest in bed. That's you, Semyon. And personally Fedka will do it on the attic, just as always. And I will go to the cellar. It’s much better to sleep in the darkness."
All of the chairs were pushed back. Each one has settled down, then dozed off.
Deep faceless night has descended on lands. The house has come quiet. Sounds have got evaporated No light. Only emptiness.
Yes, only emptiness. Not more.

XIX
Fedka and Semyon Andreevich were sitting onto floor of vague attic, tightly filled with old things. Their dim, unlucky unity was flowing sleepily and slowly. The speech was sluggish. Thick languid sadness was inherently coming from every word, and the very talks' themes were equally not full of any liveliness or fun. Oleg Egorovich this time was not with them - he's disappeared to the shop, for to optimize trade. Whole atmosphere was attracting only apathy, nude walls were blowing with soft coldness, and aged carved watches were bringing mix of melancholy and depression.
"Was she extraordinary sweet and truly worthy of delight?" - has asked Fedka.
"No slightest matter into now. This case is dead."
"Now dead, but that time was alive."
"What is from this? Time will never turn back..."
"But what for to come back into past? If all the heart is fully broken."
"It hurts me, wrecks me anyway... But whether will you understand in your small years."
"You think, I'm stupid? Or think, I do not understand? I understand here everything and all, I even feel."
"At least somebody share my longing."
"Even if someone really will, it will never turn less. If it’s dark in your soul, any matches are useless."
"Have you been suffering yourself, if you know it so clearly?"
"My whole cursed life is one big torment. And now I've met the one, who's same."
"All doomed ones one a day come combined. This is truth, even rule."
"Into being together even hell brings your pleasure. And in being alone even paradise looks like a punishment."
"And you are smart. Where was you studying and by whom?"
"Almost nowhere, as a fact. I am abandoned all my life. And, after all, no one will teach you to be happy. And what's of any of regalia, of science - our righteous world had been somehow living for centuries without any of this things."
"I also am such fool. I've finished college, but I even don’t know what for. Anyway, I am here. Am dusting at this hazy attic."
"So it's working in our life, that something different is needed here for heart - flame, firmness, truthfulness, straightforwardness and hardness. And ringing with the mind is fully pointless. After all, we are far not field cows, vainly beating with their horseshoes."
"Sane mind is also too short matter."
"Among of fools it has no need."
"But where to find such place - without them..."
"Not on this earth, unambiguously and truly."
"Yes, only loneliness exists here, all is right."
The door has creaked. Footsteps have got clearly heard. Oleg Egorovich has expectedly returned to home space.
"Our uncle has come." - Fedka has aptly stretched out and started to trudge down back to first home's floor: "Let's go to supper."
"I am going, don't call."
Oleg Egorovich has luckily returned not fully empty – in hands hangs bag with puffy pies, frozen cranberries and freshly purchased kvass. Real expanse.
"Oh, such rich goodies! Like for feast." - has delighted pleased Fedka.
Have sat at table. Brewed strong tea. Begun to have immodest dinner. Have eaten all.
"Again it's almost time to sleep." - has sighed Fedka.
"That is right. It is dark once again. Time for rest. End of day, all is so." - Oleg Yegorovich has feebly moved pile of used dishes to aside and deftly slipped to bonds of cellar. Fedka has slipped to the attic. Semyon Andreevich - to corner with his bed.
Each one has firmly settled down.
Time has got stopped. Night has surrounded each spot, closed up and frozen. All has flown.

XX
Room's pier is quiet, dark and calm. Semyon Andreevich is sitting in armchair, nimble Fedka is fiddling with something in dresser.
Oleg Egorovich is not at home again.
Outside sleepy window's square is unstoppably thickening featureless fog. Rare logs are insensibly crackling into sparkling in murk fireplace. Empty cheerless, not covered table is sorrowfully looking far in void with blankly strength-less, scarily dense sadness and oppression.
"There is one secret, that I had carefully concealed." - has rather suddenly said Fedka: "Don’t tell to uncle. That's my plea."
"What kind of secret? Dark and scary?"
"One a lady has shyly appeared. My certain fate. Believe, not less. But I'll be killed, if all will come once avowedly opened."
"By which of reasons is it so?"
"Not free is she. Already married. For inexcusably long time. That had happened entirely wrongly."
"But what about uncle? He will not hurt, I know."
"That is so, yes, you're right, but I am still afraid to say. He will never approve, anyway."
"He had been scolding me not less. But I did not heed anything."
"I am like that. I will not listen too."
"Say it, cope. It's much harder to hide all inside."
"Damn you, human... I said you secret, and you're forcing me to open."
"You will not hide an awl in bag for long."
"All that is true... I also want to say, but my mouth stays speechlessly numb. It’s not a time, not now, not today."
"Come into unity with will, get gathered. The uncle will take pity anyway."
"I'm fearing to spoil. So dark this matter is."
"After time it will inevitably turn up to be infinitely much more difficult."
"So, you are telling me to say?"
"If something will go wrong, I will stop started punishment."
"My savior has appeared, great. Okay. I will."
Have begun their awaiting for Oleg Egorovich. Rather soon he has finally come. Has brought tasty grocery gifts. Then has heard for the secrecy.
"Day after day is not more easy. First, Semyon. Now you. Pure heaven's punishment, not less!" - Oleg Yegorovich has sighed: "What should I do with both of you? With two cursed ones."
"To have some mercy, not to scold and not to beat."
"You, Fedka, can't be stopped by fist. I'm not thinking of swearing you. Your life is yours. Mistakes are either yours and only. Committings too. If you wish, do as know. I will not leave your poor mouth without piece of bread for that. If I had taken you – will care."
"So kind you are."
"By what and where? I am ordinary. Only merciful maybe. From compassion, apparently, it's..."
Have come silent, got inly subsided, with sadness fallen into thoughts.

XXI
In improved living room were sitting Semyon Andreevich and Oleg Egorovich. Were devotedly waiting for Fedka - not for only one him, but for his choosen too, for that same married passion.
Whole space is bright. On the table delicious dinner - pretzels, pies, ham, boiled pork.
Onto window's frame — heap of flowers: for upcoming occasion.
Fresh dishes set is also fully ready.
Soon strong long knock has reached the door and Fedka with Klavdia Filippovna have contemporaneously appeared on the threshold. If to describe the aforementioned companion, that was a quiet, downtrodden, bashfully strained woman of nearly thirty-five of years, with an incessantly unemotional waxy face and a lowered gaze, fainted, blurred and sad.
She has timidly greeted the owners and begun to undress.
Semyon Andreevich has glanced at her curious features: "Something amply familiar... Something ..."
And all has really turned out to be so – after minute of guessing, he's recognized in her pale look the same coy stranger from the wagon, who had been thoroughly cleaning on knees pair of her husband's dusty boots, when the hero himself had been riding with Anna Stepanovna for jewelry.
Claudia Filippovna has undressed, taken off snow-white shawl and proceeded inside. Fedka has deftly escorted her figure, sat the darling at table and placed himself next to her sit.
Oleg Egorovich has pointed on food: "Regale yourselves. Eat, drink."
"So gratifying it's at here. All is so alive." - has sighed Claudia Filippovna: "As if I've finally still managed to escape from ill-fated oppression's captivity."
"For freedom then. And first acquaintance." - the owner has told out and started filling of the glasses.
Have drunk. Proceeded to the lunch.
Semyon Andreevich has glanced at newly-minted couple. Those ones were sitting nearby, very timidly holding their hands and not taking attention away from each other. "You are so cute. Real pleasure for eyes. Though you are different in each and every way."
"That all is only just external. And we're living exclusively inwardly - by sincere deep feeling of love." - has convincingly answered Fedka.
"This is rare today. Ghastly rare." - has commented Oleg Egorovich.
"The very human by itself is at now an archaic phenomenon." - has extended Fedka.
"Where did they pass? All the previous people. As I can see, we're just extincting at today. We are exactly decomposing." - Semyon Andreevich has sighed.
"All has been changed. All has become till end sold out. Love, sense and any aspirations. One naked arrogance has stayed. Deep caustic impoverishment. No souls, no minds."
"Yes, Fedka, you are saying right." - has supported Oleg Yegorovich: "You clearly see the very essence of all this wrong unsightly truths. Maybe really just you should be lucky. Though only vague and illusive all your happiness is."
"No matter, which one. Any happiness will be desired. Even totally short. But only true, only actual, real. Nothing else is important for me." - has shyly given her frail voice Claudia Filippovna.
"Well, hold on current, stay on brief. Warm yourselves with your short common joy. If not for long it sadly promises to be and only rarely gets happened."
"I would so gladly run away. Even now would do it with easiness. But I'm afraid, I will be killed, will be surely killed just with no of delays. Maybe, you will accept me for living, will adopt under wings of protection and help?"
"No of hurdles, just stay. It's not allowed to divide united couple. Only how you'll cope with explanation of yourself? And, tell, what's next? What to await from current plots into far and postponed further prospect, in adjourned, long-deferred times?" - has looked at her Oleg Egorovich.
"It doesn’t matter what, the aim is only to get free. To break out with past dead relations. Forever and at once."
"Well, then consider whole yourself already absolutely free. Only place for the sleep is at attic. There is nowhere else into here."
"I'm agree even under the ground. Only both with my Fedenka always."
"Just by this little happiness is so expensive and valuable, that for its getting you eagerly will go to anywhere, even strictly in coffin and grave."
"Very, very expensive. Much sweeter than the sweetest of world's things."
"Then do your bliss. Today for you it’s fully free. And I will go to have sleep. We'll meet tomorrow at morning." - Oleg Yegorovich has sluggishly got up, drunk kvass and deftly slipped to cellar.
Fedka and Claudia Filippovna have frozen in embraces. Semyon Andreevich has hiddenly gone out on the porch: "So strange and marvelous, so dark is each of hearts. So much great mysteries are closed inside of them. So ubelievably incedible expressions. One extra evening once again, dead breathless silence into ampliest abundance. Besides it's starting to get cold. Time's course is suitable for nothing else than sleep. I have no one for to have other sorts of pleasure."
The hero has with calmness turned around and with no haste gone to step back.

XXII
One smooth month's half has meekly passed. Semyon Andreevich had found his new job – at local mill, in a role of subsidiary manager. Claudia Filippovna and Fedka have finally got close. Oleg Egorovich himself has remained with no changes.
In terms of now they were spending time together, with meekness dining and supporting conversation.
"Spring has come back to windows' frames. Even presence of joy has revived." - has extended Oleg Egorovich.
"Only pity it's, sad, anyway, that not my is this spring. That detached are these days." - Semyon Andreevich has answered.
"Even no one’s springs are also able to make happy. Light of sun shines for all."
"If in my soul it would be able to turn sunny..."
"That's noticed right. But so it rarely gets happened."
"Even rarities truly can occur. After all, good things too are quite able to come fully real." - has luckily connected own thoughts Fedka.
"But all bad comes true sadly more often."
"Do not see it at all, don’t participate."
"I’ll tell you something. Something rather unecpected. Really strong this short newness can turn." - Oleg Egorovich has said and dropped mood's temper in prostration: "It is too tight for fresh and young to be imprisoned into oldness. I do not want to be disturbing you calm being. That's why I've chosen to move out, to leave this space for each of you. I am not asking, just simply building further plans. I had been living as a rich one, so now it's time for me to try to start to live first time as poor. Don't be too sad, I'm not attempting to be bearing some hardships or to rid self of last of joys. So, now this house is your fortress. Exactly yours and no one's else. In deals of shop, Semyon, I'm counting on you – look, arrange, pay control. I’ll make all needful papers very soon. Its current profit is exactly straightly noble. So simply follow for its actual work's course – whole scope of money will be yours. And you, Fedka, build up your own fate. For you, imagine and accept, whole this house is given from now. "
"And you yourself? Into where are you going? From of so dear native lands." - has interrupted Semyon Andreevich.
"In the city, Semyon, in the city. In that one, where and you had been living. I will take there some cheap, modest room, will find out serene simple work. What just for am I carrying my bones into here... You already had found your job, the shop is also stably working. There is no one need in my being with you. That's why don't ask me for to stay. As I'll come settled and will find new role and place – I will write you detailed thorough letter. And right at now, let's abundantly eat, drink and rest before parting."
"Oh, father, are you leaving us?" - has sadly sighed Claudia Filippovna.
"For sake of all, don't dramatize so much, I'm riding far, but not in abyss. I don't want to disturb your close peace. I'm not accustomed to such matters. You have to live here, have to build up your own being. And if to say about me - in my gray oldness there is no eloquent difference where to be – even deep under cracked shaky ground, even far into dark alienation, anywhere at all."
"Anyway, it's too pity - to part so instantly like that."
"We'll see each other once again. By itself, if it'll cope to fall out..."
Have come sad. Have consumed common lunch. Oleg Egorovich has gone to check own shop, Fedka and Klavdia Filippovna - as usual, to the attic. Semyon Andreevich to mill.
Each one has parted with own vector.

XXIII
The first day without Oleg Egorovich has imperceptibly upcome. In subsided calm house's walls is unusually quiet and empty. Fedka and Klavdia Filippovna are sitting at the attic, Semyon Andreevich - inside of living room – is gathering to go to the city, to Alexei Konstantinovich. Behind of thin and blurred window's glass is slowly and affectedly incoming widely stretching by sides pale vague canopy of featureless gray dawn. Brewed tea is standing on the table. At the massive and neat windowsill are quite modestly laying in heap just already dried up motley flowers.
All things are packed. Time's ordering to go.
Semyon Andreevich has sipped his rests of tea, then called Fedka.
"I am departing to the city. Will stay at there for whole day's lenght. And you'll stay here. So, wait and love each other deeply."
"Then see you soon. Am fully hoping, all'll turn out really well."
The door has slammed.
Claudia Filippovna has got left alone with Fedka.
"So much light it's with you. As into paradise, not less. So richly gratifying, so both sweet and calm."
"For me it's too just purest pleasure. Tart, saint, exorbitant, unspeakably divine."
"How much it's great, that we're together."
"And forever it will be like that. We will never get parted. We will never do such stupid rave. Even only for moment, believe me."
"I believe, my sweet one, I believe you completely."
"When you're surrendering to me, I'm literally flying up to heaven."
"I'm feeling fully just the same, my affectionate."
"At now whole will is so abundantly and limitlessly given exclusively and only just to us - we’ll play enough and even more."
"Let's play, let's play impudently and long - in all of ways and each of manners."
"So madly easy it's with you. So good, so beautiful is looking all around. As if sun's bulb has fallen straightly into hands."
"Yes, take me all – in any way you want, in any variant and method. I'm entirely yours – submissively, politely and forever. Completely and indivisibly."
"I fly with you away of all, and I will wildly fly right now once again directly in your paradise's shutters."
"Yes, fly, just fly and take me all."
"You're mine. You're mine forever, for all times."
"Forever, dear. Forever yours and only."
Have gone upstairs, proceeded up to act of tenderness and shame.
Next to the dinner have got gathered for walking.
"Let's take a walk – to explore width of local expanses."
"Yes, my sugar. Just take grab in route."
Fedka has put laying dress back on Claudia Filippovna, kissed her hands, then her legs and led her personality to the terrace.
Two silhouettes have slid above of porch and slowly trudged away along of hazy empty road. No one around. No of anyone's faces and legs. Only deep reciprocal mutuality.
Beauty. Grace.

XXIV
Into house of Aleksey Konstantinovich it's unusually vacant and troublesome - things are dumped, walls are naked - all former splendor is thrown off - no paintings, no carpets.
Semyon Andreevich, just having barely gone in, has not even at first understood, where he's currently got situated.
"What had happened? What had happened in here, after all?"
"You'll be better to sit. We didn’t write you of all matters." - Aleksey Konstantinovich has said and pointed at chair: "We are leaving. They are transferring me to the capital. So at now that’s all. We will never be here once again. The apartment quite soon will be rented, it already is fully prepared. There is one small trifling request - come to here once in every two months – to gather money and to look. Half of them you may stay for yourself, and all the rest – resend to us. We will write the address when will get firmly settled."
"Again goodbye... Again new parting." - has thought Semyon Andreevich: "Why all just so? So recently we both were sitting here. And now it's time to say goodbye..."
"We'll see each other, anyway. This our parting is, after all, both not the first and not the last. They promise very lavish fee. The post is also not so plain."
"Directly as a head of the whole city's fire inspection?" - has got perplexedly surprised Semyon Andreevich.
"Oh, no. At now only of department. But then, of course, it will be seen. Maybe, I'll truly cope to grow up till such heights."
"You are assiduous and zestful. I'm so clearly sure, you will easily cope."
"I'm also relying just on this. Sit down to table. We'll share bonds of parting dinner. All already is covered. All is ready for meal."
Semyon Andreevich has unhurriedly sat for the table. Elena Igorevna has splashed pineapple juice, then cut several pieces of cake.
"Good at here. Simply pleasure for eyes. You will leave – where else I will eat..."
"You should start to be going to tavern. And humbly wait for us and luck. As soon as we'll return here back, we'll gladly feed your guts till satiety and further. Give the honestest word." - has said Alexey Konstantinovich.
"This really pleases, really warms - that I'll be fattened. But even right in frames of now I am living myself not as poor, as was."
"The main thing is to have saturation in heart. Into soul. And in mind's fruits, in gained life's deeds. And gap of stomach will anyway somehow endure, will not fall off in any twists."
"So apt, so meaningful and true. I literally would like to write it down."
"People are quoting me. Such a wonder." - has laughed Alexei Konstantinovich: "Oh, my fate. Just pure game! Game and only."
"In such a case don't become there a loser."
"Only total jackpot, only up to success."
"You have most tightly common way with its saint matter."
"You also don't get dug in grief, lure your personal way to bloom's gates, to prosperity's depths. Then it surely will not get out."
"It's so easy to say. But so terribly hard to fulfill."
"Don’t think so drearily, believe me, all will follow."
"I'm afraid, last I have will go off..."
"Come on, stop feeling so damned sad. Better drink long-awaited chilled juice."
Semyon Andreevich has thrown himself to drink. Then all have peacefully got up and synchronously gone to the square. At there each one has plentifully looked at the updated theater's facade and gladly stood at festive fountain and next to final lined with range of offhandedly parked motley taxis.
Sad separation once again.
Have said goodbye. Then have slowly got parted.
Semyon Andreevich has come to empty station. Has sat on train. Then has gazed at the picture in window.
"And again to myself. To familiar village."
The train has started own frail moving. The platform has got left far far away. Again same route. Again known voyage. Of two hours and only. But still.
All right. Again back in way's length.

XXV
Into quiet summer grove has timidly gone out shy and fearful Claudia Filippovna – just alone: Fedka shyly has gone to the city for goods.
All around is dark. The night is almost in its coming. Faint muted sounds are with sharpness getting lost, tired wearisome wind is slowly vainly calming down in predominantly abundant myriad of thick grass. From time to time is getting possible to hear short bird cries. Into distance are sleepily grunting grasshoppers. Mellow globular moon is lonely flaunting onto obscure and wide heaven's firmament. Rare shadows are with shakiness stretching ahead.
"How easy sometimes is it here - to be happy. To be yourself, to be opened, to trust exactly into everything and all, to live exclusively with falling in each other. How much blissful it is - to be careless. Be in our affectionate selflessness. Where straightly everything is opened and allowed. And where there are no of bounds and borders in between me and him. As if right by the nature of world we were conceived no other way than as a single indestructibly united tightly knotted impartible entity. As if from body of one stone we have been sculpted. Under one common star. That's why each smallest nook of soul is so eagerly merrily singing and soaring. So, in what to believe in this being, if not in pricelessness of bonds with one, who's close. Where else at all in our world, from whole rest countless unending scope of spheres, is it identically possible to have same scale of pleasure's strength and fullness. You're getting wrapped in native tenderness of warmth - and all is instantly becoming at once both cloudless and cozy, filled up with heartfulness and color, bright and torn off from any hint on doubts, tension and distress. This life is sweeter than all honeys - if soul to soul. No earthly troubles and vain fuss, no daily anxiety, no burdens. As if I'm saint. As if most definitely blessed. So inspiring it is, so encouraging – to be united all of time, to be exclusively together, with my personal sun - with my Fedenka ".
Claudia Filippovna has wearily sighed: "What just for is this mad people's world without human mutuality and frankness? After all, everyone is so stubbornly rushing, making valueless poisoning money, getting angry and running amok. What, tell, for is this stupid futility... This unbearable dummy mendacity. Without fire in inside, without you yourself dissolved in partner, without magical attachment to bliss of happiness is there any slightest sense of to be here? Is there any vague need in long rich life, if always lonely thirsty heart is sordid, emptified and lost. There is no of difference between lovers. There is only everything common, only totally joint and inseparable. Indestructible and unchanging. There is only me and his care. And no necessity in any extra things - in barren wealth, in useless distant splendid palaces, in trifling governing positions. Only unity's flame is desired. Only selflessness and voluptuousness. Only tart endless happiness. Flight. Otherwise what life is... Ashes only. All gets just scattered, broken, cracked. And soul, soul is immortally eternal. And if such one here is in couple, all what is outside is strictly unimportant. Storm, thunder, flood or mass extinction - all will be questionlessly easily endured. All will pass by and melt behind, if you love, if believe and keep hope."
She has with cautiousness looked at space around. The forest has turned gradually faded, tart static darkness has got thickened far above, in fright and dreariness enshrouding sleep of lands. Dim disk of Moon has imperceptibly come filled with pale incoming yellow glowing.
"So fine and marvelous, that even can't believe... That it really happens like that. That it can actually occur. How much joyful it is to be someone's, to be devoted with entire soul and flesh. So highly reverent it is. So tempting, sugary and graceful. As if I'm deeply in the sky. Among all known constellations. As if I had been named as angel. So astonishing is it to me. So enchanting."
Claudia Filippovna has shyly shivered and started to trudge back. All around has finally darkened. Murky vastness has turned inconspicuously faded. Frail rare sounds have come passionlessly muted and slowly vanished somewhere far in thick dead emptiness of sunk in numbness night. Faint trunks of trees have with obedience and fright gone merged with liquid veil of melting haze. All has calmed down.
Claudia Filippovna has very bashfully and sluggishly got out on wasteful track of road's length and taken route to humbly waiting walls of house: "My Fedya has already just arrived. Few steps and we will meet again. Will get deep dose of sweetest tenderness and warmth, of tightest darlingness and shameless carnal rapture."
Has looked inside approached home.

XXVI
Neat sleepy grayishly pale morning, faint and dim, has recklessly and calmly rolled around completely pacified and soothened silent house. Along of bleak and somber corners have insensibly started to crawl and disperse thin obedient shadows. Long, intermittently uneven, hazed and flaccid horizon has got floridly colored up. First mild and watery sun rays have with infirm uncertain distinctness begun to play their rambling dancing. Neatly filled with deep shades blurred walls have inactively dressed in soft gleaming.
Into Claudia Filippovna's arms has serenely awakened glad Fedka. Semyon Andreevich today has gone, according to his schedule, to the mill - on reception of grain and equipment, as not too difficult to guess, the process, due to own exeptional importance, rid of most tiny idle prospect to be some way delayed or skiped.
So pleasantly and sweetly woken Fedka has with weariness stretched and kissed guarding him Claudia Filippovna: "My sugar sweetness, flesh's and spirit's goddess, my precious preciousness in all. So much good it's to me, so much glorious. Even can't become full of such gladness."
"I'm entirely yours. Yours and only, my dear. Wholly yours, my delicious Fedechka. Without residue and rest. Completely and infinitely."
"So desirable you're, so alluring. As some fairy exorbitant treasure."
"So, take me all – just whatever you want, indulge yourself in any sorts and forms of love, enjoy of me, get carnal bliss."
"You're like an asterisk, like my personal special outlet. My salvation from bustle and fuss."
"You is my God, my exalted and righteous light. Fedya, my sweetness. My inexpressible one. Most affectionate ever. Most extraordinary. Just pure diamond, not less."
"I will give all myself and will greedily gobble whole you in exchange. You're my cosmos in here, my enchantingly tempting, clearly sugary paradise. Take me strictly right now to your sweet charming world. Take me all. Take away."
"You're fully mine. Forever mine. No single doubt."
Have tightly merged in impetuous coition. Then cojointly renewed pace of breath.
Fedka has snuggled up to shamelessly flaming Claudia Filippovna: "My preciousness, my angel. How had I been living without your charms? As in cruel vise grips."
"So, was it a life, after all... Oh, take me, take me one more time – in all available of ways."
Have repeated addictive sinned act.
Outside of the window has just finally dawned. Sleepy clouds have started to slip.
"Common joy is not less than pure heaven! Confirm it, please, do you agree?"
"Much better than in paradise, just know it, know, my sweetness. My darlingest one. Most affectionate here and most loving. Most significant ever, most mine."
Slow footsteps have with growing come distinctly heard. Semyon Andreevich has finally returned.
"It's time to get quite nimbly dressed."
"Yes, let's dress up."
Have got dressed, then dropped selves downstairs.
"How did you cope?" - has vividly asked Fedka, coming forward to hero.
"Exactly everything is good. All grain is taken, all of documents are done. Life's getting better! Just imagine."
"That's so great. And now it's time to go to eat. From very morning you're without of at least a cup of tea."
"We'll brew it well. And, look, at here is bunch of sweets. I have bought them on square from Tatars. That means, such ones should be delicious." - Semyon Andreevich has spiritedly answered.
All have sat down for to eat, got heavy lunch. Semyon Andreevich has gone away to shop – for usual checking of things' matters.
"To the attic again? To adventures." - has with ardor suggested blessed Fedka.
"Yes, my love. Just directly to the sweetest ones."

XXVII
This Friday has turned out to be black. So utterly unpleasant new was grievously brought to be announced - the husband of Claudia Filippovna has unexpectedly showed up. And has showed up with only single of intentions - just to kill and not less. Having somehow found the address and having taken hunting gun, he has brazenly and resolutely gone to Oleg Egorovich’s house, raging, swearing and sowing up spitefulness. His face was bloodshot, eyes were burning, such fierce frenzy wasn't knowing any bounds. Having sharply flown up on the threshold, the hero has immediately started to break inward, without slightest hesitation or delay.
Immediately understood everything Semyon Andreevich had hidden fearful lovers into cellar and then has sharply gone to open.
"Who is you? And why you're knocking? Or your forehead is thirsty for fist?"
"Where is my wife? Just answer me, come on."
"Why should I know by some reasons - with whom whose wives are spending time? I live alone. I do not know each of fates. Are you crazy or what? Frantic stump."
"Say, what for are you treating me now? They had told me, that she is right here - with a homeless child. Or gun for you is just a toy? I’ll shoot you too. I’ve come to kill."
"Who had told you such nonsense? I have no need and zeal to know, whom you're so ardently and wildly crackling of. I live alone, it is empty house. Where did you get it, dumb inflated brainless bug?"
"I'm not a bug and, if you've lied, I’ll suffocate you, just remember. In the 35th house, was said, they've been seen, and such house on street is just yours."
Only the very number plate for house's marking was just absent - it has quite calmly fallen off due to old age. And in around in own turn were the 34th and the 36th ones.
"They didn’t mark us. We were transferred. From the lowland outskirts. There is no 35th into here for few centuries - it had burned long ago, just in times, when last tsar had been calmly alive. And to you, stupid simpleton's muzzle, was told foolishness – just for to laugh. Look at me, does it seem I am living at here not alone? Open eyes, that's quite useful sometimes."
"Well, look, I’ll kill you! Keep in mind - I’ll find both her and everyone involved."
The offender has thrown the gun over his shoulder and smoothly trudged himself away.
"Well, at least, he is stupid. That's much higher than any defenselessness." - Semyon Andreevich has rushed inside and descended to cellar.
"Grief has come. Your past husband is looking for you. He has come with the gun - just decided to make an avenge." - the hero has turned out to Claudia Filippovna. She has instantly gone wholly limp and proceeded to shaking: "How to be, how to be... No way back. No way..."
"Time to go away." - Fedka also has jumped into shock: "To nowhere, I guess, to Siberia, to the last neglected wilderness, but only just to hide away, to survive, to come saved."
"With what you'll move - with deep detachment?"
"No, with hope. With the most indestructible one."
"You will never be full just with hope. Come up, Fedka." - has ordered Semyon Andreevich, then got up to the chest, lined with copper, and opened.
Under heavy oak lid were sparkling emeralds, emitting smooth soft glow, full-weight ingots of gold and richly scatterable heavy whitish pearls.
"Oleg Yegorovich had left to me the key. Had said - all this is for hard years. Such a year has come. He had been saving these rich scopes for whole his life. So, that's all." - Semyon Andreevich has said, and then, having fortunely found cloth bag, begun to put revealed up jewelry inside: "Hold it, Fedka. Don't waste and do not spend in vain. The eastern train will come at night. Under its obscure cover of murk you'll get luckily hidden."
"How to thank you, at least?" - has amply bursted into tears Claudia Filippovna.
"It’s not so necessary. Anyway all of this is not mine. Thanks only to Oleg Egorovich – both for all this and for the past."
Have quite firmly embraced. Then have come deeply silent.

XXVIII
Gloomy emptified bleak railway station was blowing up with melancholy and detachment. There was no of people. All of lanterns were burning only in a half of own full power. On bare platform's edge were standing three of people - Andrei Semenovich, Klavdiya Filippovna and Fedka. Were numbly waiting for the train.
"That is all. New goodbye. Once again. What a fate..." - has shaken with own head Semyon Andreevich: "Don't come lost, find your light."
"All the light in inside. Left around is petty."
"I'm not sure, I would really be able to repeat such an action myself - to ride far in Siberia, into darkness and cold."
"Anyway this is truly more pleasing than straight downfalling in perdition."
"That is right. From own death even hell is a shelter."
Huge leisurely bewildered locomotive has appeared. Monotonous wagons have started to stretch.
"That is all. That's just all." - Semyon Andreevich has dejectedly sighed.
"Don’t grieve so deeply anyway. There is your address. We will write you long letters." - has doubtlessly supported him disheveled Fedka: "We will definitely respond, wait for it. Into wilderness it’s even easier. Much more free, much more calm."
The train has stopped. Fedka has fussily jumped up inside of wagon, then taken bag and given hand to Claudia Filippovna.
Semyon Andreevich has waved with lonely hand, then waited for departure and in measured pace sent way back: "That is all. All is over."

XXIX
Bright white morning has slowly painted gap of empty numb room's space. Semyon Andreevich has flabbily got up and briefly cringed. Put on a shirt.
"Void... Hell." - has said he out of his mood, sadly looking at desert of life: "And again I'm alone. And again in oblivion's prison – in bitter, gray and full of anguish. Like a cursed. Like in permanent plague."
Semyon Andreevich has sat and poured tea. Outside hazy window, has slowly risen faded sun. The samovar has lazily got sparkled. Gray clouds have with meekness stretched ahead. All was seeming at now so barren, artificial, irrelevant, dead. Fate's atmosphere was unrestorably crushed out by despondency. Silent silence was torturing nerves. Static fixed immutability of walls' soundlessness was grievously sewing endless anxiety.
"All is wrong into here. Simply all."
The hero has with quickness got small breakfast, then gone to mill, checked few things in the shop and returned.
And again into emptiness.
"Eh, being, abysmal damnation. Just purest tragedy, not life." - the poor fellow has infirmly humbly sighed and stared out of impassive turbid window.
Gray indifferent street was nude, silent and empty. Calm tree crowns were remaining just motionless. Wind was barely blowing and almost was not changing vertical direction of the smoke onto neighboring pipe.
Soon was knock into door. Local postman. Has brought a letter from Oleg Egorovich.
"Good afternoon, my dear peaceful wards. Or late evening or earliest morning. But they do not deliver letters in the morning. Therefore, most likely, it’s a day. I am writing to you from Stoneless. I have settled in here not so badly. Just already have found the room – exactly as I had been quietly planning. I've got also good post - into bakery, as a head of its little warehouse. I didn't come here lost or dropped - deeply thanks to not bad education. I'm living, as before, all time alone. Am taking walks and looking at embracing nature's beauty. Life is different here. People too. But in general, all is quite tolerable. I'm especially pleased with the cars. There are no of such ones in village. How in own turn are you yourself? How are you living? How and with what is living our dear Fedka? How is his stray fate? I’m glad for him with all my heart, if all is proper. Hope, that everything rest is also fluent, decent, straight, nice, smooth and worthy. Right, by the way, as it inherently befits to anyone, who truly claims to be a person. Sincerely yours, Oleg Egorovich. " Next shortly signed return address.
Semyon Andreevich has let long bitter sigh, then tightly gripped small, shyly yellowed sheet of paper and strongly bursted with tart endlessness of tears.

XXX
Inside of quiet lifeless room were sitting two pathetic figures - Oleg Yegorovich and Semyon Andreevich. The last one has arrived very early and looked directly unawares.
"Here I've come. Come myself. There are some of news. Those ones, which not for frames of paper."
"Then report - no of papers around." - has extended Oleg Egorovich.
"For Claudia Filippovna had come her crazy reckless husband, had come directly for to kill, to give whole will to boil of hatred. Poor Fedka has speedily rushed in together with her to Siberia - right as if from worst murderous fire. So, I've given to them strictly half of the chest and wished kind fortune and good luck. I’m sure, you would have done exactly same."
"I would have given them whole chest. You have done all of this fully right. But in where, in which one of innumerable localities have they so dangerously ridden and on how much long?"
"All is painfully so, that not more than straight nothing is known. But they have promised me to write – devotedly, a lot and very often. They have driven away with the first eastern train – with the night one, you are acquainted with its route."
"Sweet life sometimes is sadly short... Although, maybe, all things will come formed quite successfully. Fate is too varied sometimes, too complicated. You can't predict exactly all, can't guess about everything of here in at once and for whole future way."
"And I at now am alone. In a dark somber house, bleak and dismal, as actually all my earthly fate."
"Life's loneliness, as fact, is not a witch, you will get used to it with time. And if you still will not turn out to be able of to get used to such a state, at one particular of days you'll calmly force yourself to manage to find someone. I've already got used, as you see. So, I just simply do not look and do not search."
"It’s hard sometimes. Even truly unbearable."
"I know, it’s mournful. But such a way is made this living. Get born, then suffer, then turn dead. So, what else can be given to us? Chance to find real love, to discover yourself. It’s not for everyone. Not for each single person. Anyway, after all, you are somehow blinking, breathing air and staying alive. We are able to remain humans, even being all days in oblivion. The main thing is to feel what is heaven's and what is from hell."
"Time from time all is filthy. You may right now not believe me, I have no single other person for to report at least a word."
"I am myself remaining silent. I talk here only with thoughts and then forget myself again. And our fate is just a river. One is directly at its bottom, the other one is at the shore. Each one has own exclusive way."
"All are settled on bottom today."
"Then it’s more confident in there. So it works."
Have come silent, then opened kvass bottle.
"Maybe all will come better, come surely assembled. Don’t be sad, anyway. To be sad means to tear own soul. You need to think of something savingly exalted, even being in dark, even being in terrible."
Semyon Andreevich has nodded.
Have sat a little, then got up and gone for walk: to the fountains - to catch their frail short-living beauty, then turned to tavern, had a lunch.
Then again back to home.
Semyon Andreevich has gladly said goodbye to kindly hospitable Oleg Egorovich, then has taken own bag and slowly trudged to railway station.
Bleak fainted platform is quite lonely - only few rare people and doom. All views are sad, and even window of the booth of ticket office is left broken. And it's not nearly a wilderness at all - one of most central parts of city.
The hero has as usual taken landed ticket and started waiting for the train.
Waiting has started. Then got finished.
Outside hazy window, dim and dismal surroundings once again have begun to swim through – wholly gray, sadly faded and fully indifferent. Only minor in all, only longing and deep melancholy. Sky is turbid. Calm vastness is gloomy. Static air is heavily damp. Profound hopelessness in all.
And once again abandoned village. Blurred road, low porch and emotionless house.
Semyon Andreevich has swiftly got undressed and laid down on bed.
"How painful it is. How painful. And that is all – only walls and pure void. As if already long ago I'm not a person, not a
an at all, only lost haggard beast. Why it's so... Who will risk to explain... Why, what for... Fate is terrible thing, after all. Yes, just terrible, scary. "
Has insensibly fallen asleep.

AFTERWORD:
On threshold of an old and completely dilapidated, quite uninhabited for fleeting view from side bleak shabby house was standing blossoming young couple of two lovers - Maria Fedorovna and Grigory Alekseevich - the daughter of Claudia Filippovna and Fedka and the son of Alexei Konstantinovich and Elena Igorevna. Were meekly waiting for the owner.
Soon monotonous dull shuffling has come finally heard and a thin, hunched old man has infirmly gone out from of this empty woeful monastery-looking somber chambers - the same Semyon Andreevich, who had invariably been separately living at his once-sheltered address.
"Come in. I have been waiting for so long. How are you? How are parents?"
"Quite well - in everything and all. They are firmly remembering you and were lavishly sending hot greetings."
"And Fyodor Vasilyevich has handed you this medallion - handmade, he had cut out it himself." - has gladly added Maria Fedorovna.
"In where you were, you've come later for day."
"At yesterday we have been going to the cemetery - to Oleg Yegorovich. Have been cleaning in there, after that have been crying... That's just why we have stayed into city like that. At same time, we have taken you sweets, right now we'll richly share with such ones. Will come filled in immodestest measure."
Semyon Andreevich has brightened and in glad joyfulness and smiling with neatness kindly guided both guests in.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

That is whole term of human's life. Whole timid spectrum of its roads. Either up from initial maternity hospital, or on the contrary away into final embraces of cemetery. Long miles, long years, fates and roles. Either temporary tragedy, or swift brief jubilation at first, and then emptiness. Whole earth's globe has been given to us, but we are rushing back and forth, are tearing hearts and making plenties of mistakes. It seems so simple - be just happy, turn such one and then bloom and rejoice. That's allowed to all. And that's why we are trampling kilometers' lenght – endless one, hard and merciless. Trampling, looking for, searching... First we’re going to light, then to darkness. We call troubles ourselves, substitute ourselves under thunder of fate. And too impossible it's to find out, where and what will come true. With whom in couple we will be and for what from all possible aims had appeared. That is why, it's so deeply offensive - for every soul, for every single human's pain and disappointment. These things should not exist at all, they're inappropriate, unacceptable. But they still are – troubles, hardships and deaths. And the only one thing is desired – that would be chance on higher route's justification, on bliss of needfulness and treasure of demand - for every life and any day. That sincere candles will never burn in vain, and salvatory light of the hopes will not ever go out. And what's of world - it just sipmply lives further, moves on, right constantly remaining on the threshold of something new, exciting and unimaginable. And just by this it's so carefully wished, that in the midst of this upcoming iron-ness, monotonous futurism and cognitive greatness there will be, at least, little glimpse of so simple ordinary humanity, of normal healthy soulfulness and elementary mercy. I would so like to see, that in bright spacious houses will be dwelling the same bright, kind people – fully honest and opened. I want to know. Or, at least, to believe. To believe, that idea of "Human" will never perish and transform into archaism. That never will transform into archaism saint priceless miracle of LOVE. And into rest, all and everything is just as always: same mad crowds, same vague tomorrow, and same tireless game. But already for our descendants. Perhaps, really indeed much much better and much purer and greater, than lived once poor we. How to know... Let's just humbly leave hope, that it'll be... 




From town A to town B.

I
Into dim town A, on rather empty and quite ordinary street, was inconspicuously living just equally ordinary Angelina Evgenievna, a lonely, sleepily quiet lady, innocently bewildered, blithely pretty, frankly trusting and in measure forgetful. Uninspired days of her sullen bleak fate were invariably consisting of only two of inner processes and states - constant searching and periodical falling in disappointment. Such a way was simply ineradicable from entrusted existing and has been accompanying the heroine from her early youth till last actual modernity, remaining completely inseparably and indelibly attached to her everyday being. Such modest life was rarely abounding with own luxurity, but similarly never was getting tormented from too excessive superfluity of minimalism. Fate was going ahead by itself right as was stumbling self-dependently as well. All around was strictly monotonous - each of matters, plans, habits and images. All the same. All in permanent longing. With such one our woman was waking up, with such one was falling into usual cares and with only such one was at ending of day sharing bed.
Today is Monday. Plans are scanty - work, then walk and short visit in store on the opposite side of the street. That is whole daily routine. That is all current fate.
Humid weather is gloomy. Smooth unhurriedly careless calm chilling wind is with indifference and frailness passing by through of silent, not crowded street. Faded foliage, just already quite dry, is so easily turning in yellow. Rare transport is boringly stretching by lines. Dim and drowsy clouds, languidly creeping along obscure and foggy horizon, are slowly covering its pallid flaccid grayness. Lonely barren relief of dying plaintive numb landscape is hiding self in passive thoughtful nebulous canopy of inexpressively albescent whitish veil. Oblique shadows, thick and dense, are shyly moving into abyss of nowhere. Tired, joyless pale town is with timidness patiently waiting for next cold, rough weather of drearily upcoming term of slush.
Angelina Evgenievna has quite habitually exchanged own shabby and battered door, crossed narrow murky courtyard and gone out in cold sullen alley, fogged by bleary faint colorless haze. All around is damp, sadly deserted and oppressively cloudy. Few extra quarters - and so deathlessly learnt usual workplace will be successfully approached. Now to sit, to forget of oneself, to endure some time and once more to go back. Modest couple of colorful signboards has torpidly sailed past, not much bigger amount of oncoming pedestrians has insensibly crawled along and have equally vainly stretched out three or four similarly unremarkable gloomy cars. The heroine has turned in narrow broken backstreet, then deftly climbed by tortuous stairs of old cramped stone porch and entered inside. Unalterably fussy indifferent office has measuredly opened own embraces, having monotonously spreaded out boring featureless cabinet. In around are usual physiognomies of employees, high stacks of papers, same type tables and chairs and indescribable bare walls. Working day has begun fully ordinary – with bustling, quarrels with leadership and next debilitating duties. Time was creeping completely as always: invariably, slowly, languidly and mournfully. Closer to dinner, course of routine was discharged by Alena Igorevna, the only friend of Angelina Evgenievna.
"Day ago I had been in Astoria. Had been looking in there for adventures. I had been looking and had found - I have got out such a pretzel, just pure clown." - has reported her dear amigo.
Angelina Evgenieva has shyly smiled: "Well, then broadcast to me all shuffle - what and how. With facts, details and deep descriptions."
"I can't certainly tell you a lot, all is not so epic, but I surely never observe such eccentrics."
"What is so wonderful in him?"
"So, it's not possible, not available for me to describe human's weirdnesses in only few words, this magic sphere has no limits. But if to summarize concretely, I would describe him as smart fool. Perhaps, even the smartest here ever. But it's so definitely clear, that at the same amazing time the most hopeless moronic fool too."
"Multifaceted combination, indeed quite rare and, guess, promising a lot. But still - what exactly had caused such a resume?"
"Well-read, quite profoundly educated and constantly thoughtful, but at the same time so childishly naive and careless. Unprecedented wondrousness."
"And what next?"
"All just as always – will laugh some time and then give up."
"What just for?" - has surprised Angelina Evgenievna.
"You are so ridiculous ... What just for, what just for... For not to break own course of life."
"But whether smart people are able somehow to ruin it?"
"If at the same time they are fools, then quite yes. If any person has seriously decided to love me, if he turned out to be really unable to recognize, that I'm simply not capable to experience such a feeling, then he would do exactly everything, would blindly dragging behind, as if I am truly an ideal. But I need a conscious person. That one, who will know – what a bitch I am. Who will know, but anyway will want. "
"Quite stunning, interesting wishes ..."
"So, I myself am also an outstanding woman. Not some garbage."
Angelina Evgenievna has sighed: "And where for me to find here someone..."
"That's your personal problem." - has grinned Alyona Igorevna: "Are you still hoping for some luck?"
"I'm hoping, yes..."
"Oh, my stupid one..."
Angelina Evgenievna has sullenly said nothing.
"What are your plans on current evening, silly dreamer?" - has interrupted her interlocutor-girl.
"As always, no single matter..."
"It's so boring with you, so empty and unproductive." - Alena Igorevna has hurriedly got up and gone away - on more purposeful business.
"All have intentions, plans, ambitions. And I..." - Angelina Evgenievna has taken deep long breath and sunk back into papers. Time has dragged slightly faster. Forgetfulness, sweet oblivion, bliss. And early evening once again. The heroine has thrown her jacket on and then gone out.
Shyly gray, narrow street has measuredly taken her modest silhouette and with indifference dissolved into thick dusky twilight of faceless surroundings. Into fussy dead bustle. Into town. In aimless.

II
Meanwhile in totally the same sad town B, was very similarly living Andrei Leopoldovich, a quiet and sleepy akward man, exclusively depressed, often dismal and thoughtful and always lonely, lost and dreary. His everyday reality was showing in itself only permanent anxiety, tightly deep and eternal, heavy losses, irreclaimable lamentation, unjustifiedness and cold tiresome longing. The way of being was quite modest. Daily work was taking own place at an engineering bureau. The path to such location most commonly was going just by foot. The rest was practically absent. Long time habitually empty fate was going mostly by itself, giving rise exclusively to dismal expectation of own final and to the same desire of life's terminal void. As fact, except of such route's plot, there was nothing at all. But it was not most right type of void, not the best, not the absolute one, but with vanity, with stupid givenness to be and to exist and with so much hateful elementary staying alive. And ever really desired was only absolute nothingness.
This morning, Andrei Leopoldovich has woken up very sad and exhausted – he had night dreaming with some hopeless rubbish in. Of course, such one has not been remembered even partially, but still has left quite persistent soul's fatigue and right the same internal languid anguish.
"My life is surely at bottom." - has concluded the hero and got out of bed: "After one single hour I need to go on work. After nine – to go back. About thirty years and I'll die. After couple of months - start of winter. Nothing good if to say in one word."
Andrei Leopoldovich has rather trivially got own tasteless breakfast, then dressed up and in slight stupor stopped in front of mirror: "What a pointless face. So madly pity, that it's mine. Otherwise, I would with certain joy expelled it far away, would expelled this crooked mug from all of mirrors and would take very serious fines for each appearance in such ones."
The hero has infirmly slammed the door, strictly twice turned the key, and calmly stomped in usual way.
At streets is sullen, quiet and gloomy. By empty boulevards are huddling thick dim shadows, slowly leaning to facades. Along of gray and faceless pavement are humbly crawling ordinary cars, nondescript and uninteresting. In hazy sky are floating formless clouds. Just quite typical city. Just quite typical people. Just quite typical autumn.
One couple of identical quarters, and here it is – dark brick building of the engineering plant, and now it is its low checkpoint. Andrei Leopoldovich has swiftly gone inside and then speedily turned right towards to two-story bureau. Then has climbed up the stairs, then exchanged the door and settled into cabinet, laid out drawings, drafts and schemes.
On the wall are white walkers with pale yellowish-milky clock face. On the other one wall is huge portrait of one of the ministers. At the corner of table – empty ashtray. Under faded flat ceiling – dusty chandelier. That is all decoration.
"New eight hours once more..." - the hero stretched out: "No horror, all right? Well, let's start." He has deftly thrown up own pen, taken off its small cap and stiffly frozen at the canvas of rectangular sheet.
At such canvases, by the way, has flown away larger part of his conscious life – full of sufferings, searchings and emptiness. Hopelessness, dreams and unnecessity.
By some reasons so full of so tart unnecessity...
It has got dark outside of forlorn blurred windows. Calm clocks have peacefully presented digit six in main hour. That means time to go home. From working emptiness to emptiness of house. From one detachment to another. The door has slammed, the key has turned. Low checkpoint again. Sullen quarters. And again boring home. On TV just as always is rave, so it’s much better and smarter to go directly to the bed. Exactly this is fully done. Bliss is ready.

III
And again town A. Into small, but quite noisy cafe on the Memoryless Street, there is a company of three. At the corner of table is sitting Angelina Evgenievna - in a yellow dress and with green bow on neck. Next to her - Alena Igorevna. Next to Alyona Igorevna - Valentin Stepanovich, the same "smart fool", who was snatched out in Astoria.
"Tell us what day is at today." - has ordered to him Alena Igorevna.
"Very significant. Right today, for example, was born Louis Lumiere, and it's also the day of acceptance of Vanuatu's constitution."
"Oh, moron. Right today is the day when we first time have gathered together." - has informed Alyona Igorevna: "You is unable even for a toast."
"But I’ve really wondered with dates..." - has said Angelina Evgenievna.
"Any rubbish is interesting for you. Well, it's quite tolerable and ordinary, that this imbecile brings any kind of bullshit, but you're also behave in full unison with him. Let's be more sober." - Alyona Igorevna has intervened once again.
"Then let's drink for the best into each of us all – let's all bright and all good that is intrinsically put in us by heaven will most abundantly ripen for each of sitting into here in something personally precious, in something special and unique. Seeds of great has own place into any of souls."
"Greatest toast." - has smiled Angelina Evgenievna.
"Just the same useless twaddle. But indeed rather pretty." - Alena Igorevna has handed out her full glass. Each one has clinked and overturned.
"Look, at now he has come wholly silent." - one more time has reproached the lady: "Support some speech. Don't annoy my damned nerves."
"Why are you so roughly angry." - has surprised Angelina Evgenievna.
"Beat the innocent ones and forgive ones who're guilty. That is right. These are actual principles now." - has noticed Valentin Stepanovich.
"Normal principles. Don't noise and don't dramatize." - Alena Igorevna out of long thinking has hurried up to pour herself the second glass.
"We are quite able not to quarrel. Far outside of hazy window is flooding out so attractive, tempting rain. Wait for romance inside." - has smiled Angelina Evgenievna.
"For so damned you here exists only romance. Only stupid daydreams. What romanticism can be at current time!? Dirt, slush and awkward ugly humans. What pleaseful is contained in here?" - has reached for the third glass Alena Igorevna.
"In worst of weathers can be peace." - has said Angelina Evgenievna, having coyly proceeded to dessert.
"Each one who sees in all exclusively just good - in every particle accessible for eyes, as a rule, never gets up from bottom." - Alena Igorevna has turned to Valentin Stepanovich: "What are you doing? Will you stay fully silent, or I still can boldly count on a talkative idiot?"
"If my speech would be able to brighten, at least, on single tiny drop."
"If I'll get brightened, I will not be indignant. Tell me something, proclaim, babble further as you was doing it before. Amuse me as you only can."
"If it would be so easy to find something persuasively funny." - Valentin Stepanovich has drowsily sighed: "Apparently, I'll tell you how I had been traveling to Africa. About fifteen years ago."
This short phrase has been followed by half-hour story, culminated in comparison between African lands and native.
"People certainly differ, but, of course, there is something common - into everything nasty, in wrong and pernicious, mainly. Very similar gloating, as fact."
"I see. Even far into Africa you had been unhesitatingly considered as weirdo. This is your incorrigible state. Even primitive natives had easily guessed about your essence." - has lazily stretched Alena Igorevna and after that pushed her chair back: "It is time to disperse. Midnight is soon. We can be late for our tram. "
"Truly true, any tram is quite stubborn affair. Will be better to hurry." - Valentin Stepanovich has slowly and awkwardly got up and gone to pay, then returned. Each of trinity has thrown on own coat. Each has gone outside.
At the tram stop is deeply dark. Sides are empty. From the blackening street is calmly blowing cold moist wind. Crumpled and battered foliage is humbly getting wet into waters of nearby puddles. Large and weighty long tram has quite expectedly away of speed and zeal with great reluctantness exhaustedly  rolled up. Its huge yellowish-white heavy lanterns, like someone's desperate blazed eyes, have sharply sparkled into void of surrounding bottomless haze. Wobbling carriage has taken the passengers and pacifically driven away.

IV
In town B is cloudy and gloomy - wind is howling since night, is stably lashing window's glass with branches. Is obstinately pouring cold sharp rain. Today Andrei Leopoldovich has so rare day off. There are no of cases or matters. Therefore, it should come something idle for to do. It would be so madly good to try to go to somewhere, but bad weather in here is too opposite argument. To think is also bad idea – there are no good thoughts many years. And forlorn, weary body is already so tired of sleeping. After all, total hopelessness.
The hero has with passiveness got up and then sluggishly opened the curtains: "Hello, wet world, dejected and unhappy. Far away someone strange is relaxedly walking through you. With no umbrella into hands in unexplainable addition. Truly madman."
His gaze has darted at unclear veiled horizon.
"Roofs. Houses. Faded nebulous haze. That's whole landscape for me today. Rather well composition. With such background into frame it's possible exclusively to suffer. So harmonious pain, so exalted – pure full-sized miracle, not less. Eh, trouble, loneliness - straight torment."
Andrei Leopoldovich has got dressed and gone out in yard. All around is hopelessly slushy. Slushy, damp and uncomfortable. All expanses, with rare exceptions, are entirely dismal and desolate, all trudging forward town's transport is lazy and indolent. Houses are unfriendly. All is somehow dead, somehow spiritless, firmly vain, internally and outwardly hollow, continuously sullen and oppressed, unemotional, faint. All and everything. Awfulness. Horror.
The hero has smoothly looked around, then quite indifferently sighed and calmly wandered through empty foggy street. Has exchanged one short quarter, then the same type another. Neither acquaintances, nor simply passers-by. No one in whole town.
"So deeply acquainted emptiness - I had not been expecting here for meetings and I have not met anyone." - has unwittingly sighed once more Andrei Leopoldovich: "At now it's time to measure my way back. What for I've gone in outside at all? I have not managed to get hidden from myself anyway. So absurdly it's – to try to get away from fate."
And again in way back.
And again so familiar places and buildings have habitually started to stretch along bleak sides. And again, to enlargement of sorrow, with no one single passer-by and with no of unusual of things. Just bad weather and boring landscapes. And stiff sadness inside.
Andrei Leopoldovich has insensibly passed through of entrance, deftly climbed up the stairs and then in couple with despair disappeared in murky apartment. Enough of walkings for today.
It's dreary even in their absence.

V
Into smoked and bewitched by astringent dense fume little bar of the tiredly shy town A, was sitting company of two - a thin and tall, quite boring youth and strenuously pale-faced, unremarkable man with meek sunken in torpor calm features and lifeless motionless, detached and blurred look. The first one was Ivan Vladimirovich, and the second one - Valentin Stepanovich. They have known of each other just only single hour's half ago, but were already so much closely aware both of each other's destinies and views. Ivan Vladimirovich has fully managed to report, of course succinctly, ramblingly and briefly, but still quite thoroughly, about all of his own hardships and mistakes – of fate's particularities and love, and Valentin Stepanovich has also similarly told to his newly made actual interlocutor about own by some reason so cursed and so painful relations with Alena Igorevna.
"And the name of your current beloved is Daria Dmitrievna, all is so?"
"You've taken it in memory right way." - has answered Ivan Vladimirovich.
"You are knowing each other for about two weeks, once again all is correct?"
"For two weeks and a half."
"Yes, that's really significant. That's truly long." - Valentin Stepanovich has raised his eyes and asked: "And everything is moving straightly smoothly?"
"If it was possible to guess, where it's moving. More often, it's just stucking. I’m not a master in such matters, but I am seeing something strange - I’m permanently passing through of circles, through of torments and void. I'm begging for each meeting, as for miracle. Even for outdoor ones. All I'm really able is to hope for her condescension. And no matter how much I am zealous, anyway there is no of progress."
"And is it really so joyful - in such a doom, in such a hell?"
"For life's path it is known much better – it has wandered there itself."
"In such cases you should be aside, shouldn't lean to all flaws by own will."
"All troubles lean to me themselves. More often, everything is so. And what about you yourself?"
"In essence all is similar – in sad sides, but still with little helpful shade of her agreement. We even freely see each other, even often."
"This is encouraging permission. With me it doesn't work such way."
"Well, maybe, peace will come one day, will somehow turn accumulated."
"All such accumulations are too slow, too sluggish, wavery and weak and so terribly terribly rare."
"That's right. It's given only just to wait. To wait, to think and to keep sufferings and torments. In bonds of tragically fallen - in grasp of aimlessness, despondency and fuss."
"We support such despairing state ourselves."
"Ourselves... Really. Alas."
"All of omissions come exclusively from us."
"Yes, from us... And from life. From its content, from the sequence of circumstances."
"Such sequence is so dark today..."
"Darkly dark... Poorly lightless..."
The heroes have fallen fully silent, but only strictly for a while. Valentin Stepanovich has drowsily yawned and lazily stretched out: "Let’s go for walking by embankment. At there we'll richly breathe with freshest sort of air, not with smoke as at here. It'll be much healthier, much finer."
"Of course, let's go. Let's with most morbidly stern vigor research each walkable of steps of that ill-fated vacant vastness."
Have calmly dragged themselves for walk.

VI
In town B is sadly gloomy. The state of weather is damn poor – windy, damp, and unbearably rainy. The morning of Andrei Leopoldovich has begun rather ordinarily and trivially and ended also quite traditionally – into working conditions among of papers, tasks and duties. The dullest possible of days - reporting one, has unexpectedly come up - nothing funny or fine, nothing glad, the project must be done not later than to dinner. That's why again new nervous hassle with formal wearisome details. Time is creeping along – so faintly, flabbily and hardly, that it's more pleasant to get killed. Fatiguing atmosphere without any hurrying is meekly getting boring more and more. And swirling flurry of preparing is very gradually, but anyway inevitably step by step wholly gnawing tired mind, so exhausted by weight of responsibility. Endless thoughts are attachingly huddling with roughly teeming rambling flocks. Behind of nebulously hazy rectangular windows are indifferently stretching gray monotonous ragged clouds. Old worn metal of roof is occasionally creaking, here and there getting sternly annoyed by free winds. A couple of hours has imperceptibly passed and report was salvatingly ready. Andrei Leopoldovich has once again scrupulously checked what was written, then looked at the mournful, indistinguishably typical drawings, and, having gathered all into one large thick folder, got deftly up from his shabby deep chair and proceeded to put control stamps in the accounting department, by will of fortuity so modestly located into neighboring low outbuilding.
Into little dim office, next to small curtained window, at semicircular table, is rather carelessly and slightly wearily getting bored isolatedly sitting Irina Aleksandrovna, a pretty, silent young employee with cold pale and ovally-shaped face, calmly thoughtful gray eyes and gently blond, slightly frizzy neat curls. The girl is standardly habitually sad and almost motionless and static, her constrained by indifference gaze is most tranquilly fixed at flat faded floor's width.
"Good afternoon, Irina Alexandrovna."
"You've come for stamps?"
"Of course, exactly for such ones."
"Come in, I'll put right now."
"Is not it sad for you to sit at here – in such dead grayness?" - Andrei Leopoldovich has sighed.
"In grayness. But what to do, if they had sent me right in here."
"No waverings, you have to run away."
"There is nowhere for to do it... And in addition no one healthy reason too."
"Well, then, at least, console own soul with joy of walking."
"I have no one to do it with."
"Me too. Let's go somewhere one day. Promise me, that you will."
"Is me that one with whom it's right to walk? I'm even totally unable to leave own house with no presence of makeup, and if I'll go with someone else, I’ll die from shame."
"Why are you slandering yourself? In here I am of different opinion - I’m vice versa so much pleased with you and am admiring with your look at each lucky occasion."
"It truly pleases. But my opinion unlikely will come changed. Anyway, I'll maybe really agree to take a walk – for only one short modest time, with single aim to dispel inner complexes."
"Even if strictly just not more than for one time - it's already whole abyss of happiness."
"Tell me even, that absolute miracle ..."
"I'm gladly telling it right now..."

VII
Far behind of the tightly enclosed dark red curtains on forgotten last floor into one of the houses of so stably forlorn town A, were calmly sitting Valentin Stepanovich and Alyona Igorevna. Their intermittent dialogue with rather fragile alternating success has somehow exceeded deep midnight, and just at now was holding surely at peak.
"I all the time am thinking of life's sense, of global general idea of each predestined turn of path, of aim of everything and all. All happening is strictly not occasional, not only accidental, and what's more – so laconically, so homogeneously and smoothly are intertwined and twisted all world's things and beginnings. From time to time you are even admiring, even marveling, how all of the coincidences, of fate's motions and life's cases are juxtaposed, combined and ranged among each other. And after all, it such a tricky way turns out, that all around is not randomly chaotic, not just vain."
"I am not asking you of something universal, not asking you of useless empty fuss." - has interrupted him Alyona Igorevna: "I’m asking you about of relations, about purely human matters. What is the aim of our coexistence? Will it turn out into something, or will fade?"
"I surely believe in great fidelity and rightousness of future, in vastest prospect of the unity we have. I believe into something so certainly holy and good between us, that firmly promises to bloom and to increase. To bloom for forever age and to spread into mightiness."
"Oh, what a demonstrative trashy nonsense has been invented by his head. I am laughing at him – so openly and unambiguously, and he so much responsibly relies on some true sanctity and some soul's exaltation. Brainless fool." - had operatively and involuntarily concluded Alyona Igorevna and, for the sake of elementary and pointless curiosity and only, has rather trivially interested: "So... Well, and how exactly are you going to sculpt and treat such common greatness - from which of countless unknown vague matters?"
"From mutuality and total understanding. And from affinity of souls."
"And right at here has started clear madness. As if he even do not notice, that I, away of any hiddenness at all, am so epliplicitly and mercilessly mocking. And he himself in his primitive pitiful turn so calmly spends own time in vain. Both own time and own spirit. Very well... Very well..." - has aptly thought Alyona Igorevna and languidly and sneeringly held out: "So romantic it is... But how long will last this charming idyll?"
"For whole life's time. It can't be less. Such way is simply not allowed."
"No variants, he's clinically strange, without doubts firmly bet, so fundamental falling into weirdness had never been observed before." - has concluded the lady and smiled: "So, life is long, unstable, winding... Will not such alliance come boring one a day?"
"I will never get bored with so astonishingly miraculous fate's blessing."
"Oh, madness..."
Meanwhile, Valentin Stepanovich has surely continued: "So, after all, the highest value is here in happiness of two: in their jointly created souls' harmony, their common sharing of each other and mixed experience of living into love. Without peace, that is in equal measure taken by each other, there is no feeling of so pricelessly needed heart's fullness, of self-significance and weightiness. There is no true justification of your being, no meaningful sense. And inside mutuality are - all these principal, rescuing aspects."
"What else is so unboundedly rich in divine fairy lands of with such artfulness and fervidness praised last one?"
"Some special shade. Some special inner magic, aura, some substance, in single moment changing everything and all. Someone loves you, and you're instantly starting to look at this world wholly differently - both nature, people and ideas get another taste, weight and appearance. Some unknown specific invisible marvel imperceptibly comes into all. Maybe, color of love."
"Not those colors you've chosen, my sir, not those ones." - once again has concluded Alyona Igorevna and continued to joke and laugh further.

VIII
"So much sad are dark maples at autumn, so much lonely are all of these meager and passively thinned, almost totally faded and perished terrains. So much empty are these calm and modestly murked narrow streets, wide strict squares and black woeful gaps of bleak doleful neighboring arches. So much dead is this land, so much quiet. So much deserted - here and there. Now it's finally killed. Yes, just killed. Somehow poor is this word... Poor, defective..." - was wistfully and sorrowfully thinking Andrei Leopoldovich, with zero joyfulness in mood singly sitting on same lonely bench in small abandoned park of town B. "So much sad is at here, so incurably lifeless... And in soul... Into soul even worse. Only darkness in there. Total hell. Hell and darkness..." - the hero has quite bitterly sighed and slowly transferred own look at far sullenly thickening clouds: "Still there is something really immense in this nebulous height, something incomparably unshakable and greatly magnificent, unceremoniously staying above and over everything and all. There is some true power, some indisputable authority in this rigidly changeless steadfastness, some inexplicable higher harmony, persuasively impregnating all the blurred dim firmament, so much detached, diffusely vague and, what's main, so much painfully truthful. In what exactly, tell to me, is smoldering in here pristine life - in which environments, phenomena and spheres, in which materials and matters, in what of ephemeral secret stratums? Into where is life's source, so unknown and far, into where is that hazy beginning of that endless thin thread, extremely patiently extending through all the bins and all the outskirts and suburbs of this fussily hastening wretched actuality. Where is it, that unutterable spark of creation, that secret timeless holy flame of the origin, right instantly deifying each of souls, ennobling everything and all, full of saint bliss and so profoundly primordially sacred, where it really is... Into nature, in us... Where exactly... Who'll say... Many hundreds of same type sunrises and sunsets will be freely exchanged, but you will not become any smarter. No matter, contemplate you this world or stay closed."
Quite perceptibly forworn Andrei Leopoldovich has slumberously cringed and awkwardly yawned: "And now I harshly need to go, right at this strictly accurate moment I, probably, am starting to be waited. We've agreed to have meeting at six. At now, as I am able to suppose, it's half past five. Yes, all's totally right."
The hero has with hastiness got up and stridden along of clouded long alley. It was supposed to have a meeting with thoroughly known Irina Alexandrovna - in one provincial cafe in remote and desolate district, far away from all noisy and empty. Till such location was not more than half of mile, and there was no drop of fear to be late, but anyway, according to precaution, no additional hurry turns wrong. So, after single static dozen of short minutes, our pensive Andrei Leopoldovich has rather speedily exchanged this easy distance and tranquilly approached two-story dirty-yellowish building of the needed address.
Inside of hall is perceptibly chilled, light is dim, people's figures are rare, old faceless tables are prosaically modest, fairly shabby and tiredly worn, with napkin holder into center of each one and with no single hint on charm. At sadly colorless wide window, up to half softly curtained and gray, is calmly and indifferently flaunting some deftly framed by antiquity engraving. Under smoked blurred ceiling is shyly hidding one generously decorated crystal chandelier. At dusky entrance is woefully whitewashing in darkness tall lonely and inclined, fragile bone hanger. At low, but wide unlighted bar is proudly and majestically standing huge multi-level rack with bottles. At little distance from such one is meekly showing shy oneself hole of the entrance to the kitchen.
Close to six, the silhouette of Irina Alexandrovna has weakly looked inside of hall and, having slowly approached our hero, infirmly greeted him in few brief formal words.
Andrei Leopoldovich has promptly and excitedly got up and, having taken his girlfriend’s coat off, pushed out waiting for her chair and sat her personality at previously occupied free table, then straightened tablecloth, sedulously smoothed all of the folds on its vast glossy surface and handed out the menu. Irina Alexandrovna has monotonously stared at humbly scrabbled even lines, looked out through of half of the categories and then timidly chosen a couple of the most unpretentious dishes.
"In general, I'm always fully modest – to degree of the utterest horror. You even barely will find more gray and plain."
"You're a flower of life. Most marvelous and wonderful from all."
"Come on, really, please, what a flower indeed... Only stem, sadly faded. But deeply thank you for such raving anyway."
"Do not be modest. You are truly an angel."
"All angels are in heaven, and I am here - am cramping into cabinets and digging through papers. Just scarecrow and nothing more."
"It is so frighteningly stupid to belittle saint self till such state, unforgivably stupid."
"Who knows - what's stupid, what is clever. So many people, most sincerely considering themselves directly wise, as fact, are empty useless fools, even clinical ones. And if about me, I'm, at least, evaluating myself only soberly. If I was also doing stupid things in addition to meager appearance, I would have tragically been a sheep at all. But now I still am slightly better."
"What a misfortune is with you – why are you hating whole yourself?"
"Into me there is nothing worth to be kept or regretted in case of own wasting. Nothing suitable to be appreciated or cherished. In general, believe to me and my banally plain words, there is not much good into people at all – they are only cheap meat, consumable material, not more. All those ones who are more beautiful and healthy - they come pampered or sacrificed, and all the others get simply lost in outside – into thickness of crowd, so homogeneous and gray. I'm there too. Since my birth and till now. "
"But what about individuality, originality? Are they a reason and an aim?"
"But what for do you need them? Well, you will be exalted, will nicely write all of your sufferings in poetry or paintings, or symphonies, having deftly prolonged your ill puberty until eternity and irrevocably lost into silly daydreaming, and meanwhile fully similar others into neighboring village will quite easily make wholly same prolix verbiage in incredibly countless volume. What perfection is here? The same antique posing models, by yours mind, were they really beautiful? Among of them, as sure fact, had been only most primitive ones, who had freely agreed to get totally naked in front of drunk and poor painter. And just these cheap and hollow harlots were generously immortalized for long centuries. Even more - they till now admire the crowds. So miserable caricature."
"Here I will not agree, there are great works too. Great and brilliant. Only ones from the billions, but still. Works are utterly different."
"This works for too sophisticated, for deadly poisoned by deep melancholy. Will you really agree to be ruefully suffering more than for years and to feel total pain for only single simple fact, that some shy-man, like you, once in endless dark centuries will appreciate sense of your sayings? You have to be a real fool for to feel something surely serious to your chosen partner, especially if such one is romantic."
"Such position is too much one-sided, too materialistic..."
"Do you know how righteous girls were becoming dark witches into Middle Ages times? Previously, if some woman was accused of own attachment to demonicity, it was quite customary to burn her. So - those ones were easily and nimbly finding trustful gullible men, who were eager to hide them and save. And then exactly these dull idiots were successfully getting guillotined themselves. Right at this priceless perfect moment the lady was supremely turning into real hell's servant. Although in fact she simply was becoming truly proud smart woman."
"The best way to the devil is to start to be fighting with him, then it will be the shortest of routes. And, in this your opinion, it turns out such way, that the fastest of roads is to fall with such one into love."
"The best way to the devil is that one, which is going through woman." - has cutely laughed Irina Aleksandrovna: "You are kind... Kind and weird."
"You are also the same."
"Maybe... Maybe..."
"Do you like this location?"
"A lousy, filthy place. Disgusting. But for you I'll tell - yes."
"You've appointed here by yourself..."
"I have done it with reason, intentionally – for not to be especially blissful."
"But why?"
"Into couple with men any pleasure is strictly contraindicated - even out of sex, and in such process aforementioned connivance is completely unforgivable at all. People hastily get in addiction from comfort, get totally used to it. Rejection and aversion are more pragmatic, more sweet."
"But what about outlet and joy..."
"What for is it? To get attached to some kind of mad moron or social garbage? Tell, with what to be glad here? Joy is wrong in itself. Natural selection never accepts such nonsense."
"And what can be selected by such method?"
"Something worthwhile and suitable, at least. In terms of you - something really masculine, and in my own case - an adequate woman without sick sentiments."
"Then what is masculine in your opinion?"
"Well, at least, not even barely to think of real loving of own woman or, what's more, of believing to her. To take care of her, to play role – that is right. But not more. And, of course, no of faithful fidelity. It's extremely unnecessary."
"That's some kind of atrocity..."
"Well, if sphere of predation does not make you excited, then remain into status of plant. Maybe, someone will really take it – one, whose "flowerbed" stays accessibly vacant in here for especially long. And moreover, all you finally need, wait and want is also artlessly exclusively just that."
"I'm only hoping to be with... Be with one, whom I'll be able to let all my heart and to give all my care and warmth."
"Strange desires... But well. Each one has own oddities and quirks."
"So, supporting them, maybe, let's dance?"
"After couple of meetings - if all of matters will be lucky. And in most lucky case this stupid nastiness will never come at all."
"So cruel..."
"I am joking at here, just get up – we'll slightly shake ourselves. I’m myself rather tired of sitting."
"And you are surely not plain, not simple in inside and far and far not even formally explicit..."

IX
Into calm town A is the first real blizzard. Valentin Stepanovich, in pair with Alena Igorevna, is measuredly wandering along - through wide and snow-covered deserted street. On its desolate sides are unshakably staying big snowdrifts. In front of way is sleeping singly staying lantern - with extensive thick halo around. Into distance are hiding in murk sadly rare and vague thin contours of the neighboring houses, unhurriedly and woefully dissolving into cold hazy shroud of dispassionate, somber sky's veil. All the world is sedulously covered by deep canvas of lifelessness, of dead emptiness, doom. Each accessible space of impassively frozen white area is sternly purified of vanished population. Every visible outline, from most small till most wasteful and global, is stiffly gloomy, bleak and plain.
"So slushy evening at today." - has meagerly remarked Alena Igorevna: "Even no one visible moon into whole endless sky! Even faint and indefinite one."
"But what for if like that? For to tease own eyes. Any moon should be bright. Bright, visible, voluminous. Keep in mind, human's fortune and happiness are supposed to be tart, overfilled with own luck and success. Otherwise it is not satisfying."
"It turns out such way, that kinds of happiness are different and variously diverse? It’s impressively interesting. And to what concrete type of this weird odd gradation does our own alliance claim to refer? Explain me - just for the sake of simple banal curiosity."
"To most faithfully long and delicious one - the most capturing from all known and, as fact, the most highly desired. The most hotly and lustily coveted. As some marvelous sacrament, as some imperishable secret higher magic."
"So expressively pure and so stupidly evident comic, even truly with something appealing, with something morbidly attractive in inside." - has straightly thought Alena Igorevna: "It would seem – I'm so openly laughing at him, so much clearly looking at him as at penny, am perceiving him fully as absolute jerk and excitedly swearing, and he, my moron, is stably talking once again about magic and, what's more, is so really glad and rejoiced. So naive, strange and silly."
"Let's dream about different..." - has suggested meanwhile Valentin Stepanovich.
"How it is?"
"In most productive and romantic way. We'll dream about many things at once – maybe, something will really come true. It's both ambitious and strongly resultative. And also pleasing to the heart and to the practice."
"Do you straightly consider, I am having a full hem of joy, when I'm wandering here into slush? We have sat for a while, well, okay. Now it's time to go home. I have no intention to dream into inclement cold. Be sure, that even in good weather and without wet snow such desire is not so huge. And now - at night and in sprinkling moist drizzle – I certainly and firmly disagree. Leave such blisses to somebody else."
"Sometimes it’s warm from only one thought. From bright awareness of good. From hope or spark of pure insight. That's why it's vain to judge so bad about dreaming."
"So what really useful can be truly extracted from such ones? They are just food for disappointment and only. Feed yourself with such junk. If it will not climb back from your throat."
"Once again no of tender, affectionate dialogue, once again only purposeless series of uncounted disputes and infinite reproaches..."
"Bot how else to react on your oddities? I don’t accept such rave like this. No one, who has workable brain, no one truly healthy and mentally sane will produce such incoherent nonsense with head. Now to home - just as soon as it's possible. At this obvious moment I am ardently dreaming exclusively and only of that."
"Then no slowness anymore."
Have successfully added the speed.
All the house is quiet. Things are scattered. Blurred curtains are closed. Lonely lamp is lamentably crippled on one broken lampshade. Wall-papers are quite dark and wearily monotonous and sullen.
"What a woeful dungeon." - has sadly concluded Alyona Igorevna and unhurriedly gone in inside. Valentin Stepanovich has peaceably conducted his pale passion and cautiously sat her at the table: "Let's take one tea?"
"Two teas. Most hot and strong ones. I've got completely frozen."
"Already poured. Take your pleasure. The cup is waiting for your will."
"I see the cup. It's excellently visible. About what will be the plot of conversation? Again about stupid dreams? Unrealizable and vain. Or will we find something slightly more deep and more fruitful?"
"True dreams are higher than sky's clouds. This thing is undeniable in all. But we also can freely discuss any other accessible themes. No tangible matter, innermost, sacramental and deep, or impudent and petty. Any motive and any of styles - from the light, plain and ordinary to the wicked and forbidden."
"Decent row. What exactly you'll choose?"
"That's not so easy. All my assumptions and conjectures are so hardily hated by you."
"No, not all. Only useless and stupid. I'm not so evil, by the way."
"Then about life's luck – about rights on such great treasure, about helpful influence and accidents, because directly everything is planned from the very route's start."
"What precisely do you mind? What is luck? What is the meaning of this constant?"
"Luck is dark. But the road to luck is a sequence of circumstances - those ones, which bring you any favorable products and results. For me, it's so."
"And what kind of result, into frames of your own perception, so most persuasively it is? On the basis of what you have right to consider yourself firmly happy? After what are we getting such status?"
"Only one - truly tangible getting of your own individual feeling of life's and fate's justification. Truly tangible chance to calm down and reassure worn and orphaned ill soul, to become really someone, to turn out to be a completed example of person, and not a paralyzed pawn."
"The irony has stripped till naked body." - concluded targetly the lady and gently and unhurriedly cringed: "How awfully far you are here from your own pretty ideals... My dear, darling guide, you've fully lost your way... About what to ask him else..."
Alena Igorevna has thoughtfully sighed and slowly reached for the sugar bowl: "And how close have you got to your happiness?"
"Already reached the key from it - from you."
"Just nitwit. Pure nonentity and nothing in addition. Now it's not even funny."

X
In town B is standing global vanity – each one is hurriedly preparing for upcoming new year – is crowding and scurrying here and there. Full of pensiveness Andrei Leopoldovich, among of flock of many others, is monotonously stretching through of tight busy street. Everywhere around - sweet clutter, motley faces, wide looks, vague silhouettes, noise and huge clumsy cars, flying by. All kinds of dishes and rich regales are generously flaunting and shining behind of spacious shop-windows onto shelves; truly countless visitors are swarming into sections. Illustratively bright, lush and festive, almost endlessly long and so freely and randomly flickering garlands and exactly alike massive luminous balls are neatly, playfully and proudly erecting at solemn central facades, with specially sharpen ostentation, zeal and boldness overwhelmingly coated up with all familiar to people decorations. Every thing and detail is surely and confidently blowing with voluminous, strong inspiration and persistently forceful apotheosis of thick and touchable magic and temptingly alluring anticipation of the next fairy tale, so much tartly and daringly reigning in dense New Year's frosty air. Into lonely gray height are deftly and impetuously rotating thinly carved, full of joy snowflakes. Andrei Leopoldovich has approached one of the boulevard's shops and frozen over rack with superb splendid jewelry. Into stock there are diverse beads, foreign porcelain and plywood figurines. Nearby are elegantly painted round dishes and immodestly colored lanterns. Common choice is quite wide. Even prices are not so much scary. The hero has stopped own glance at one of varicolored trinkets, and after finding of right bill, relaxedly inquired about size of price and cautiously wrapped his newly-found miracle in wrapper, then turned with fancy ribbon in a nice, pleasant way and meekly trudged in voyage back.
The present, by itself, was intended for so greatly well-known Irina Aleksandrovna, with whom it was supposed to meet at work through some fortuitous accident, which, in fact, can be easily done artificially – if such case is especially necessary. Just exactly such way has behaved Andrei Leopoldovich, in own turn having not deliberately looked to his chosen one’s daily office and offered to spend some joint time.
"Do I really look like a loafer?" - has surprised Irina Aleksandrovna: "The day is at own peak, there are lots of duties. What a dull kind of whim - to tear me out from my work?! And from what should I suddenly rush to fulfill it?"
Then, one short pause later, she much more peacefully continued: "I’m only joking. So, boldly tell, with what you've come – with which of news?"
"The new one year is on threshold, so I've decided to attach you to upcoming worldwide celebration – I have brought you a gift and appeal of the being together on updating of date."
"The company, it means, has come desired." - has remarked the lady: "Are you yearning for feasts? If such ones are so necessary."
"Into general - no, I'm yearning only for ordinary evenings - without superfluity and rakish, dashing fun, only simple and modest nondescript inconspicuous gathering of two similar souls."
"Ones are crazy at body, the other ones - at spirit." - Irina Aleksandrovna has smiled: "Have you suddenly started to crave for affinity? This is too desperate affair – only reason to rub heart till blood. You indeed need affection. And such one is directly utopian."
"I want to have my right on hope..."
"It's useless, fruitless and deceptive - just aimless weight, inappropriate cargo. Nothing more."
"I want pure joy - at least, one sip of such one, even awfully tiny, all the other is emptiness, water..."
"And you will sink exactly right in such one, that's rule of fate."
"I don't believe in it, this saves."
"It does not care."
"I just search a way out - from the everyday grayness, from the cage of the life and from frames of its habits, from all bustle and fuss."
"Such one was born before than you – you'll never overcome it, and rescue, salvation or relief are matters only imaginary, you can't destroy global wall of futility. Our choice is not great: into first useless case - to endure, and in fully identical second - to misbelieve and to be in illusion. Take what's nicer."
"Anyway, only one simple happiness is indeed truly pleasing and necessary - even being surprisingly deep in mistakes, you are still neatly crawling for it."
"So we live – ones are crawling, ones other are flying. You belong to the first, rare ones to the second. Nothing new has appeared – either crying, or laughing."
"With no priceless dream this life is stomping into abyss."
"But what for do you need such a stupidity? No matter, with dream or without – as a fact, no halo of luck will observably grow anyway, and no personal star will light up and rise over."
"I have no need in whole star, I'll be totally glad with, at least, dim flashlight, faint and small... I already will really be pleased. We will go, will celebrate warmly and nicely - and I'll get stable outlet."
"I will take your cute present, but I'll never agree for to celebrate – do it somehow yourself, with no me. Anyway, truly thanks - really hilarious figurine, pretty."


XI
Into aged, overcast town's park of well-known town A, in the opposite pose to each other, were restlessly, and even somehow idly, calmly sitting, in spite of heaviness of snow, Valentin Stepanovich and Ivan Vladimirovich. And, of course, they were sitting not aimlessly, but for the sake of fruitful talk - about something truly urgent and definitely difficult and dark - about personal heart's life and own spiritual searchings. This cursed sphere, being inwardly almost paranormally hopeless and apathetic, was concealing and hiding, as fact, only rough, dead despondency and horizonless, immense bitterness, but at same woeful time was serving as exclusively eatable food for inner soul's space and was successfully killing long hours and even whole days, engaging all the mind in discussing of little details, usual problems and trifling omissions.
"What kind of awful thing it is: to annoy human's heart – inadvertently, secretly, and, what's more, to prevail over whole helpless head! And after all, every pitiful thing, every little and miserable nonsense so swiftly transforms your whole life into rubbish, into constant damnation." - has gradually begun Ivan Vladimirovich: "So great is this world, so much many-sided and almost practically immense, but you become attached to so narrow and scanty being's frames and personalities, that even all your human appearance comes erased from you away, like reduced by tart acetone. Not much later than two days ago, I was traditionally walking through of local bored area into regular tryings to find out any good mutual relationships, and, as I've sadly got to know, it would have been much more useful and safe to stay keeping in silence – there was no one case of responsiveness at all, just as if I was talking with dead stone walls - on the contrary, only contempt and mockeries' suspension – so dirty and dreary, loathsomely mucous and tireless; like a leper I am, like some nasty and horrible demon. There is no frankness in world - into lost present time, there is no unity here - only hopelessness, where any human alliance is a couple of two hardest enemies. That's an agony... Pity, but true. And, what's hurtingly more, damned they even admire with such poorly rotten and vile combination, boldly throwing own sharp and so aptly and glaringly catchy thick phrases, which are fully endorsing and firmly approving any irony, sin and cynicism, successfully explaining it with targets, with some kind of the best criticality, of the highest at earth pragmatism, of deep prudence and truly far-sighted approach. And so assertive is such harmony of this distraught sick people, so strong and unbreakably dense, that any right alternative has no chances. As if all minds are into ring of hardest stupor."
"This is real time's grief. In main turn, just those are outcasts the most, who have boldly refused to be sunk with the others. But personally you, first of all, blame the rot of society, not yourself and own mind. It's a problem of stone and path - if you've got at some route and then suddenly stumbled on wallowing stone, then the same poor stone itself is, alas, absolutely innocent and harmless - it was just lying and not more, but youself are fully guilty, no one was forcing you to go exactly by that way, where was an obstacle, there were also lots of free ones, but you've chosen that one with the stone. We love freaks. But this is a reproach to own mind. Not to society, which from time's starting was a swamp. No one interpersonal association is a priori capable of making creativity - only dirt and destruction, only scarcity, only evil. You can become attached to slut, to liar, idiot or dummy, but that's clearly not they are instilling your right to be answering someone with love. It concerns only own past experience. Your servant is your brain. Shy away from of sinners. They're the easiest key from the hell."
"New actuality is worse. There is one big weakness – strange and adverse desire to be here with somebody else - it's the worst of the curses and flaws. Firmly deadly addict me to all of available drugs, teach me how to gamble, fully force me to be total sodomist, moron and figaro, but, please, rid me of awful ability to believe to the close to me person. Rescue me from so heavy impossibility to reconcile with permanent loneliness, from desire to share my being with someone. Better kill me, or mutilate, break and dishonor, but protect from such mortal reliance like that."
"Any trust is a sin – very terrible, wretched and, as fact, irreparable. It makes you fight for vain illusion, makes you breathe with a kind of pure vacuum, makes you mentally lost for whole life. You are waiting for surf from the sea, that even not exists at all. They've given you such misconception, that free volume of years and world can quite excessively endow you with all of concrete heights and values. For you was given straight belief, that among of this endless reality can be surely found some indeed truly frank and sincere companion. You believe, that all this is not vain. You have a mirage of some logic, which calmly makes your existence subjectively different from delirium, madness and rave. It's simply absurd to expect any train outside of the platform, but even on the platform it's far not always able to appear - especially with route, that wholly suits you. This is clear example of hidden futility. Life and world seem to be full of secret potential. It seems, that we have lots of geniuses and there are so many pure souls, but in fact only nits, sluts and freaks."
"So, how exactly and for sure to get protected from all false?"
"Be more prudent and deep, put all of the particular details into integral picture of world, ascending till most global scales. And smaller tear your own heart – forever densely remember, no greatness at here can be built by huge feats and hard sacrifices. This rotten world requires from you just not less than a self-immolation. It demands total selflessness. This is the worst of our qualities. It deprives you of yourself. They ask to change your life on happiness of traitors. And it's not only in love. In everything. In so wrong patriotism, into collective social systems, into dialogs about vocation. Look, firstly, at the source - they primarily burn some house, and then immediately rush to save it from the fire and persistently call you to join. Each one, who wants you to defend native land, right with equal free easiness boasts with weapons and really thinks, that enrichment by ruination of the weak ones is something normal, suitable and worthy. All who stubbornly call you to sacrifice with the latter, most often sit themselves on bins with gold. All of those who call to achieve their goodwill and deserve their love, in a fact so much firmly despise and contemn own partner and all available time only constantly mock at such one, see such one into role of a gutless and soulless property, with even no one idea of some truly bright feelings and purposes. There are only Herods and satanists. And those ones, as a rule, are most usual in judicial mantles and cassocks."
"But sometimes own soul still believes anyway – into played empty tears, into false hollow caresses and just faked, artificial tenderness... Anyway still believes."
"Not the content of one or another proposal is persuasively weighty and truly important, but its source and original authorship - if the devil sincerely offers you anything good, then it will be much wiser to cancel so awfully lavish suggestion. Any false dummy feelings do not heavily differ from the real and viable ones. All their actual cost and veracity are indeed truly known to their own native author and only. You can't be absolutely confident whether you are loved, you can only guess and believe – but one nude faith, torn off from rest, does not bring any goodness. Reciprocity must be mutual, not one-sided. Relationships without mutuality are like bricks without cement: just till nearest chance of the parting. And the first stupid step is already a step to nowhere. It just opens whole way to all others, predetermining their certain committing."
"But how to be - everyones change their roles so deftly, that we have no of chances to notice."
"Lie does not like own nudity and sharpness. It tirelessly searches for any mask. Each satanism, most often, comes presented as a kind of religion, and each deception as an attempt to show you truth. Be afraid of reprovers, they are the main obscurantists."
"With such position everyone here is an enemy."
"So it really is. Everywhere is falsity. Remember, value and price are two totally different things: credibility and truth are so far not the same. You can give huge amounts of money for pure fake, but you also can take best of miracles fully for free. There’s no correlation between the qualities of your idol and the easiness of its final obtaining. There is only global mass fiction. It is called as a "life"."
"Sometimes it's better to be dead..."
"Yes, perceptibly better, but at now not time. You know, life is very narrow – you have barely moved in away from one edge and already has reached the same opposite. Mistakes at here are not forgiven. In fate we have to show most outstandingly excessive scale of accuracy – right the absolute one. Precision and its aptness are life's wings."
"And what about ideals of being?"
"All of ideals stay just indifferent - they never tolerate the fact of conjugation, that's why the road to them is usually entirely original. There are no patterns of path, no clear instructions. Only endless attempts and mistakes. The second ones are incomparably more frequent, as you're guessing."
"All the century pay we for own oversights."
"And for the such ones of the others - in our world each reckoning has dissonance in working: as a rule, only innocent ones come most usually punished and kicked: just pretend, that your future love passion had at once met an idiot – long ago far before, and nowadays, right since that poor time, is surely considering all the next lovers and you as deep idiots. You're not an idiot yourself. But you'll be marked in such a role. And distant first initiator of this circus is not involved in act at all and calmly rid of any sanctions. What you'll say of such state?"
"I will only ask by what steps not to get in this dirt?"
"No of ways to such bliss. Here works one doomed inseparability – of every light and every dirt. All good things are quite often connected with fallen. Moreover, unity and enmity are two main tools of any devil: to bring you to all bad and to separate you from all worthy, that, if to plunge, is whole his task."
"Into whom, in such case, can be found sincere support?"
"In oneself. Keep in mind, you can fight for yourself exclusively by own modest strengths - autonomously. And, please, be always highly sober. And I am not about alcohol. I am about mental drunkenness: freely trusting to traitors or making mistakes, you lose your sanity, play madness - as if you've woken up from terrible hangover. Shy away from all wrong information – from any of its variants and types. Firmly clearly know, that bad swimmer is confidently able to get drowned anywhere – even just in a spoon. And brain is right the same - each unprepared mind unwittingly believes to any kind of delirium. It doesn’t matter to which one - theistic, loving or formally scientific."
"Sometimes it seems, that happiness is house. Big, huge and affable for all. And you yourself just walk around. You walk and look for entrance in inside, you are seeking for any access to this greatly exorbitant goodness. You seek, but still again can't find. And then you slowly grow old, you wait and wait and next one day just lie in coffin. And all, that finally gets left - two useless dates on faded plate. And you yourself, with all of plannings is unattainably away."
"We should be able to be strong. Keep in mind, being truly a phoenix, you have sometimes to be an ash. You must be ready to survive into weaknesses, to experience moments when you are firmly shown as a shit. You must be able to survive. Just to survive and to rebel from breed of lepers."
"I want to hate all of earth's people. Each of them. Everybody and everyone."
"Do you think there are any people? Who can be named by you as human? Is, at least, one such person, about whom you can not doubt, can not only just guess. Do such people exist? Do they happen? Don't believe to dead bunch of the bodies. Any public opinion is just a sort of broken compass: you think, that it's completely normal, and calmly follow its instructions, but at the end instead of final needful point you to own horror see deadlock. Live as it gets condemned. At today, it's the best and most righteous path, most sober, logical and pure."
"How easy it is to become fully nothing..."
"Just simple. Very simple. As fact, you can become discredited just once, and even with extremely little scanty trifle. That works like case of crack on vase - more than 99% of the whole material remains exclusively intact, but water is still pouring away, your vase is no longer solid. This wrecked receptacle is absolutely spoiled. Protect yourself - your public status, soul and reputation. They are more valuable than body, than any volume of vain wealth. More valuable and more vulnerable, alas."
"But where can be searched the source of luck, of inner balance, of some kind of wide standard for mind and ideas?"
"Life's luck is not a property of you: it once again works like with vase – its cost and value are determined by the master, this small fact does not somehow depend on the features of vase, on its true everyday practicality. Any 15th-century vase will quite easily cost endless millions. And any current one - just couple bucks. With bonds of luck it works the same – you can be born directly smart, truly prudent and happy exclusively by coincidence of dogmas. And, as a fact, you can be only born in such rich state, you can't become, that simply is not realistic. We are not able to get changed. It's possible exclusively in dreams."
"Then what is main, what's valuable and true?"
"All main things are quite blurry - you even do not know exactly where to look, where lies treasured blessings of being. You don’t know, even if you are smart. But remember one thing - the highest grace is hidden into unity, in wide integrity with fate, even if just in its ephemeral details and not deeper. If yours stupid, vain dreams are entirely slender - that’s firm key from all peaks and all tops. But if even the most realistic reality is exclusively blurred - then all will sadly disappear. It’s much better to be a rough preacher of hard mindless absurd, than a doubting scientist. Walking firmly and zealously, you'll never stumble or lose speed, you'll never linger, never turn away. And road's exits from right track are dangerous directly by the fact, that chance on rescuing returning will fall most often not so soon. Not right instantly will you come back to good path from apostasy. And not fact, that will do it at all."
"With such position - only soot stays onto soul. So much dark it's in there at now. From aggravation of all doomed."
"Each soul, please know, needs in lantern - bright saving lantern of idea and impetus. Light and darkness are mutually exclusive. Seed inside of yourself true and firm auspiciousness, and all filth, trash and garbage will surely get just incinerated and then quickly and calmly fall off. Go only on call of exceptionality, sow deep rightness, and insignificance will promptly disappear."
"I guess, I do not understand my life at all, don't even partially know which way it's working."
"Understanding of world into depths of own absolute essence entirely comes down to one long twisted labyrinth of ideas - that ones, which every single person keeps silently inside of poor head. And if these mixed ideas are quite right, then you get regularly encouraged by life's going, but if such ones are empty and chaotic, then life persistently and sternly starts to beat you and to refuse to you in all. That’s how it's trained and tuned to happen."
"It turns out, I am not so glad to this life, not a friend to my fate – foe, enemy."
"You look in here only at good, fully thinking that, firstly, it always is true, what’s exclusively wrong, and secondly, that it inevitably leads you to heights, what is also not true. If you're going to south, it’s not a fact that you’ll be wholly lucky with your fellow travelers, even strictly in spite of so pleasant and resort direction. Into fate all is made just the same – you will go for love and loyalty, and such ones will just trample you out of road, having given you pain, dirt and moral hard leprosy and having asked you not to go for them next time. Right at this you will end all of travels."
"Then, at least, all attempts will be fully short-living."
"Moreover, no one of longitudes at here is really a comrade. If you need to await and persist for achieving of goal, then, most likely, it's totally vicious and abundantly alien from the earliest start. All truly good comes for free and, as fact, right into hands like a pure zombie. And if you vice versa see refuses, then it’s much better to disperse. Much more logical, useful and prudent."
"I so much harshly do not want to be a fool..."
"Then hang yourself. Sometimes it helps. But if to say with leaning onto essence, then I will assure and calm down – in a fact, this is utterly simple. Into darkness we always see more than it really there is. Our partial, false understanding inevitably gives heavy rise to the fictitious difficulties, strongly leading to wilds and dead-locks. Do not try to be thinking about at all uncontrollable, it's extremely both stupid and dangerous and so profoundly irrational and mad. That makes you fool. And makes better than anything else."
"So frightening is our helplessness. Our raising to zero. To pure pitiful void."
"This is the main of earthly torments. Sparks are powerless – they are certainly able to make any flame, but only with the presence of combustible products. All initially doomed wrong attempts are so aimless in absence of flame's reachability – such dead sparks are just useless cold flashes. Fully empty and not even warming. As fact, you do not need to be a torch, you just need to have someone, in whom you can create responding fire."
"No one is like that. And never will. But I'm looking for them anyway... And, as fact, after all, there is only emptiness. Why it's so much abundant..."
"That's for better. Give to human firm fullness and he'll calmly remain it unclaimed, give him emptiness and he'll quickly acquire identical fullness, so much indifferent before, give him severe bitter lack - and he'll promptly achieve an excessively rich superfluity. We live and act on contrary and only. If you're not hited, you are hiting yourself. And don't rely on hollow humanism. This is not human matter, hope, you know."
"This world is acting right in opposition?"
"Exactly so - and nohow else. Only one, who is seeking of truth, is receiving the biggest of lies, and exclusively one who is truly desiring deep holiness is receiving departing to devil. It's exactly unchangeable."
"I want deliverance. Sharp finish. Sharp and brief. I want some total final rightness."
"I'll say you more, such one can be exclusively just so, not somehow else. Any rightness and correctness are available, as a fact, as complete ones and only - if right will suddenly transform one day in left, then left will similarly turn oneself in right. That is why, having once realized all and everything, you will surely stop your past whitewashing of life's vices and also simultaneously will most invariably forget how to blacken light's flame. Just at one tiny time."
"As by miracle?"
"As. But personal initiative is also quite essential. Freely playing with fate, time from time you can win. After all, it is not so clear - who is playing with whom. Each truly deft and nimble fox is capable to torment own hunter so much, that he himself will be totally helplessly ready to fall down and die. Be more powerful, and all facts will disperse. And one more time: don't accept any sacrifices - into any of cases. God is never demanding such ones, only treacherous devil."
"And what's of God..."
"Just equally endures own helplessness. Alas. And his weakness is even more painful than ours."
"And love, why it is so much rare at here?"
"Love is as chemical reaction: for such one are required some special conditions, most often casuistic and unattainable, unreachable at all, that is why this great feeling does not ripen and shine, does not burn."
"But from what to get hope into searching for truth and fidelity? What to do?"
"To rely at one time onto several sources. Rave's polyphony gets less freely perceived as an absolute truth. But any single strong, self-confident position almost always indelibly stucks into brain and persuasively claims to be something reliable. Alas, sick and exclusively harmful individuality is also often too much sticky and trustworthy, too adhesive to share and head."
"How nice to have mind."
"And how bad when your enemies also possess with the last one. As a fact, our mind is a kind of non carnal sexuality. It attracts you, makes you gravitate closer and closer to person, makes you want to be near. Into evil and vile combination with a rotten low soul, this is the worst of known poisons. As well as sexuality in couple with veiled meanness."
"But sometimes I so ardently want to... Want to go for alluring temptations. Even if through of all of the hardships and thorns, but only for to find and to achieve."
"You should not pass through of thorns. I was already cautioningly saying and not once – only lightness is needed, only confident harmony and abundant conformity, most plentiful and rich. Without such one will be nothing. Equations of soul can be correctly solved exclusively in frames of smooth whole numbers. Equivalence to partner, reciprocal and firm similarity and spirit's commonality are the only of roads to sense. Outside of such ones only darkness."
"So much scary to lose..."
"But do not be afraid anyway. We must be able to lose too - only temporarily and in small, in wholly empty. Remember, superiority is not a sign of rightness. You’ll easily be beaten by street hooligans and robbers. You will die in such fight. They will win. But they never will go to heaven. Not always winner wins. Be knowing."
"That's too sad anyway... Everywhere is total duplicity, deep duality, cheating and masks..."
"That is right. And faked cover is so much tightly soldered down with the essence, that it can't be someway separated at all. This life is metaphorical and awesome. It's just wonderful, look."
"And what's about human?"
"Each human is a stone, freely thrown by some careless hand, and whole question is only one: into where is it flying - down or up. That is all."
"But such role is so insultingly humiliating."
"This world gets built at now commonly on bad. It has exactly inverse principles – any local complexity entirely depends on some kind of simplicity: you can calmly be here a pure genius, your head can easily invent greatest technical miracles, best symphonies and painting masterpieces, but any ordinary stone, aptly thrown into you with required strength, will deftly turn all your whole personality into banal dead corpse with a broken cranium, each alcoholic and each fool can so easily kill into here any artist, any righteous enlightener, inventor or musician. A whore can bring a poet to his suicide. A brainless marginal can rapidly ruin and cripple helpless actress. All kind things so indissolubly depend on much heavier evil. At the top of the universe, believe to me with no of doubts, is just darkness. Any light is just scenery, hollow deceit."
"Then what is the criterion of truth?"
"Only one. Firm survival ability. Any kind of accessible lie sooner or later dies, but veritable truth – inexorably never. That is why do not look for such things into people - they are helplessly mortal. Too much than necessary."
"Any sense is so rare, so woefully weak."
"Every sense is like sacredness: it doesn’t stick to all. It’s property of only exceptional committings. That is why all the others are so distressingly ridiculous and strange. But, as fact, they demand equal time, all mistakes occupy it till satiety - it doesn’t matter in this world from what you build your house: from good materials, or from spoiled unsuitable rubbish, each construction's erection will decisively take equal period. But results will be different - in one case nice, rich building, and in other – frail squalor. But the time will be spent right the same. As right the same returnless forces."
"Where are real miracles? Are they here at all?"
"The only residence of miracles is head. You can get them by thinking and only. Can just imagine and not more. Each of miracles is exclusively personal."
"That means for us - never fight with sentimentality..."
"Still not entirely like that. Fight always only with compassion. Eradicate such thing from soul. Never keep such a pestilent feeling. Don't even try this stupidity in practice. Especially don't judge by outcomes - some failed person gets dead, gets passed through sufferings or crushed by tree or tram, or turned suddenly heavily crippled, and you instantly feel so sorry for him, so much sympathize, but first you have to do - to ask the most main question - whom he was? Maybe, absolute scum, total nit and exorbitant bastard. Maybe pure devil’s servant, that should be killed much earlier and harder. When I see here someone in torments, I start wanting to finish him off. That's the only right way, be aware. This world preserves and saves all of really valuable people itself. And, what's more, just without of help or of someone's involvement. But if person gets lost, then he hasn't been needed at all. So... Never, never sympathize. If you see dying child, leave him out and do not disturb. Anyway, after time, will be lavishly born many others."
"Strong position... Harsh, merciless."
"But in essence exclusively kind. It’s much better to kill all your friends than to save even one real enemy. A drop of evil totally destroys even sea of each obvious goodness. And, alas, I myself, if to be fully honest, so frequently feel extremely heightened compassion, although perfectly know, that it’s not justified even partially. Yes, good people are also quite able to suffer, to encounter hardships and pains, but only one in million is good. So it’s better to show no help. Let God decide himself – whom at here to survive, whom to die. Do not spoil his plans. Or you'll instantly start to be serving to devil. But if you’ll ever get such friend, you will never get rid of his presence."
"But how to avoid devil's bonds?"
"Almost no of methods are helpful. Against his tricks, you're only a pawn. We all are weak. Becalmed and full of softness devil is much nicer for us than joyless, strict and unreachable God. Therefore, we freely follow for the darkness ourselves. We even beg for being near. And life's authority is always only single - above of you at here all time either light, or murk's veil, nothing third. And to be outside – in pair with oneself, is also sadly not allowed."
"Light isn't relevant today."
"That is right. Today it’s trendy to reap garbage. And each really suitable person is too bad for the role of the ballast - it’s too pity to kill him. But look at crazy daily crowd – just cannon fodder, nothing more. That's why they are in so loud favor."
"Such state is frightening and awful..."
"For trembling ones even trivial wind is a hurricane. Don't be afraid. And never spend all passion of your soul. Any harmful and mindless devotion can be ever demanded from you exclusively and only by the devil, and if to say about God – be aware, such one, as an obvious rule, does not care at all of any human's attitude to him. Don't think, that all is unambiguous. Our world is a kind of suspension: just shake, and all what formerly was classified as good will promptly dissipate, disperse and disappear."
"It will be very difficult for me. I'm dead slave of my doubts."
"Any doubts are awfully crippling. And even fully insignificant and small. It works like nudity and shame: if you are shameless, you can easily put all your clothes far away, even if you was tightly enveloped into tons of textile, you can effortlessly climb up on width of table and perform to occasional random spectators, just involuntary and fully accidental, all the views of your own genitals and not only. But if you are directly modest and dressed exclusively in thin and tiny nightie — you, on the contrary, will wrap yourself in its liquid material, will grab it, as your last salvation, and will firmly refuse to get stripped. With doubts all is just the same – some of us are entirely able to reject any rave fully, fasly and easily, some – vice versa awkwardly and slowly and highly painful for own soul. On last ones hold all workable sects. And, by the way, all confessional cults in addition. This world behaves and acts according to the rules of fighting – here wins that one who is the strongest, not that one who is right. You can be killed and harmed by any force - by people, fate or dangerous and stupid oversight, and in case of the battle all is strictly the same – you can be killed by infantry, by cavalry, and by those who shoot from the sea. All are surely equal, and no of difference who plays inside of act – fools or gods."
"So, by what of the ways can we get proper caution?"
"Any caution, as fact, no of matter, that at first glance it may seem abysmally strange, is needed mainly in good spheres, not in fallen, but vice versa, what's quite heavily confusing, in those exaled rightful ones, where into thickets of complexity and thinness can unobstructedly take place most lavish volume of duplicity and filth. And into startingly defamed of occupations, will a priori be in times and times much more of straightness, purity and frankness, with almost zero space at all for any dirt, deceit and falsehood. I trust to prostitutes much more than to any of priests or news-makers. So, stay away from all sublime. Any evil is getting presented exclusively in veiling of morality."
"So hard it is – to stay aive in current world."
"Such one is total will-less slave of well-being's blown up hollowed phantom - in any visual of judgments, if to observe days' fuss from side, this world is practically blooming. There are lots of cars, lots of bright wide shop windows and various appliances. You do not even know which way is working scheme of your processor, you can’t make paper, paint or leather, can't produce metal, fuel or clothes. If you'll be moved in pristine woods - will you make any car, build up a comfortably dwellable skyscraper, or create everyday electronics or, at least, elementary small power station to maintain kitchen lightbulb? You are only a bug into immense far world. The amount of all current knowledges is in thousands times much more great than whole commonly taken capacity of most smart, bright and talented heads. You are dead prisoner of grasped civilization. And true majority of minds are not too great and full of kindness. Even right into time of concentration camps, inventions never had been losing own shy placing. And such ones were exactly progressive. Besides we have a lot of madmen. Each one of them has his own special little world. Such worlds of madmen are the funniest of things: it is extremely difficult for them to meet and to associate with any of smart people, but they are also totally unable to keep peace with each other, that's why rich madmen fall in arguing with poor, divorced - with keeping selves betrothed, indigenous with guesting up newcomers. Don't forget, they are madmen, what to take from their breed."
"And, after long communication with such people, you're getting shallowed down yourself."
"That is right. Each pettiness has harmful predilection to be excessively intrusive - a simple movement, for example dull nibbling of button or pen so quickly turns in daily habit, but getting up in early morning for short running and nimble gymnastics or reading one smart book a day by some of reasons doesn't work."
"Curse of specifics is too tragic, too tormenting and stubborn."
"But empty. It doesn’t lie here towards miracles or heights. Remember one important point - not believing in something ephemeral, you'll never meet anything unforgettable. Learn to dream. But only in right measure. Good measure is so valuable for being, so powerful in obvious results. And only in deceit it's weak. Its endless scope sometimes is too enchanting, that's why it is entirely impossible to believe into someone or something. Don't trust to anyone at all: both your neighbors and heads of the world are similarly lying each of moments. Your wife is saying that she loves you, your priest - that world's pier is ruled by God, your town's politicians - that there is a lack of money into treasury, but then it suddenly turns out, that your wife is a traitress, your world is abode of the devil, town's treasury has magically got precipitated as many personal extensive, dazzling mansions. They will deceive you into all - both in small and in global. Such degree doesn't play any role. And any evidence is thing, exactly labile: look at world's history; at first, unshakable religion had been so freely dominating, when ancient sciences had not been truly having enough of own information, and into now all is straightly vice versa. Truth is only a fiction. And how long and stable will it be - is just result of simple circumstances, coindences and chances."
"And how, explain me, can my healthy sober mind be even able to survive?"
"Any mind has a right to be healthy, all it needs for such aim is to be independent - sometimes some small and ugly bird, so insignificant and weak, stays day from day exactly free, and sometimes large and graceful nice bird sits in cage. You do not have to be a genius or skillful mastermind for to have truly right and correct understanding. Main thing is not to be a fool. So, strengthen, gain your priceless mind, take constant care and protect. Adversities and harmful misconceptions swarm, bloom and huddle almost straightly everywhere, but all keys from such ones are exclusively deep into heads. Don't give yourself to pit of wrongness, and nothing will have chance to overcome your course of fate. All is surely simple."
"But why we so so often don't see this difference between of gloominess and light?"
"The similarity of opposites is guilty: the same sky is so frequently seen just onto ground, underfoot - in spills of water and in puddles. That's why we take pure madness for eccentricity, clear extravagance for generosity, and total stinginess for useful economy. That's why we gladly sing long praises to chatty charlatans and liars."
"All that straightly and surely means, it's much better and safer, and smarter to stay exclusively away from any kind of human goodness... If it's so frequently deceptive, wrong and false..."
"You've noticed correctly and aptly. All negative is truly more reliable - correct answer for each equation can so easily be promptly written off, but you certainly can't get an error, resolving by firm rules and patterns and without of miscalculations. Never cling to the visual blessing. Moreover, such a feature is always only wholly harmful, vile and worthless. You can calmly and peacefully sail, even being on sinking wrecked boat. The only question is how lucky and how long?"
"This world was made directly by the devil, not someway else."
"Even if all is really so and our world had been made by the devil, anyway choose attachment to God and don't doubt. No one can disturb it. And learn to disagree. Passivity is not a correct habit. And once again, keep more self-confidence and strength. Remember one, we can be trampled exclusively by our own soles."
"What holds us here, in such a case?"
"Just simple accuracy – best of human's helpers. Such one is always high above of any miracles and blessings. All your steps, all positions and prospects are totally and solidly determined exclusively by one well-known thing – by person's relevance to being and by degree of self-appropriateness to the context of boundless life. Even more, all around is final result of only one determination – you can come happy or unhappy with equal kind of inevitable fatality. World's stage is generally solid, it has one common source of forces - keep in mind, both knives and amulets are made of single metal."
"But whom to be in such a madness - a harsh and heartless fervid skeptic or an ardently trustful and sickly incorrigible romantic?"
"At now skeptics are exactly everywhere - they believe in some form of occult mysticism, as it seems to their wavering minds, but in fact they believe into regular physics, simple chances or usual circumstances. And by the way, recovering from pure materialism is even much more difficult than from any of hardest religions: if some stone is pressing your chest, then you will so much trustfully feel it, will so firmly believe in its power, that you will be directly unable to be thinking of anything else! But what's really happening here in such case? Change your current blood type or right number of present molecules into cells of your heel, and you'll not even notice, but distort your desires or views, and you’ll lose whole yourself, having instantly turned into alien person."
"Then how to denounce this reality? – its characters, ideas and events..."
"Denounce them with help of contrast. Especially in all of public matters: each of dirts is invariably leaning to virtues, but true actual virtues, into own modest turn, are never sticking even near to any kind of aforementioned poor dirt. Look straightly at extremes – most sure thing on our planet. This is amazingly reliable."
"But how to be good and at the same surprising time still not to suffer?"
"For any good and honest human, first of all, there is no place into bad, low world, and, at second, for sorrowful such ones it simply will not be allowed to exist into here: weak and breakable bridge will come broken right under that one, who is saving a child, truthful one will be surely slandered, sincere one will be fully and wholly deceived. Remember please – we're going to the hell exclusively by way of good intentions. Do you want to come evil? Set indeed irreproachable aim, and you'll at once become obsessed - right in process of sinless achievement ."
"How sadly expensive sometimes can be human's experience..."
"Not entirely so. The value of experience is free, if to look at such thing just conditionally: someone have to crash madly high-priced worthy car for to get right conclusions, and someone have to crash a costless one. All is matter of case and conditions. It's as in lottery – someone really lucky will get whole million from the first single ticket, and someone less successful will stay exclusively with nothing even after of thousandth one."
"And it's unable to predict..."
"Yes, it's so. Sometimes pure nonsense leads to greatness, and sometimes all is right vice versa. Here takes place principle of spire – such nice thing, as the highest detail of each building, so frequently allows you to recognize and notice all the same poor building itself, by entirely similar scheme something totally secondary so often leads us to main points and brings to weighily new levels of mind's depths. All is dark and ambiguous. Into fate there are no of things, that are little, just remember and add to opinion's volume."
"After all, so much frightening, painful and sad is this vicious feeling of weakness, of firm and harsh impossibility of luck, of deep illusiveness of any true success, of any purity and rightness."
"Impossibility is also, by the way, perceptibly dissimilar and awfully diverse: not to open your lock, as a fact, is more sad and offensive when you're having a suitable key. Any chances are making more painful and only. They never gift you real opportunities, but in couple with them it’s more hurting and hard to be loosing."
"What else is killing us? Describe me all the poisons."
"Effectiveness. Its trap is more than fatal. You see some beautiful, well-read and successful in all lovely person, very rich, disciplined and developed. Such one is too idealistic. You will look at yourself as at absolute slops in each comparison with so graceful companion. But it's calmly quite likely, that inside this saint human is vile harmful scum and so so rare nit and traitor, with rotten empty soul, extremely full of vacuum and only. But external wide harmony will not permit you to discover this sick truth. Newly made and well-functioning prompt machine gun is much nicer than old broken tractor. But the first one brings death, hard deep injuries, pain and sedulously lacerated bodies into pools of red glistening blood, and shy and modest second one produces healthy, mellow grain and supports population's vitality. Appearance is greatly far from essence."
"This world is too much vicious and dead."
"Exactly so, you are right. Too bad, too useless is existing. This wrong reality is like a crooked mirror: in inside of its sinister limits any good and magnanimous persons come exposed as tyrants, sincere ones – as scoundrels and rascals, but any obvious bastards gets shown as real heroes and stars. But remember most firmly and strongly - crooked mirror distorts exclusively reflection, but not true view of face itself. Keep always only own opinion and mind, and no of facts and cases will denigrate and blacken your pure image."
"That's a swamp, not a world, not a being... With neither truth, nor kindness in inside."
"Big miracles are highly variable phenomenon, as fact. Somewhere even flying under ceiling is not a new and not a skill, but in somewhere else an elementary soul's reciprocity or kind, soft word are true sensations. Learn to choose useful paths. Although all of such ones are already prescribed. Here works long interconnectedness of constants: both principles and ways are surely determined by pristine inner essence, the initial one for all human's beginnings. You and others were primarily born either fully for flight or exactly for creeping. That is all. All of points and rules of each life."
"Not a fate, but a trouble..."
"Not in all. Time from time we have obvious need into optimism too. Believe in inexorable superiority of sobriety - no matter, how drunk you are at now, sooner or later you’ll fall asleep and wake up fully pure, your mind will surely triumph! And no of other ways and manners. Don't even doubt in such thing. But delusions, of course, are too tempting, too alluring and sweet for mind's frames – such ones, as fact, are much much more fertile than objective reality: right answer anyway is only single one, and the rest of all other free numbers are containing whole endless infinity. The volume of illusions and bemusements, after all, is much wider and larger than anything else. That's why such hollow phenomenon is more desirable for heart, more more long-awaited and more pretty."
"But how to improve your way, if you have stumbled?"
"Very difficult. Difficult, alas. Here takes place principle of chemical reaction - as with feeling of love. Only now you need in reversible one. Yes, reversible chemical turnings are exclusively real, but, alas, for such uniquely rare process most often are required new conditions, completely differ than for primary reaction: an ordinary daily boring life is quite enough for to make greatest of mistakes, but for to correct poor outcomes you need to get some powerful insight, some mental width and inner soul's meaningfulness, deepness."
"It’s, probably, so easy and so simple to live with such an endless mind as yours..."
"Exactly no. The wider are you visible horizons, the more of grief you're doomed to see. Okay, we've sadly lost the theme. What is about your relations? With Darya Dmitrievna, if I remember right. Let's tell it deep and in detail, with all main kinds of small particularities."
"Then fully listen to my speech..."

XII
In town B are reigning calmness and tranquility, New Year's time is far behind, all echoes of the holiday have surely subsided, quiet streets have ruefully diminished in festivity, exhausted, faded atmosphere has slowly passed in usual daily frames. All is just ordinary, peaceful and unremarkable. Even snow is scheduled.
Andrei Leopoldovich is woefully and measuredly walking by embankment, sadly cold and unused at this hours. By sides - nude emptiness of vastness, bare ice and unfixable loneliness. No of gray, frowning houses, no of black facelessness of gates, no of featureless people. Only lightless landscape, full of deep immobility, static sorrowful nature and fluid reachlessness of doleful horizon. Bleak and tiresome clouds, ragged and uniform ones, are meekly stretching step by step through of smoky dim haze of the bottomless sky, effortlessly, unhurriedly and restlessly exchanging aimless distance in dispassionate sliding by pale and lifelessly numb surface of strongly frozen snowy limits of lost world. Apathetic, indifferent land, bewitched by silent fearful gloom, is nonchalantly blowing with tangible tragedy, so lavishly dissolved in thick and saturated breathless air. No shadows or signs in whole picture, one static mortified and soulless oblivion and all, one restless ruthless pain and only. So much old and familiar pain. That’s whole variety of existing. And at tomorrow, should come first working day, first one in new unhappy year – with wearisome duties and with another pointless chance of meeting with all the same Irina Alexandrovna, still torturing vain bonds of dreamy soul.
One more purposeless day in away, into thrift-box of garbage.
Andrei Leopoldovich has got hidden in front of well-known thin door and shyly entered inside.
"Well, broadcast and describe, in which way have you passed idle time of last holidays." - has habitually greeted the lady.
"Was unstoppably thinking of you all the time..."
"And I wasn't."
The hero has rushed down in hesitations.
"Please, unlearn to be longing of anyone, it's exactly impractical. Each attachment is pit: the deeper you get in, the less chances you have to come out." - has extended indifferent Irina Alexandrovna.
"Sometimes you're climbing in this pit, like in favored treasury, by the way irrevocably calling long veil of own rightlessness, but doing it assuredly, by mind."
"No one can stop back those ones who are rushing in abyss. Interpersonal soul's masochism is even more addictive than any kind of current drugs and invented perversions. Its webs are almost totally invincible, omnipotent in strength of control. Time from time it's at all undeniably fatal. The victim’s role is generally sticky. Extremely sticky to brain's meanders. To get protected from such role is directly unreachable. You too have woefully turned out to be strictly unable to free oneself from this unlucky abyss. Looking here for deep unity, for true personal convergence, you will surely find only harsh alienation. Just a fact of this being."
"Do anyone believe in real happiness? At least one single person in whole world."
"No people like emptiness, they prefer stable logic and valid guarantees. Do you know where each happiness ends? Right in there, where begins daily life. Where appear rough sad truth and reality."
"I've been reading some similar things. That God surely ends just in there, where religion begins. Such lines were teaching to be free, to be strong in all cases."
"Poor teachers you've had. If you haven't turned out to be mentally able to heed them, to follow their words. If they all would have been even partially, but tolerable, they would surely hammer at least skimpiest something in inside of your head, having truly reduced current rave in its tragical cavity. And at now your mind is so far from all practical, as unreachable space from each one who is having no rocket. You only amuse yourself with fantasies, and at life's harmful scene – no of joys, no of viably firm fairy tales, and no of such ones for to be, at least, expected."
"Reality, reality, true life, big being - what all that means? No matter, in which of all words you will manage to call it, what is this poor world without positive bright color, without fullness of free hopes and without tart heightened feelings, what is it? Mortal barren swamp."
"In tight surrounding of cripples, it’s greatest sin to be with dream. Among deep lepers, health and beauty are sadly working as a poison. You should get out of society. Hut, sea, grass and digging stick. That's your level."
"If to add one, you're loving, to this modest sequence, then it really will be not bad."
"It is not possible to conquer your absurdity. You would have to give up your vain childhood. Last one has fully passed, you'll never get its absent fruits. You're only generating dull illusions, that is all, you are weak."
"Why? In what?"
"Into essence. If I would know in one of days, that my God is just mortal, and if I at the same pleasant time would have an opportunity to kill him, my hand would promptly do it with no doubts, with no even chance to stop. But you yourself, of course, would save his life, having argued such action with fact, that it's much easier together. You need to have some close companion - God , human, dream, no obvious difference, you need that one, who understands you, you need some team, some long support. You are too empty for self-ruling, for pure supremacy of will. You adore your partner, but it’s more rational to hate him. Only then such a "gift" of this fate will transform in your personal rag. There is too much human in you. You make me to have nausea from this."
"But what's inside, what's behind of this dead alienation, of this dreary and tedious influence, of dummy cold absolutism of your personal rough autonomy, what it really brings and contains except of strictness, emptiness and hatred?"
"Just greatness. Wide mighty greatness in all sorts. There are only two pleasant rights - to kill and dominate, that's all. And each of other countless opportunities is nothing more than temporary measure for self-defense. And any serious attachment is just a form of human's dirt, the most mindless and miserable one, by the way."
"You consider me useless."
"I know. And I'm totally right. I am right all the time, even being exclusively rightless. After all, you also so frustratedly agree with all my words, especially in terms of self-perception – you is disgusting even for yourself, that's regrettable, tragic."
"But how to believe in whole myself and where to find true self-possession, if each one only hurts and condemns, belittles, humiliates and breaks, fully burying all strength in hard impersonality and vainness..."
"You are too angular, too stupid, it’s too much difficult for you to be just straight, you are too windy, too much far from true monumentality and firmness, you're devoid of justified vectors. You're only wandering around. You're wandering in labyrinth of self-created purposeless expelling. The whole world, which in opinion of skeptics is only just a morbid provocation, for you is contrariwise an abode for sick hopes, for expectations, senseless chances and strange dreams, that's the most brainless lie of all existing. You is pure corpse. You're still quite full of life, quite young, but you're extremely inappropriate and ownerless – in all of features, ways and aspects."
"That's why I really want to get escape from this perniciously vile constancy of being, I want to break with that, to fly somewhere away, to get detached from this futility forever - not only for short time, not for brief faint forgetting of self. I want some saving bright alternative - pure closeness and serene mutuality."
"Then you've missed. I do not feel like that. Especially with you."

XIII
In indifferent gray town A, is raging harsh and dejected February – is droping heavy snow flakes and driving playful blizzard, so irrepressible at night. All streets are silent: houses are calm, sad facades are enclosed with plentiful thick hoar. Rueful vastness is blurred, vague contours are smoothed, uneven lines are rambling and chaotic. Slim bleak harmony is surprisingly simple and stable. In the midst of this coldness and mortal oblivion, in one of bars, which don't extinguish own alluring lights at night, is humbly huddling in aloof depressed by apathy Angelina Evgenievna. Her woefully extinct, eternally tormented modest silhouette is monotonously cutting dismal, featureless wasteland of the murky and deserted hall with unhurried desperate glance. It's desired some warmth. But who will give it, who will gift... In such a case it is time to go home.
Next to gloomy wise-iron huge door, someone has in deft manner called out: "Wait a time. What's your name?"
"Angelina."
"And my is Pavel. Let's arrange a ride to you?"
"I don't know..."
"Do not break my damned brain. You are far not a refined one."
"I'm not on purpose. It's too unusual for my mind to be doing like that."
"You'll adapt, not a trouble."
"I only need to get used to such great innovation."
"That's a matter of time. Where you live? Where to go?"
"Just nearby, into distance of several houses."
"Then let's go ahead."
"I'm too shy."
"Nothing wrong, you'll disperse such a nonsense. All we are not without of some sin."
"What is my sin?"
"Do not worry at all, we’ll create it."
"It's surely not boring in your presence."
"That's not new. Any evident, tangible happiness into practice most often is just trivial and awfully straightforward, even stubbornly primitive. As a rule, we can really wonder exclusively with something fully simple. Old familiar road of stupidities is more broad, more easy and spacious. It's more appropriate for obvious perception."
"And you will be my guide in such a path?"
"Even surely more – I'll be your personal adventure distributor, extremely unreliable and startlingly inflexible and tireless."
"Exactly interesting job, most uncommon from any existing."
"You'll also get some fictional profession, do not worry. We’ll organize such entertainment. Let's only go on, let's already proceed."
Calm walk has got own humble start.
Long quarters are completely inconspicuous, total absence of rush and of people is prevalent directly everywhere. Views are gloomy, blurred contours of somber, bleak houses are strictly inexpressive and unhappy, surroundings are cheerless and indifferent. Behind of thickening opaque sticky veil of soft and sleepy lifelessness and fluid hopeless darkness are quietly dozing wilted languid areas of sorrowful locations. Shyly frozen in caution till far vague pale morning wide vastness is lonely blowing with tart dismal emotionless sadness, fully flooded each corner of city. Are lonely shining sharply restless huge numb lanterns. Bordered by peace, wholly vacant terrains are smoothly and obediently surrendering to the midnight's captivating mild bliss.
And now long-awaited porch. Next – short uncomplicated stairwell. Next – grey door of the needed apartment. That's confidently all.
"Right here we'll please both souls enough." - has aptly noticed Pavel.
"We do not even know each other. Do not know at all." - has faintly sighed Angelina Evgenievna.
"What a fuss? What a for all this nonsense? Or you are right from those dull of persons, confused and hopeless just from birth?"
"I'm trying not to be like that."
"Then undress. Why you are so sluggish?"
The lady has diligently sat on the corner of bed and timidly begun to get self naked. Her uncertain and tiredly blurred dim gaze has reservedly glanced at random faceless tired objects of the room, at indistinct reflection into faded washed mirror and at own bare body.
"It will be something new..." - has meekly thought Angelina Evgenievna: "That's already not bad."
"Why so so slow?" - has asked the guest.
"I'm not used to such actings like that."
"Yes, rummage, rummage, do not tremble. I am not in a hurry."
"I'm, apparently, absolute nothingness. Oh, my goodness." - has concluded the lady and, having rather speeded up, begun to put away the last remaining items of the clothing, becoming lavishly presented into native pure form, completely defenseless and selflessly opened.
"Well, she's really uncovered." - has quite unwillingly commented on cold Paul.
This poor meeting by itself, as fact, was far not long-awaited and was promising no true prospects, no greatness, but Angelina Evgenievna has perceived it as a piece of big happiness and frankly interpreted as the sweetest of lucks.
"Why you've frozen, you are not a stone. I have come not to look or admire."
"What do you like in such a process?"
"What you can?"
"I will try all the best..."
"You're having no other ways. Get now on your knees. And straighten up your hair, or by what should I hold you?"
"I will not run away in any case."
"That was remarkable from earliest beginning."
"I was not hiding any of myself."
"It will not work even if you will stubbornly try."
"I am not an expert. I'm trying not to let to myself superfluous things, am trying not to argue, I’m even trying to give help."
"Do not speak, give some rest to your throat. It will sedulously work at something clearly another."
The lady has fallen completely silent. Exactly pleased by her accessibility glad Pavel has made one heavy step and taken soft companion by neck. She has flexibly shyly moved forward.
"Yes, all right, just like that. And bend down your back slightly more. Nice, well done."
The process has immodestly got hot tart start.

XIV
In town B, the first approach of spring. In around is still harsh prevalence of ice, monumentally dominating over shyly upcoming far flowering. But whole world is already more friendly and bright, and even partially more joyful - both on streets and inside of the heart. All town is remarkably more dazzling and attractive, more hospitable, spacious and light. Slightly faded, still sleepy and tired long contours of so early and recently freed from abundance of hoar's mass slim buildings are tenderly enshrouded in weightless foggy haze. Everywhere pure peace, everywhere just careless, quiet relaxation. Over calmness and drowsy oblivion of the limitless spaces of land is hanging, as a boring, dreary shawl, deep monotonic heaven arch, completely unalive and alienated. Underfoot – crumpled snow. Andrei Leopoldovich is freely, leisurely and idly going past by the sullenly spreaded wide square. So wonderful is this small pleasure – slow walk, so usual and trivially simple, but so joyful and exciting – you're coming to some insipid desolation, then walking through of painfully familiar surroundings and streets, and, of course, you will not even meet some of friends – no of such ones, but anyway it becomes much more pleasant, much more bright into doleful heart. And if you'll meet some known face, then at all real holiday. And now right the same – all around is gray and unhappy, and in the distance at the booth with smooth bright posters - Irina Aleksandrovna herself.
"That's a sign." - has admired the hero and cordially greeted lovely lady.
"Why are you here? - where I am." – has coldly asked the girl.
"By the chance of pure fortuity." - has answered Andrey Leopoldovich.
"You are having surprisingly charming relations with fate, even intimate ones."
"No, I’m hardly a friend to my fate, only far passer-by. After all, it's at all is not possible to become more related with fortune."
"I am perfectly seeing, that you are only a guest – a person of the secondary plan."
"The main thing is to get an appropriate role."
"Well, what kind of life role do you want at this time?"
"All is wholly the same – just the role of your daily companion, of your devoted satellite and indivisible heart partner."
"Am I a planet for to need into any of satellites? I am not a celestial body, put away all your stupid ambitions, roll them up like own sleeves and do not show in any further of life's times."
"I am trying to do it not hard, not intrusively."
"What real difference for me – how you do it, don’t cling to me in any ways and forms. I don’t need in such king of behavioral garbage."
"I am looking for simple small happiness. For sure understanding and support."
"That is not something sacred. Almighty, paramount and supreme. Such kind of seekers are at every step. Have been born much much more than enough. For the future, I think. For centuries ahead."
"This is pitiful, poor affair – to be a beggar. Yes, I know. Inconsolable it's. But after all, I'm so frankly and so sincerely pleading for unity, for true and sinless mutuality, for warmth."
"Oh, moron. Just a moron. So outstanding flippancy of mind, so sick impracticality and vainness, so infantile unserious naivety. What for are you with me?"
"Whose presence do you want in such a case?"
"Though anyone's, but only with ability of strength, of real mightiness and firmness, of mental coldness, clearness and sobriety. Candidature of useless slug is a penny in concept of love."
"You're approving excessive predation, approving enmity of sexes..."
"Yes, I am. You are right. Have you suddenly got filled with mind? That's praiseworthy."
"But it's impossible without of support, without of deep stable understanding and true feeling of real companion."
"What is this feeling? It will pass and entirely melt. Today we all are separated."
"But what about reciprocity of souls..."
"With strong, harsh ones and only, with surely well-promising and great. But such ones are too rare..."
"Then allow to hug you, at least. I want to get some love seduction."
"Am I a lamppost for to grasp me? Buy a dog and then squeeze it. But not me, not my flesh."
"That's not my fate..."
Have missed each other.

XV
In town A, calm district is timidly and silently enshrouding self in canopy of fog, full of ashen gray smoke of the slowly thinning quiet dawn. Lands, gently bordered with deep shyness and confusion are softly getting filled with life. Long and angular shadows are crawling upwards, passing by, trams are riding away, weary district is meekly awakening up from the night, uneven monotonous silhouettes of bleak faceless pedestrians are floating through paths. Dreary canvas of cloudy veil is blankly spreading into distance above of gloomy dismal houses and places. Are deftly lighting up first humble windows.
Angelina Evgenievna is sitting into loneliness. Recent Pavel has already gone out. Neither number nor living address, by the way, were deceptively left. However, that was quite habitual. Inside of tired body is definitely pleasant sluggish fatigue, in legs is languid lovely stiffness, slight warmth and mildly and voluptuously tormenting intense bliss. In head, intoxicated by unconsciousness - deep unconcerned pacification, in mellow mouth - still not melted lustful taste and still clearly perceptible viscosity. In around – just emptiness. But such one is excessively coated and removed by strong internal inspiration and playful inward ease. All doubts are turned off. All the spirit is bight. Any second and moment are blessedly enthusiastic, tart and opened. Rejoice, the heart, fly higher.
"Good... Just good. Body, mind, inner me. All is good. Such a beauty." - has thought Angelina Evgenievna and longly yawned: "At least someone has paid attention to my life... That's a pity, they didn’t stay for long. But not bad anyway. It suits to me. I should take little walk - for refreshing myself."
Having offhandedly ignored even taking of shower, the lady has with laziness got up and, having thrown narrow coat on oneself, has indifferently slipped into murky doorway and walked away.
Street is quiet. Huge thick houses are colorfully welcoming. Wide landscapes are expressive. All outlines are firmly full and saturated. Pure enjoyment, not less. Saint paradise can be just on the earth. At least few days in whole life's term. It seriously happens time from time. Yes. Indeed.

XVI
Town B is similarly nice and totally welcoming. Andrei Leopoldovich is leisurely walking across familiar uncomplicated surroundings. Lonely alleys are hospitably spacious and clean. Diverse and pretty faces of the houses are calm and meekly peaceful. Passers-by are rare. Air is static.
"What a marvelous beauty! Amazing. What a deep and perfect spring. Literally cinematic. Just magic, nothing more." - was reflecting the hero while dragging by his random aimless route: "All starts from truth. From harmony, equivalence and unity. From kindness. Without such great points, there is nothing real, there is nothing surely valuable. Only hollow, petty and secondary, only awfully empty. Without kindness - no understanding. And no justification. No love. Heart's kindness has a road, free from bustle, free from garbage and sins. Not everyone will follow it, not all. We must renounce humiliation, must deny it. We must be ourselves. We must be much more wise. More demanding. We must change our fates."
Andrei Leopoldovich has looked around: "What an exalted spring this year. Aristocratic. But on soul just slops. I need to pour them out. To get rid of such rubbish. Yes, I need. I need to take renewal. I need to go ahead. To go to the kindness."
To the kindness, to stars...


XVII
And once again in town A. Valentin Stepanovich, together with Alena Igorevna, is trampling by the cobblestones of already entirely melted embankment. All around is light. There is some rare snow into lowlands. There are single velvety clouds in sky. But landscapes are quite warm.
"You are so much funny and absurd." - has remarked the lady: "You just think and imagine, that's all. Just literally a baby into tailcoat."
"So, all the life is given for to learn, for to build huge conclusions and think. Think and catch all new things."
"And what new are you catching right now?"
"Right now - nothing. But this is not decreasing whole novelty - motley posters are fresh and a few meters next - erection of new building. I clearly know both the architect and the company group, responsible for process of construction. I can quite easily describe their inner history and all of design's aspects."
"This is too superfluous. If you would know some unusual rare ways of giving pleasure, then I would intently listen. And you supply me only with science. Does any woman really must be smart? She should be careless. Completely careless and free. And, by the way, exactly happy."
"But happiness is fully ephemeral. Each one desires to possess it. But who really has? How many of people? You will not give to it one short description. Obtaining of demandable conditions far not always makes pleased, glad or happy. What the happiness is? That's just the same as to be asking – what is an electron? We know its parameters, its apt characteristics and internal substructure, we know all the laws of physicochemical criteria, but what's an electron itself? What is its matter? What are all atoms and molecules? From where this reality had come and how had it been reproduced just from nothing, what does it mean in global, in most pure understanding? What an electron is? What is the happiness? What a kind and of which of formations? We can only notice such one, can distinguish and all. But we cannot repeat..."
"Was you happy yourself?"
"I don't know. Maybe yes... But most probably not."
"It seems sometimes, that you are smart, but as fact you're unable to think. What a for do you need so impractical brain? For to wear wide hat?"
"Sometimes such one is truly helpful..."
"Not noticeable. Alas."
"Rich benefits sometimes are just invisible. But they really are. That is main."
"But how exactly can be presenting here something, that even can't be somehow felt?"
"Just as the same perplexing happiness."
"You still have puzzled me. Damn mental rascal. Okay, you may consider that you've won. And now let's go to the grocery."
"Let's go, yes."
"Oh, filthy knavish varlet. So you are."
 
XVIII
In town B, it's already full May. All the nature has bloomed, last agony is over. Wide streets are abundantly filled with fast people, so much motley and glad. Prompt cars have boldly multiplied own previous small number. Everywhere is fuss, saturation and fullness. Everywhere is harmony, freshness and bliss. Everywhere is warmth.
Into cozy, free bower is sitting group of heedless people - two cute girls and a couple of pensioners. Next to them, Andrey Leopoldovich - admires with young ladies. One of such with a book and a hat, and the other - with a nice multi-colored ribbon on wrist. Both are pleasant.
Soon the lady with book has got up and gone away along the alley. The hero has infirmly caught her up.
"Do you hurry?"
"It depends on in where you are going to call."
"Will call to take a joint walk."
"Not so impractical, let's go."
"So, is it possible to let myself to ask, if of course such mysterious knowledge in current days can be reportable at all, where from by luck's will are you going?"
"From local college. I am a teacher into there."
"Pretty. Cute. And I'm a prisoner of project engineering."
"That is also romantic."
"Are you really thinking like that?"
"Yes, I'm thinking. And this is fully justified. Engineering is not so idle. That's why, such one is very interesting. At least, it's surely not empty."
"No one innerly viable spot of surrounding us being's nature likes things as emptiness or lack."
"I'll say a little bit another – the very emptiness itself does not like to indwell our nature. That's why it settles mainly into people - in their souls and their minds. It's much more comfortable there."
"I am in total unanimity with this. Time gets shallowed."
"Time's pace is mirror of perception. And worldview is not best nowadays. Most of people do not understand what a for are they living. They do not understand why they still remain humans. We're having only habits. We do not delve in any content. We build bridges in clouds. Into empty illusions. And such ones promptly melt. With all plans in addition."
"We're getting settled into castles made of air."
"We're settling anywhere. More often into ordinary cages - either tight straining close or less feelable wide. In cages of prejudice, dogmas or deception. We want to reach and take a flower. But we see only bud and ignore sharp harsh thorns. We search imperfectness, defectiveness and faults."
"This is like some damnation, like some straightforward curse or plague."
"More likely, just a banal finish, as a result of previous inconsistency. For something better, we are needing into goal. In beacon, compass, mental map. And by the will of fickle wind, even truly the warmest and tenderest one, you'll never sail in paradise's cradle."
"And besides, no such governing maps have been written for current of persons..."
"The map in fact is whole this world. The world of routes and expectations. The first are wrong, the second are unjustified. We are falling in hurry and thirst. We rush and suffer. But in the end we just despair."
"Despair as most obvious endpoint?"
"As a sign of completion."
"And if I'm having no despair?"
"Than all life is ahead. Or, at least, little part. At least, death."
"You're unusual, uniqe."
"All of us are the same. Even shadows of random park's bushes - after tiniest time none of them will be ever repeated."
"You're really so outstanding. Even certainly wonderful. I would be so much happy and glad to get a chance to get acquainted with your person..."
"It will not be successful, alas. I am just going to my chosen one for anniversary. But your company also was utterly nice. So, thank you for your deep informativeness and wide openness. The personalities of your formation are far not typical for poor modern times. After all, look since now at yourself as at the rarest, materialized into human form miracle. All indeed is exactly like that. That's even not a standard cheap exaggeration, as you quite easily could hastily conclude. Just nothing more than piece of truth. And if to say about happiness – just wait. Maybe, really such one will appear. At least, at sunset of the path. At least, in front of ending curtain."
"Thank you too. With whole heart."
"Don't be sad, living route isn't over. And right at now just goodbye."
"At his place should be me..." - has sadly thought Andrei Leopoldovich: "So regrettable."

XIX
In town A, is expectation of young summer. The world has greedily breathed up refreshed life's taste. Into opened cafe under whitish thin awning are sitting Valentin Stepanovich and Ivan Vladimirovich. Their company is once again the same, not wide, but true and just idealistic - the dialogue is quite measured, the conversation is organic, the unity is native, warm and close.
"And again I'm in thoughts of my Daria Dmitrievna." - has begun Ivan Vladimirovich: "As in some hopeless witchcraft has frozen our reciprocity. I can’t achieve her, cannot reach. And cannot get true deep relations. I just can’t..."
"Does she again reject you personality?"
"She ignores."
"Yes, it's ruefully painful, I know."
"More than painful, just truly unbearable."
"Don't pay attention."
"But what to do? To tolerate? To endure all sorrows and griefs?"
"Not fully so, in such a case, just simply not to pay attention. That is all. You should rise up till scales of whole reality. Imagine that all world is just a dream, that your being, as fact, is not more than an artful illusion. Do not trust to existing. True confidence in our actuality is awfully disastrous. That's sad, but aimless objectivity is a priori much more evident than thoughts, but it doesn’t contain any correctness. It is important not to keep delusions' rubbish. To train persistence of own brain. Here works the paradox of labyrinth - you do not see it's way and exit, but only being in inside. And if to look just from aside, then such one, on the contrary, will be quite simple. Remember, any of delusions are dangerous exclusively for their adherent followers."
"Is that all for to have life's successfulness?"
"Yes, practically so. It is essential to have the role of leader. Remaining all the time at such positions, you will be constantly with luck, even surely dying. Each person most of all of rest needs in cognitive dominance, in unambiguous control, which provides with supremacy over of weaknesses. Do not bend under facts. You wasn't not building path of fate, all forces that are moving you are fully autonomous and free, but only you yourself can indicate your right direction."
"But what's of love... Will such position gift some benefits in it?"
"Don't mix up real love and amorous madness. Shallowed falling in love is like fear: such a feeling is wholly indifferent, is autonomous and totally torn off, not even partially based on actual affairs. Our inner soul's attitude and sensitive affection more often live without any one of reasons, relying only on illusions and premonitions, on vain deceptiveness of hopes, and having no of valid proof of partner's objective perfection, so highly valued and exalted in hazed mind. But real love is not a thing, that can be build on speculations, it can exist exclusively in frames of mutual identity, where your own heart attachment is all the time entirely identical to the one you receive in response. Love is utterly balanced. Its power and degree are absolutely equal for both of owners of each other. And all of forms of such strange feeling, all known variants of contacts and relations are only local types of one great godlike genre."
"Can so much bright and sinless feeling be existing?"
"If you will throw off all the masks, then maybe yes. At today love is hidden - under flirting, dummy courtships, seductive lustful piquancy or sex. Do not mix up these opposite false constants. Such ones, of course, are quite contiguous and close, but not in absolute degree. Love is a lizard, and sex, perversions and rest sweetness - lizard's tail. If you're clutching the tail, you're vainly staying just with it and only, sadly losing the lizard itself. And by wise grabbing of reptile by last one's body, you're gladly getting all the animal at once – with the same priceless tail in addition. Sex more often is out of love, but true love into any of cases all the time and with no of exceptions is leading to most shameless, lustful sex."
"That is more than amazing."
"Take care of yourself, do not be inexpensive. Divide cheap emptiness from truth. For this endlessly useful ability you must have only bare experience. For to get an aversion to copper, you at first need to get tight acquaintance with gold. Without tasting of what's high, you will not manage to get out of what's low. That's a rule."
"While of such looking, you have hundreds of chances to stumble."
"Here works the equality of hindrances – both big and little locks can close your exit similarly well. If you will not break locked door itself, you will not get away even through of most minimal locking. Into fate all is also the same - any meaningless nonsense is already quite dangerous and strictly influential. That's why mistakes are much more frequent than any mushrooms after rain. That is hopeless."
"But on what to rely?"
"Just as always – rely on yourself. And on initial full absence of illusions. Truly smart and indeed mindful people never trust to the power of head - they faith exclusively in stupidity, they clearly know - it will win, and just by that no single one of progressively organized persons even nearly expects from society any deep comprehension or cognitive sanity. Be of similar views – my advice."
"This is awfully difficult. You so promptly get confused, get fully lost and broken and so much ardently begin own fierce search of any vague, hollow hope, if you have stumbled even once at puzzling harsh complexity of being."
"As fact, complexity is just an underside of dominant simplicity. It all the time is temporary, paltry. From the primary source of all known elementary particles till all of global planetary systems, this immense world is absolutely simple. This is being's foundation. Take the same usual clocks – such thing just shows you time and only. That's rather ordinary process. Rather primitive role. But clockwork is so terribly hard and confusing, so madly detailed and so difficult, that as a fact is just incomprehensible at all for any far from technics brain. But does the clocks have any sense except of showing time and only? All huge complexity of intricate small elements and parts is only additional, impersonal and supplementary in essence. It can't be autonomous and free. Its tasks are purely intermediate and faceless. Complexity is totally devoid of identity. Such one is just a will-less servant."
"But how to achieve strong understanding? Your own personal one, till end protected from all storms, where to get that notorious priceless simplicity?"
"Look at global totality, at laws of interaction of life's inward phenomena. Here works the principle of figure – no one of triangles can have one single angle and not more. Every case or event has own evident effects and outcomes, has inherently assumed additions, flaws and limits. Learn to build whole picture of iceberg, having seen only peak of the top. Without this, you'll simply die."
"But we are studying mostly at mistakes..."
"Alas. Alas. There are no of ways for to change this. We're getting smarter only through of stupidities. That's an axiom. Just one of principles of world."
"But how to be, mistakes are fatal, such ones are disappointing and wrecking. Especially in love."
"Not in all of its forms - in unrequited one and only. Such one is totally sadistic. Unrequited love is wet firewood, from which you have to get a fire. No matter, how many boxes of matches you'll spend, they will say, that it was not enough, although normal dry logs would with great easiness get flamed from the very first match."
"But we trust anyway – till the end, till the finish of being."
"This is our weakness. Those ones who have lost honest face have no chances on getting forgiveness. Moreover, all they should be simply killed. Annihilated."
"We live in wandering by torments, in endless search..."
"True bird is dying into flight. Do not despair, this is noble."
"Where to find soul's tranquility, where to get..."
"Just relax. Just relax and don’t think. The wind of fate and life's conditions never blows in one single direction. Sooner or later, some of changes still come. The main thing is to notice."
"Optimistic and bright..."
"Do not be sad. It’s not pleasant, not worthy. This is vain and destructive."
"I want to see creation... To see fruits and results."
"Me too... Believe - me fully too."
"I am wholly believing..."

XX
In town B is full, wide summer. All of colors are strong, soft landscapes are filled with aggravated life, thin outlines are contrasting and perfect. Thickly greening fresh foliage is neatly scattered here and there by melancholic pensive alleys, narrow motley terraces and parks, so ardently popular among of countless pedestrians. Carefree, omnipotent July's weightless comfort, reluctantly, but relentlessly permeated all of corners and edges of town, without rest surrendered to idleness, is fervently dispelled in every sip of tartly hot and imposingly viscous air. Light dope of unobtrusive midday heat is cleverly dissolved in sweetly cute, alluring selflessness of mindless recreation. Long and sunny horizon is laconic and by unknown ones of reasons somehow sadly stretched out by uneven and ragged plain relief of paused up in oblivion ground. All around is calmly bewitched by some southern harmony, by some magic of fragrance and warmth, by tender glare and relaxation of nice summer. All silhouettes are motionless. All the world, till most last of own spots, is hospitable, broad, good-natured and tasty. Deep space is boundless and flooded by pure beauty. By pure beauty and pleasure. Just true bliss, as if happiness really can happen.
But not for everyone all currently is so. Even here into sweet idle summer. Andrei Leopoldovich is somber, his presence on own balcony among of colorful lush flowers can't attach his dejected faint soul to this visual magic festivity. All his rare and cheerless thoughts are devoted to permanent loneliness and to sudden and painful awareness.
"Who I am? Who I am in this life? In so petty and purposeless one. Is this world at least partially justifiable and sane, if you're born for to search and to rot, is there any real meaning into endless mistakes and in regular troubles? And how long can I endure? For what to stay alive, for whom? If I have no suitable path, then I needn't to go at all. Wrong vain path can't, at least, be just simply forgotten, not even saying of next being changed or fixed. From you to emptiness - one step, but back is no, no of ways. And don't miss, you can go away just from everything, except of you yourself. Whom you'll be, if you're having one right – just to live, live with life – either great and enchanting, justified, full and long, or petty, insignificant and useless. And it's not our own opportunity - to sculpt ourselves. There are no of roads for those ones, who've got inwardly lost. In such a case you all your life will stay in alienation, will stay behind of line between of you and others. But what to do? How can you get out of role? Where you'll take true self-confidence for to find inner power above of fatality. Rather sad, but one single reluctance to lose does not guarantee any of victories. It only promises to bring you somehow closer. And next it's matter of success. Who knows - will it be or not... Our precious happiness more often gets completely splitted at banal chaos and uncertainty. They're much stronger than any of logics, than our empty sick ambitions, so much naive, futile and simply stupid. Days fly, years end, life stubbornly and inexorably melts out. Melts time, chances moves far away, inconsolable truths are gradually getting own vast place. World slowly turns into burial chamber, into hopeless cage, transforming into place for anxiety and disappointment. For fresh mistakes, harsh hurting apathy and losses. For painful fading and next absolute aimlessness, from which you can’t escape and cannot hide. Entire journey of your life can have own way just for one pitiful deadlock and not for more. For pure killing and breaking in wreckage. Why does the path of human's fate not always follow for good, why we have rueful tragedies, griefs and omissions... Why does the whole immense fate can turn out to be just a mockery, just a fiction and global abuse? Someone’s life will remain after self weighty memory and unforgettable results, but someone else's will just helplessly scatter and cripple. And die. This is madness, not less. Life is governed by strange incompleteness, by sad unfinishedness, alas. It begins and then goes - goes, spends and just ends. Its line so promptly twists and loops. It changes and intertwins in vague outcomes, in blurred final point - either bright, full and kind, or unhappy and bad, wrong and empty. We are only blind wanderers - uninformed, shy and helpless. All is good, but in measure, all is useful, but only in time. Every single experience, every short opportunity, matter or chance has exclusively limited period. It is indisputable - life is built on small: on dim foundation on the past, on blurred years, days and cases. There are shaky views, faith in fate and its laws, but there is simple life, not always correct, calm and good. You can only trust it. Trust and make own mistakes. That is all what is happening here. This poor world has neither unity nor obvious guarantees. Nothing clear at all. Not even slightest light of hope. Only endless confusion. It’s scary."
The hero has sighed and lowered hazed eyes: "So indifferent summer. So cheerless and bad. Just pure rubbish. Not more."
He has lifelessly risen from chair, slammed the balcony's door and left in.

XXI
In town A, into small faceless bedroom, is sitting totally defenseless Angelina Evgenievna. Her sad and quiet day is meekly passing by. But remarkably fussy last week had flashed out a little bit differently – in exceptional frenzy of ecstatic deep rapture. Yes, it happens sometimes, that smart people quite intentionally do awful stupidities. Into role of the last ones in such upsetting case was acting uncontrollably persistent and unexampledly resolute searching of anyone at least for single night, but directly not less. Such illogical venture, being utterly reckless and impeccably windy, was in poor addition almost fully unreal - for practically dozen of empty evenings, no one of them has finished with the finding of even fleeting temporary partner. This may seem rather strange, but regrettable modern reality has appeared entirely hopeless, greatly cold and unfriendly, exactly far from even ghostly chances of acceptably true hospitality or, at least, of some simple adventures. There was no warmth or responsiveness, no joy, no reachable kindness, exclusively one harsh insensibility, one rude disunity and murk. The world has chosen alienation.
"What a life am I currently having, what a kind of damnation is this, where is going such path? What a broken lost soul is in me? What a pointless role am I having? I am quite self-sufficient and worthy, concretely burdened with reason, with kind loyalty and inner helpful firm straightforwardness, but what I’m doing – am diligently begging of elementary intimacy, like of miracle, like of gift, like the last obscene whore, I’m almost dragging for the rascals, and anyway I am staying alone - not even used at least, just rejected and only, rejected during process of acquaintance. Does it befit to proud woman to be so sorely and deeply humiliated? To whom I serve? To what intangible strange whims? Why do I need to go through torments, through hollow seductions and refusals? After all, I sincerely want at least bodily harmony, at least carnal delight and that healing saint manna of so simple, but precious sexual closeness. I want small paradise, want pleasures, even trivial, primitive, short, but entirely mutual, hot, fully shared with somebody else who is equally hungry for physical comfort. It's not especially great to be self-satisfied and only. I want more, want something alive, something tartly alluring, fully serious, deep and indeed bright and memorable. And in loneliness... In loneliness, even being consoled, you will not close that inner gap, will not be satisfied holistically, fully. And it’s an endlessly huge pity... By the way, I don't want to be rushing - to collect all the taverns, like hopeless harlot. Have I lost all myself? Very blurred and vague, apparently, is this right to be happy. If even average plain pleasure is so hidden. Or some damnation or witchery is it. I am totally ready to believe into everything. Into any of essences, facts and illusions."
The lady has frozen and disappointedly sighed: "This is harmfully stupid. Stupid, helpless and wrong. I am acting as fool, as most silly of women. Silly, useless and lonely. And, as it seems, such wrecking state has chosen pier of my cracked being on forever."
She has ruefully closed her hazed eyes, grabbed thin tissue of dress, got unhurriedly down and wept: "Why did I get my poor birth? For what? For such an aimless living? What a hopeless, disastrous kind of sick dirt. And all fate, all sent way just like that. All the conscious torturing period. Punishment. Plague."

XXII
And again town A. In bleak and sad imprisonment of walls of fully average and regular apartment of also doleful and weak Valentin Stepanovich, are sitting silhouettes of two — the very owner himself and his faithful, irreplaceable friend - Ivan Vladimirovich. Their habitually melancholic dialogue is as before about sphere of relations, of full of failures endless searching and inner cognitive perception of this world.
"It's so dark in inside, so unbearably painful at here. And not only at times, but exclusively always." - has unhappily noticed Ivan Vladimirovich.
"It’s not only at here. It is exactly everywhere. If you’ll move into Africa, you will suffer in similar way. That's main feature of any socially-determined concept. Its abode is a forge of flaws. What is our existence in self? On what it's based, on what it's ripening and growing? On which ideological constructions? We're acting only in response, we're not producing something new, we are simply transforming and changing all bringing to life's path from outside, modifying such variable matters in new phenomena and forms. It is not possible at all to become truly mindful and generous, pure, sincere and kind, living only in dirt and in meanness, in deception, rejection and fuss. Our rotten society is a place where we, people, get born, this damned fact is most awfully strange and frustrating. It's looking more as form of morbid hell, than as daily reality. I deny any principles, popular here. I deny any concepts, deny religion and morality. What does society really want? What does it want into purified naked response? We firmly hate all sorts of terrorists and maniacs. We criticize their choice and show them as non-humans. This is not fully so. They are exactly those whom our world deserves. We propagate simulated faked kindness, we have 5-6 marriages - exclusively for low, consumer aims, we freely agitate to go to new war and explain all the faults of each political system with sharp necessity and temporary measures. It's quite normal at here to support double-faced, mean behavior, to abuse your life's partner each of minutes of every of days. They say "I love" exclusively in order to evoke stupid mutual feeling and to get easy benefits. They're broadly saying one and doing totally another. They're thinking of most close person as of somebody else, as of somebody far. They don't unite themselves and their partner. They're telling to the terminally ill already fully dying patient – don't be sad, all is fine, and then with coldness disassemble him on organs and use as suitable meat rests. But if you'll kill few ones of them, they'll almost instantly proclaim you as a monster. They'll start to tell, that you've done worst of human vilianies ever. They do not like to see resistence. This is strictly condemned. This is seeming too ruthless, too cruel. But true cruelty and evident disgust is to see how our society exposes own infamy as something secretly ideological and philanthropic. Society is the worst of evils. I never was in underworld, but I’m endlessly sure - into there it’s much better."
"I completely agree with your words. I agree, as your absolute copy. They distribute exclusively harsh grief. This is as obvious for heeding as task to multiply by one."
"That is whole inner actual essence of current hopeless being's frames. They are supporting only crawling, only crippled, only ones, who already are lost. Remember, no single one will ever help you in development and blooming - just only into aimlessness, in falling: when you are sinking, going down, you at least can catch somebody’s hand, but when you're flying, rising upwards, you have to cling by one nude liquid air's width. And such wrong principle is true in all we know. It has been strengthened clearly everywhere, by any person of this world – by churchmen, by psychologists and pseudo-humanists. They assist us to die and forbid to survive."
"There is some invisible veto - on happiness, on love and all the same. And even just on simple right on sex. Especially on nobly keen and pleasant."
"That is right. Nowadays it’s indeed very hard to be thinking about own happiness, such a thing has turned out in real taboo. It's most unshakably forbidden to acquire prosperity's treasure, last one was rapidly equated to straight egoism, to showing of bad manners, to miscarriage of pride. We get told - live in team, under one common flag. That bright flag, on which one either face of some God, or nirvana of communism, or lush apotheosis of future scientific idyll. All the time we are led. All the time we are deftly directed. So, faith in conspiracies is now greatly adequate and entirely cleaned of any admixture of madness. All is surely so."
"But, explain, how anyone can stand above of boundless reality?"
"Here all depends on how you look. It seems, that it's impossible to manage with whole world by alone, but try to do it jointly and you'll fail even more. I am not a supporter of occult positions, but the hypothesis of holder of all being can't be rejected anyway."
"Such sick phantom is utterly disturbing, catastrophic for lost understanding. Which force will save from aimlessness, from void..."
"The power of your self-control, the righteousness of inner aims and the force of detachment from others. There are only you and this world, you and rest sick surrounding being. There are no of people, no of worthy opinions, dogmas or principles. There is only you with whole universe, by some mindlessness sent as non-detachable addition. Society is a set of animated flesh and only. It's just a swamp, where is possible only to perish. Avoid any company of humans. Despise all facts of integration. Remain on distance from all dirt. Identity is surely the highest of all miracles. Owning it, you're automatically turning into God. Be unique. Stay yourself. Even if all around is rotten."
"It makes me to despise the whole world's pier... Including even God himself."
"Straightly him in the very first turn. God's spark all known earthly time had been inflaming, by the way, only fire of hell. And what's about our world... It does not even nearly deserve any tangible heights. Yes, it has some achievements, some scientific and cultural breakthroughs and peaks, it has few fragments of perfection, of short idyll and unprotected barren beauty, but at the same unhappy time it also has cruelty, deep meanness and hard pettiness – such ones are not eradicated, not even partially curbed, discreased, stopped and thrown off. This world is stretching to all empty, to all improper, wrong and useless, not to weighty, not to essential and deep. It is entirely unable to spread own blessing everywhere, unable to transform it into cult. Any kindness is just a by-product, not a chosen grail, not a purpose. With progress all is quite the same. New actuality as fact most ardently prefers to rot and only. Such poor world will not ever go out of vainness. White sun will fade, achievements will come totally forgotten, our vague times will irreplaceably go out, but mediocrity and vices will continue to prevail over meaningless flock of humanity's race. That is inert. Monumental. Forever."
"Where to find light and peace? Not to burn out in one moment..."
"It's said – we can't be late at all, there is no final of being, no irrevocable position, there is no end for the sphere of prospects, there is no definite loss of oneself. We live not being limited by any ones of things, except of our own death. Our obvious path is constantly both relevant and opened. While we're staying alive, while saint flame of true hopes is still burning, while desires are keeping own sharpness, we don't fade in inside, do not lose our chances and real probabilities, don't lose the path we need for moving up and forward. We are alive until the death, alive and only. And when we'll die, it'll have no drop of any interest at all. Life's term implies most great of rights, it provides us with fullness, with possibility of flight or, at least, with the power for to refuse of being crawling. Live widely. They will many times narrow you down, just believe me. It's not so difficult to fall and to give up. Go ahead. Go firmly, without of changes. The flag of dreams do not leave any place for the white one. We are embodied for miracles, for fervent love and gorgeous achievements, for splendid heights and inner saturation - for pure idealism, as fact. Breathe with whole deep chest, believe in better, act and go. Play all in. Shine with grace. We have huge billions of lost ones, have millions of colossally miserable and petty and many many thousands of rotten, vile and empty. Be the only one happy, don't be shy of success, don't be afraid of envious and average low people. Majestic one is not a friend for ugly. Live autonomously from all. And just live and not less. Live as human. Live, not only exist. Leave this duty for others. Don't hesitate, they'll cope with such a mission. All we know how to rot. But ignore it. Keep uniqueness of soul. Without this, you are not more than faceless phantom. Without it, you're just a hopeless breathless corpse - decayed, inglorious and burdeningly useless. Not everyone is full of real splendor, of wealth and inward soul's strength. Not everyone is able to reach happiness. Be suitable for this marvelous condition. Be able to experience such bliss. And it will come in one of endless days, do not have even smallest of doubts. Birds have right to have heaven, it's easy. The main thing is to be just the same. The main thing is to be truly perfect. The main thing is to blossom, to bloom. Then wilting will remain with someone else, not with you. Believe and grow, go up. Know yourself. And not knowing, just learn. There is no other good way."
"But how to meet with happiness, to catch it? What is needed for this?"
"As with any of meetings – is needed unity of common coordinates. For to meet with some person, you at first are discussing the place, then the date and its bothly convenient time. Not knowing where, when and what for to be going, you'll simply be unable to get crossed. Even living at neighboring streets, even trying most many of times. Only tangible presence of spatial and temporal community guarantees really reliable inevitability of meeting. Into fate all is strictly the same - how will you meet someone, not even knowing where to go and for whom to be looking? When you're leaving your home, you don’t have even shadow of chances. That’s the main poor thing. After all, there are no uniting of coordinates, no conjoining of ways, and how concretely to achieve them is not known. It is believed that similar of souls rather often are going with similar paths, time from time even somehow noticing ways of each other and then uniting into couple, but this is only an assumption. Perhaps, such marvelous spiritual coordinates really exist, working well and connecting good people by inexplicable strange stigmas and healing fateful inner routes. I so ardently trustfully want to believe it. It sounds too encouraging and great. You can just simply try and check. But at the same exhausted time, you can't confirm it here and now. We have exclusively one hope - extremely blurred, faded, dim and far, but anyway alive. Alive. And it already sounds fine. Just believe. Learn to hope. This is strong, priceless quality, don't hesitate, don't doubt, just faith and bet on better's bonds."
"So much weak is this narrow exit. So fragile."
"Like any other source of greatness, by the way. You can remain in own superiority exclusively by struggle."
"But struggle is a choice of inwardly unprincipled..."
"Alas..."
"Alas."
Both have got fully silent.

XXIII
In town B is inevitable, depressingly gray autumn. Sad foliage is preparing to fast dying. Day by day, tired air is getting much colder. Cheerless faces are slowly adding in own ugliness and meanness.
Andrei Leopoldovich is lonely trudging through of avenue, sedulously covered with deep permanent fog. On the soul are sick slops of apathetic hopeless feelings. Into hollow brain, so much thickly exhausted by aimlessness, is continuous blackness of pain, of unbearably strong inconsolability. Into plans is just vacuum.
"What a spoiled dead day... Darkness, dampness and drizzle. Like one total holistic damnation. No remarkable buildings, no posters and no of any native faces. Only agony. Firm and oppressive."
Soon, instead of expected bright poster, an obsessively handed strange booklet has landed into palm and some lame trembling young man has deftly reported: "My dear passer-by, I dare to inform you, that in this dark and sad town B had opened very beautiful and pretty, completely unconventional cafe. Do not think that there get crowded exclusively minorities and only. This rare place is for people with different thinking. Would you like to be constant glad visitor? There is good discount if you'll come with this paper. For example, on rum."
"An outlandish gorgeous almshouse?"
"Yes, outlandish. Even more. That's why just go. The entrance is deep in arch around of next corner - through black basement. That's directly symbolic. Do you fully agree?"
"Just eccentrically. Yes."
"Then right now in road?"
"Do you get something greatly impudent for such stubborn dull ads? If you're so happy of my visit?"
"I am living at now on 8 dollars per day. If I will not spend out all leaflets, I will get only half. My wife is crippled from her birth. She similarly works at cold uncomfortable street - on Ascension parvis, her money also are the same. So it's better to take my leaflet - if you believe in our God."
"I will take ..."
"And promptly go around the corner. Around of damned corner and in arch."
Andrei Leopoldovich has obediently obeyed and soon timidly stepped in aforementioned sooty hazed location. In such a petty institution was twilight. All tables were triangular. Lustful waitresses almost without of clothes. And few hall's visitors in their regretful turn - most widely full of strangenesses and rid of minimal sobriety of own minds.
Behind of one of spacious sofas was unfamiliar pale lady into yellow dress and with orange and burgundy pendants. The heroine herself was having neither freshness, nor even partly picturesque appearance, but nevertheless she has somehow caught faint attention.
"My new mistake and nothing more." - has concluded Andrey Leopoldovich and begun worthless getting acquainted.
"Will we be truly mutual in desire of company?" - the hero has asked.
"Oh, how urgently you've found me, sit at here, we'll build some vain communication."
"What's your name?"
"Yulia Afanasyevna. I am compassionate and harmless."
"From what of places have you come?"
"I was going from work and has thought to come in. I'm appearing here from the earliest opening. I do not live without evening coffee."
"Where do you work, if it is not a secret?"
"In correctional center. I'm psychologist. Am building inner peace and grace and cultivating hearts and feelings."
"What a noble nice post - authoritarian."
"No, it's trivial. I'm only digging into natures, like in useless old rags - just motley shreds, not real souls. But jointly they are quite great palette."
"How many of them are explored?"
"You are far not the first."
"Are you looking for keys from fate's gates?"
"For passkey from such one. I’m looking for obvious patterns, but also helping to some people."
"That's rather fine."
"I will help to you too."
"And how will you classify myself? Diagnose me according to standards."
"You're also one of them... Don't worry, not of madmen' number. One of people. Of rest endless world. And I'm just trying you to understand."
"Is it difficult?"
"Just ordinary, usual. You reveal all yourself by your own. Few facial expressions are enough. You're fully opened for conclusions."
"Am I a simple book?"
"Brochure..."
"That's even worse... Alas."
"It’s not scary at all. Any people are so. And you too."
"What a miserable strange consolation..."
"At least, not anxiety. Not madness. Wear yellow, like me. It lifts whole tone of spirit up."
"I would wear even matting, if it will give some clear use."
"It depends on your luck."
"I'm not a favorite of fortune."
"That is also quite trivial."
"Well what to say. The last identity was shaken."
"Originality is only a delusion. Break it out. Let's go better to embankment. Or order me some icing juice."
"For improvement of health?"
"For emotions. Was you trying to put face in cake?"
"Straightly never."
"You are simple. My patients are much more original, as rule. They like long nails in own nostrils or public play with naked crotch. Such things are helping them to gain some dose of joy."
"Impressive hobbies. Strong, unusual."
"My contingent is also quite specific. Come on. Let's go or better let's just run – that is faster."
"Oh, yes, let's go for some start. For nails, I think, I'm still not ready."

XXIV
Calm town A. Angelina Evgenievna is quite peacefully sitting with Alyona Igorevna, traditionally dreaming and complaining about own life.
"I'm alone... I'm completely alone."
"You are strange, stupid woman. I have exchanged three new sex-partners in only this quite modest month. And it's not counting my own Valentin Stepanovich."
"What an insulting nasty dirt! After all, how you're only able to show so frightening vile infidelity? He so loves you and so much believes."
"You is really stupid. Which of aims do you follow? Whether not in betrayal is the highest of pleasures? To deceive, to make somebody fooled, to know that you're loved, but not to love in own response – that is more than a bliss. I always was aspiring to pure freedom and I've luckily lavishly got it. And the last one, as Greeks like to say, is the greatest of joys. But relations are also quite colorful... But just sometimes. And not in all. Even to cum with your secret paramour is much more sweet, if you are thinking of own husband."
"You are scary lost person. Horrifying."
"I'm just simple self-confident woman. Exactly ordinary, trust me. Everyone is like that. And you too."
"Me not..."
"Come on. You really was never dreaming of betrayal?"
"I had even no single of thoughts. I can’t find anyone just for night, and you suggest such dirty lowness..."
"You are silly. Let me leave you the number of one of my boyfriends, if you're the most offended and unhappy. You even shouldn't thank at all. And the pricks he has also quite nice, by the way. So you'll at least get wet while dreaming." - Alena Igorevna has got out a piece of paper and sketched at it a set of numbers: "Hold on, my friend."
Angelina Evgenievna has timidly taken.
"Why are you so slack? Was you beaten by head in the childhood ?" - has quipped the guest.
"I am normal..."
"Well. Okay, I am going to manicure soon – I have to be at cottage of one soldier on weekends, will get fun. Do not be bored either. Knead up your mortal flesh. See you next."
Alena Igorevna has hugged her friend and disappeared into door.
Angelina Evgenievna has closed the lock, returned to own bedroom and taken out the leaflet, then held for time in own hands and got perplexed: "What a filth... What a blackness. I do not want, don’t need such option."
She has torn the unfortunate paper and in disturbance thrown away: "That's not mine."

XXV
In town B, the first of serious downpours. The weather is quite sorrowful and dreary. Passers-by are entirely gray. Wet wind is hopeless, cold and rainy. Andrei Leopoldovich and Julia Afanasevna are lonely walking through of foggy and thinned sad embankment.
"Late autumn is great time to get fresh colors, great time to be renewed. And for my patients, as you guess, it is at all the hottest period of being." - the lady has remarked and smiled.
"But what can be upgraded into ordinariness? Is such a matter realistic?"
"Yes, all is possible. And even rather simple. You need just single confident attempt, first helpful step - to transformations and new heights."
"But if it also will not work?"
"Just try again. It is not scary. All is replaceable and plain."
"You ignore life's uniqueness again."
"Not me, but world."
"In such a case, I want to die and only in the last one."
"And this in fact is nothing more than simple vain defensive running from your current objectivity. You are hiding from life, staying out."
"It’s more logical there."
"Logic also is powerless. Be guided by true facts. That's better."
"Facts are out of fairness."
"Such ones are inevitable."
"This is a flaw, not an excuse."
"But this is givenness."
"That's wrong."
"Wrong, but actual."
"Not to meet real joy in this world. Not to touch."
"That means, you don't know how to touch. You're unskillful."
"But who will teach..."
"Smart ones don't need in any teachers."
"Do such ones really exist?"
"In dreams more often..."
"Metaphorical case."
"All the world is directly utopian. All truly cherished in its cradle is only an unreachable illusion."
"Why all is so?"
"Why trams are going by own rails, why all objects are falling exclusively down? Being's basics are so. Physics, geometry, chemistry and psychology. Your thoughts can equally quite easily be read, examined and predicted, as well as trajectory of some orbit."
"But orbits also have disasters and mistakes."
"Yes, of course, fully have. Just as you, you're similarly live both cheerlessly, mistakenly and surely not catchy."
"It's more useful to break with this life, as it seems."
"It's better just to calm you down."
"I am not violent at all."
"But your passivity is even much more harmful, more pessimistic in forecast."
"It means, I shouldn't wait for happiness?"
"You can wait just for anything. Especially unreasonably."
"But on what do we have truly credible chances?"
"On pure uncertainty only. On beautiful mixture of being's laws and social positions. On reality."
"The last one is ambiguous. To ones it's warm, to others - cruel."
"Be from the first."
"But if I am entirely unable."
"So, then be satisfied with sad fate of lost second."
"Such one is utterly annoying."
"Be endurant. You have quite many years in ahead."
"It sounds like damnation."
"Listen better. Then maybe you will catch some extra notes."
"It will not have significant result."
"We all are more ambitious than needed. Learn to be humble, after all."
"I'm not accustomed to such matters."
"Relearn yourself, my poor ward."
"It's fully undesirable..."
"Desires are life's garbage."
"All is really wrong."
"But not for you to judge or fix."
"I do not even try, by the way."
"You're already exactly aware of own inevitable defeat. At least, some firm experience for mind."
"But it's awfully negative."
"Any other is strictly redundant."
"Oh, cursed curse."
Have got ruefully silent.

XXVI
In town A is trivial bad weather. Humid sky is despairingly frowning, vague features are slowly getting lost in faceless waves of matte-ashen fog. Silent deserted streets are blowing with deep wilting and strong hopelessness. Occasional and lonely insipid clouds are sadly sobbing with short rains. At empty wharf, already desolate and gloomy, late floating restaurant is spending last warm days. Among of visitors is also having fun our poor Angelina Evgenievna - in endless vain attempts of finding something mutual, as always.
Into hall is exclusively dark, briskly playing fast music is abounding with vivid harsh temperament, so efficiently swaying freed bodies of having rest glad idle people. Last ones are marvelously active and gifted with exceptionally stoic inner solace. Till pure orgy, of course, is quite far, but a couple of ladies have already thrown off inappropriate here underwear, and one of them has even climbed on central table. Angelina Evgenievna, who is not filled with so wide boldness, is sitting quietly, drinking cold mellow cocktail and monotonously gazing into cloudy distance, so much lavishly flooded by motley human mass. Gap of soul is predictably yearning. Body too, but into different own way. Slim shameless skirt, neatly put on the heroine, with help of all defenseless length is strongly and diligently exposing explicitly unhidden carnal piquancy and undisguised transparent openness of wishes, but such a process by itself is still quite far from state of clear anatomic demonstration. Exactly tired, lost in searchings heart is so intolerably wanting inner warmth, directly noticeable, tangible and firm. But where to take it, where to get... In such a way has flown a couple more of hours.
"At least someone... At least some single soul..." - has humbly prayed despaired lady.
In such a role at this night time has randomly turned out to be and act Roman Valeryevich - an unusually tall stocky man about forty, into black velvet jacket above of greenish-purple shirt of gentle silk and with gold cufflinks.
"How is your late evening? Have I come not in vain?"
"You've come in best from all its moments. Sit down, I am opened for everything."
"We need to have a drink at first. Let's take some vodka for good start - the most expensive they here have."
"Admirable decision."
Roman Valerievich has called for lonely waitress: "Give us vodka, the one that's the best."
"Am already just bringing."
"What have delivered your soul in this lost corner?" - has asked the hero.
"Necessity in partner."
"Simple concepts, as a rule, do not play heavy roles. Do you believe in own fate? In depth and thoughtfulness of any of world's starts."
"My fate was never kind or tender."
"But, perhaps, it was saving you for better?"
"Not sure... I usually just go through disappointments."
"Being really afraid of the rightness, we inevitably begin to make mistakes. The hugest madnesses, as rule, come made by biggest ones of sages. This truth is abysmally old."
"But anyway I have no aspirations, no will."
"Having ceased own past burning, you begin to die out. But this is not about us."
"I really hope..."
"Take my hand. Let's share inner aura together."
Angelina Evgenievna has timidly held out her thin hand. Strong weighty fingers have deftly grabbed her palm and slightly squeezed in lock.
"We should have such alliance both in souls." - has said Roman Valerevich through blinking.
"I'm getting delved by you in purest fairy tale."
"We will finish last one at your home. And will walk under endless night sky. Just for everyone's envy."
"What a glorious promising feeling, what a frantic desire to sit and obey. What a close and alluring flesh paradise. Time from time I so ardently want to be taken - harshly, strongly, with force. Till deep trembling inside. Till warm and ripping waves, till full loss of control, till prostration. When you're submissively getting at once in everywhere, when you're going to space. Eh... Dreaming. Dreaming..." - has thought the lady and obediently laid her hazed head on the shoulder of newfound companion.
Soon have brought aforementioned vodka.

XXVII
In town B the first faint snow. Andrei Leopoldovich and Yulia Afanasyevna are effortlessly trudging by their favorite walking route. In around is lonely calm area. Wettish air is both thick and cold. Deep bleak vastness is totally hopeless and lifeless. Sad landscape of town's views is the same.
"Tell, what a day is it today?" - the hero has asked.
"Wednesday, but what for do you need it?" - has sharply answered Julia Afanasevna.
"In peaceful neighboring town A, soon will be the 20th anniversary of Lirgachevsky plant. Quite lavish holiday is promised, concretely full and wholly festive. We can visit."
"I don't like any movings. I prefer to stay home."
"And common meetings? What do you feel about them?"
"I like such ones. Especially somewhere in cafe."
"Cafe is too redundantly official. I would prefer some home type of meeting - just together, in much more intimate and frivolous atmosphere, with full nice chances to get to know of each other greatly deeper, maybe even to get some tart pleasures."
"For which of whims have you taken this rave?"
"For our future possible life-way."
"What are you talking of?"
"Of next relations."
"Our relationship with you should not go out of strict frames of conversation. I have treated damned you, my own ward, with whole heart, and what's you... What a kind of sick freedom you need? You are interesting for me exclusively as new faddish psychotype. As my good friend and faithful person, who is ready to help. Don't even think of any true intimacy! No common tenderness or signs of your affection, only talks – about themes far from body and with no possibility of our alliance ever. Please answer, have you understood?"
Andrei Leopoldovich has slowly nodded.
All next walk was in silence. They've finished at familiar old lantern, which was serving as a reference point. Have stood a little, said goodbye.
"From this dark day I walk exclusively alone." - has decided the hero and calmly wandered to home.

XXVIII
In town A, inside of quite familiar small bedroom are two dim silhouettes - Angelina Evgenievna and Roman Valerievich. This is their third night. The previous two had passed like some indescribable rare holiday and put the lady deep in inner splash - both in physiological conditions and into terms of external soft romance. All was so much idealistic and so colorful, that whole life was as song. At priceless now all was just the same.
Roman Valerievich, this time in cherry jacket and in black sparkling shirt, was sitting next to his naked passion and gently pouring rich red wine: "You're like an ancient goddess - as from some old indecent picture."
"True earthly love indeed deifies."
"We do not have vain earthly things, we have just paradise, not less."
"That's for sure."
"So beautiful, free and exciting is in our angelic harmony."
"As if by whim of God, you are at here... Even more - you yourself is my God!" - Angelina Evgenievna has cheerfully reached forward: "Take me all. Take me wholly, my sweet."
"Completely? Yes? And from behind?" - Roman Valeryevich has smiled and deftly winked.
"As you want."
"You're asking?"
"I'm praying..."
"Tear off your ticket up to heaven."
"Yeahhhhh."
And has circled, has wheeled - all impudent and shameful.
The hurricane of bodies, of endless lechery, inner flame and lust.
Soon has come early dawn.
Completely satisfied Angelina Evgenievna is patiently awaiting for awakening of dear chosen one. The room is staying hot, the heart is fabulously easy and exalted. The gentleman has lazily got woken.
"Good morning, my saint love."
"Yes, quite glorious time. Cook me something."
"I'll do it instantly."
"Just right so. Be quick."
"Are you right now in a hurry?"
"Not so fully, but yes."
"?"
"At lunch will be my train. We still have little time for walk."
Dumbfounded, as after icy shower, Angelina Evgenievna has sharply frozen with an alarming lump in throat.
"Stop your fuss. I have to go, that's just fact. I have a wife in native province. I’ve come exclusively for fun. But I have given you three nights — most magic number ever, for any of the sacred books. So, let's finish the plot."
"I... I... I would eagerly be your hot paramour. With great pleasure, as fact. With only dim faint chance to be sharing your flesh even once in a year."
"I have a paramour in lands of close Primorye. We also have a child. Although I with whole strength had been timelessly warning her person. But the kid is quite nice, so I’m even in plus. I don’t need anymore such mad worries. That's why we probably will never meet again. Fairy tales are so beautiful exclusively by fact of no repeats. I love pure dreams, without daily grayness. I love pure dreams and I love you! You're now also one of dreams. And now proceed to cooking process."
The woman has stood up and monotonously trudged to the kitchen, has taken out broad pan, bursted out in tears.
"What are you doing, are you right? Beauties shouldn't be crying. Wipe your tears away. After all, nights were fine. There is no reason for sadness."
"How painful it is. I was deceived once more again, was made blinded and burned. What is it... What for is lasting of my being..." - has sobbed Angelina Evgenievna: "I’ll cook right now, do not worry. I’m so much sorry for my weeping."
Have spent the breakfast, then have walked, said goodbye.
The train has left.

AFTERWORD:
The Lirgachevsky plant has 40-years anniversary. In town A, is full-sized and surprisingly colorful holiday. Each one is having fun and joyfully rejoicing in cheerful dancing on the square. Flags and posters are bright. Into small quiet arbor are smoothly sitting two calm people - Angelina Evgenievna and Andrei Leopoldovich. Their timid bitter fate, so much restless, mistaken and dark, still has jointed them now with each other. Two chaotic life lines, brittly breakable, bleak and unhappy, have meekly intersected at one spatio-temporal point. How untimely and how fruitlessly have touched their tormented and hopeless hearts... How much disappointing can be our entrusted vain destiny.
"My fate is totally the same..." - has weakly sighed Angelina Evgenievna.
"It's so strongly and deeply desired to be just near, in love's bonds – all the time, each of moments, to have someone with whom you will never get parted, whom you'll never exchange. It's desired to have selfless happiness, unforgettable innocent miracle, so endlessly desired, so meaningful, deep, selfless, kind and priceless. It's desired to give all affection, all your tenderness, all inner warmth and sincerity to the one who is your clear copy, entirely identical, indescribably close and so immensely needed and holy. I want just this identity of souls, want easy hopeful simplicity – that magical and greatly charming state, which is usually called here as happiness."
"You're speaking in my words, in my thoughts, into voice of my soul..." - the woman has moved to Andrei Leopoldovich and hugged: "How late I have found you, how awfully stupid I had been living all my life. How sorely bitter. How sad is this utter untimeliness..."
"I want just not to lose your presence. To enjoy every moment, to meet each dawn and to admire with each second, with each plot, that was sent from above. And in such way till the latest life's end."
"We are together. From precious now we are surely together."
"From precious now and forever."
"Yes, right so."

At the door of the town's A nursing home is standing thin and pensive man - Ivan Vladimirovich. In his hands is a box with huge cake and few napkins – at today is the hero's birthday. So, at now he is waiting for pass to Valentin Stepanovich, who already eight years is an inhabitant of such sad institution.
For some reason they do not let in... The hero is slowly steping from one foot to the other in exhaustingly long numb awaiting. But they still do not open.
Soon the lock has unwillingly snapped and fat face of the old local watchman has with insipidness showed out: "Have you come to your friend?"
Ivan Vladimirovich has nodded.
"He has died. Just in morning. He has asked us to hand you one note. I’ll try to bring it, if the last one wasn't lost."
Ivan Vladimirovich has grabbed his head and gritted teeth.
"My dear Vanechka, I am writing this letter for case, if I suddenly will disappear. It happens, that we, people, go away in one time. After all, we are living not centuries. It’s probably quite normal, I don't know. I all the life had been considering myself as wholly smart one, all the time - until the day, when she had left me here alone. Then you also has parted. It’s not enough, as it so burdensomely seems, for true happiness to have developed brain and only. There is, apparently, some kind of hazed higher protection – that one, which we by some unlucky reason didn't get. I don’t know who writes all life’s paths and create human souls, I don’t know real goals of this world. And I don’t know why all things are just so. I can write more than hundred of long tricky formulas by the help of one memory, can tell you all last history of Europe or quote Schopenhauer, but I am totally unable to explain the machine of life's being, of whole this universe itself. I am unable of all this, as am unable to come happy... And forgive me for fact, that I was saying bad about God. He still has finally turned out to be stronger. And now goodbye. I am already getting dressed in parting suit, if you are reading at this place. Consequently, quite soon, I guess, I'll meet the very God myself. I’ll try to ask him to attempt to make you lucky. Without miracle of luck, all universal atomic-molecular mixture with all strange laws and small details is simply powerless and useless. This is fully the end. All the best. Yours, Valentin Stepanovich."
***************************************************** *******

The distance between of towns A and B is rather small. Even on the map, they look quite compact to themselves, but not each one from town A can find own way to town B, to find own saintly incorruptible and pure understanding, compassion and unity, to find fidelity and full justification, to get filled with the personal human demand. Not everyone in world of wretchedness and lie, deception, envy, pettiness and void can manage with the finding of identical warm heart, of the same inner world and thoughts' structure. Human does not exist outside. Each personality is blossoming exclusively in couple, in frames of cherished souls' connection - where are only you and your partner, who serves as sure magic stairway to priceless bonds of sky-high heights of life's greatness and inner devotion. It seems, that there are some hidden ways and roads, which lead us through of dates and spatial dimension to each other. That roads, which give us both all grace, all errors and all causes, goals and chances. And such ones can be neither removed nor rewritten – can be just spent. And right by these unknown roads is also trudging into haze, among of abyss of same others, my timid own exactly similarly mortal vague share.




Not happened miracle.

I
It can happen sometimes, that you wake and your day starts from grief. And just in such unhappy way has made own dark unlucky debut this exclusively hopeless Thursday of Matvey Grigoryevich. It has begun with such a new, that has instantly crippled whole peace of his previous existence - Arkady Ignatievich, everlasting servant of rich and large Filippov’s house, so unexpectedly has galloped with the very first light of the morning, has fussily, but emotionlessly and quite briefly reported: "Great rueful tragedy has currently befallen. Both on us and on you. Anna Evgenievna has died. She has gone to the river and remained only dress on its shore. I have been fiddling with the cart, when have suddenly heard loud screams, I have immediately rushed, but I have seen already nobody there. I had no chances to be helpful with my limping short leg. And I was utterly unable not to tell you, by the reason of being your secret assistant in such king of forbidden relations. Into house at now deep traw. Of course, it’s not allowed to be there. I will come after couple of weeks, will bring you something from the funeral table. Maybe they will, at least, find her body for these tragic dark days."
Matvey Grigoryevich has insensibly crawled down the wall and deplorably closed his wet eyes: "What is my whole life's term since now? What am I having here at present?"
"Do not do something stupid, do not hide damaged soul into madness. After all, it's indeed lost decision to accept own despair, to get inwardly stunned. Such dashing matter never ends with goodness, never let you to rescue, just kills. True apathy is really greedy thing, its embraces are fatal. You can’t argue with them. Since you've fallen in abyss, you’re already not here, not as previous one."
"I barely will stay alive for long. I'm not that one, who needs to live... I'm a corpse. Inappropriate, meaningless corpse. Directly pitiful and deserted since now. I'm a rag, I'm an ash in inside."
"You had already so awfully often been in endless and hopeless sufferings, even then - into frames of relations, and at now you just climb into coffin, ask to belong to number of deceased."
"My only place is just among of them. All entrusted and given had already been totally spent. There is no reason to see you either. You do not need to come once more. I will not be at here anymore. So, thank you for all. Without of your help and aiding, even this strange awkward temporality would have ever no life and development. Even sad cheerless pages would never appear. And at now it's my finish. My final curtain of all being."
"Please, beware of youself - it's a sin to be so much windy with fate. That's not for good, not for state of next peace."
"In behind of grave's fence it’s not especially fussy - in lethargic prosperity. Tranquility for centuries, not less. For all and everyone in equal easy lavishness."
"It’s an absurd to wait for own collapse. Even being completely in grief."
"My collapse is a matter of short fleeting moment. No of people will pour any tears, if it will promptly happen with me even strictly exactly right now."
"It's not sane to desire to perish, to put life's voyage at own edge - by free will and with zero of reasons."
"Even kingdoms, empires and nations had been falling and not only once. Even whole long long eras and epochs had been burning their past bloom and splendor till sad breathless and numb mortal ash. And my own future ashes will never throw anyone in hugs of deep horripilation, be most sure. And at now go away. All the romance is finally played."
Arkady Ignatievich has obediently turned and, without of saying goodbye, walked away.
Matvey Grigoryevich has wearily got up and fraily gone to bonds of yard.
Enveloped with dim veil of hopeless gloom late dark autumn is monotonously sinking into bitter indifference. Bleakly freezing moist trunks of entirely faded old trees are with no of emotions getting rid of their somberly sullen, worn clothing of dried wilted thin leaves. Are meekly melting long faint contours of huge lifelessly hanging numb shadows. Turbid gray trembling puddles are neatly glistening in steady bonds of murk. Sad large clouds unwittingly, unhappily, but strictly jointly, artfully and smoothly swimming up to the line of horizon, are feebly and chaotically huddling into emptified distance of heaven. Inconsolable colorless cover of dejected faint fog is despondently gliding away. Time from time are insensibly sobbing low creaks of cold branches. Inconspicuous spot of far sun is aloofly and flaccidly whitening over deserted lands. Accidentally dropping slim rays are moderately caressing and touching inexpressive and featureless bonds of surroundings. Chilling faceless sharp hopelessness is gradually descending down the district.
"What an awful nightmare, what a sorrowful grave has befallen my fate. I was unable even to pretend, that everything can end so instantly, that my whole life can easily get cracked into countless splinters. No even small ashes were left from my entire heart. So much time, so many of long expectations... And now only ruins..."
It's worth to clarify and tell, that Anna Evgenievna for the last two strange years had been acting as saint cherished goal and the only significant meaning of whole forlorn, unfixable existence of at now irretrievably broken by doom, full of sorrowful mourning dismal Matthew Grigorievich. By the reason of being a member of exactly not poor estate, firmly made strong, huge money on factory business and voluminous usury, the lady had been having to keep long cold distance and to stand just aside and not closer, dividing all the mutuality exclusively in rare sudden cases – in the sneakiest way and most far from publicity. In which way had been Anna Evgenievna living and how had been spending her free time, the hero, by itself, was not knowing, as fact, even briefly. He had only heard from the words of his chosen, that she live in her mansion with sister. The very mansion had been left by the parents and has been ruled by current sister's husband, who also has been managing salt factory, exactly similarly luckily inherited from the Anna Evgenievna's parents. All rare meetings had been getting own dim coming true exclusively in two location types – into some guesting house and in rented small room of Matvey Grigoryevich. He had never been visiting, even just briefly, to aforesaid unachievable mansion, he had only been knowing the approximate address and also been most fluently acquainted with Arkady Ignatievich, represented as servant and helper in secret affairs, who has been many times rather furtively coming with long-awaited tempting letters from so dear beloved. The whole line of love story of Matvey Grigoryevich and Anna Evgenievna had been commonly made of dark mystery, murk and fragility, constant hopelessness, sadness and vain expectations, uncertain, hesitant and vague. Each meeting had been carrying one blurredness, ghostly shortness and poor alarm, fear for the future, incoherence, pain and alertness. Their chaotic and breakable world, so much helpless, defenseless and delicate, all the time fully sunk in obscurity, into countless traps of wrong circumstances and eternal unluckiness, was stably stuffed with doomed sharped wholly lightless asperities of so sorrowful wavering mutual being and with unsteadiness and permanent stiff fog. It was hotly desired to have solid, firm fixity, wide abolition of turmoil and of lack of strong will, was desired to have long cessation of so harshly intolerable phobia for safety of bloodless reciprocity, filled with worries, tart mourning and thoughts. Was desired to have real peace, not only imaginary one, but full of evident guarantees, of reliable cohesion, long-term prospects and irrevocable warm unity, inviolability, legitimacy, greatness and seriousness, true completeness and chances on all. Was desired to have an excess of the life's opportunities, to have full presence of deep carelessness, of attainable free actuality of bright happiness, of its sure abundance and strength. But that was totally unreal. Final chances were utterly small for at least some consistent remarkable hope. All the things have been giving exclusively naked despair, endless suspense and relentlessly huddling huge doubts with pure unstable indeterminacy about any of straight plans. In such way have been going one days after others, giving neither clear answers nor comfort. And at curtain has come black today, which has finished all previous startings. So much strangely and vaguely dragged reciprocity has impotently, ruefully fallen into wreckingly breathless dead splinters.
So, now Matvey Grigoryevich was weakly wandering through of deserted dark autumn park, thought by thought gradually realizing what has happened. Lonely walking wet wind was languidly moaning in hopelessness of shuddering thin crowns. Were calmly rustling falling down leaves.
Was slowly getting dark.
"I've dissolved. I have melted. Just yesterday I still had been alive, and now only pale coals from whole me. One miserable handful of ruins from all the fate. What I am since this time..."
Once at early beginning, having fully believed, having met, having chosen that one from the endless life's chaos and devoted to her all the soul, the hero had sworn to Anna Evgenievna to belong exclusively to her alone and only – just always, all the time of being and without of difference what can happen, appear or come. And right at now this dark oath has so abruptly frozen as indelible hard curse. There is no future. It simply not exists since current moment and no longer will in any form.
"At now only just away. At now time to leave in nowhere. Right as far and as promptly, as possible. No of passion inside, no of life. My instrument has played all given notes, has already got silent forever." - Matvey Grigoryevich has sadly looked around: "Yes, all is so, all is dead. I'll never walk here anymore. I'll never be both calm or happy."

II
At gray and cheerless gloomy street were walking pass two straying figures - Matvey Grigoryevich, who has only arrived into town Coniferous, and Oleg Savelyevich, his house-agent, who has quite kindly met him on the square and, if to trust to last one's words, already found some fine room, that should be fully suitable and comfy.
"Today it's right impossible to get from station so fast." - has gently said the interlocutor: "You are surely lucky."
"Are people ought to get exclusively in evening?" - has responded Matvey Grigorievich.
"Or at night. So your pleasant example without any vain exaggeration is an obvious miracle, a minimally feasible firm act of clear magic."
"What a blatant rare case. Just unprecedented one. I’m surprised how they still haven’t written in all of newspapers. What a rubbish you're saying? So, which room have you found? Is it really worthy and noble?"
"The thickest offer from all valid. Just impeccably lush. Let's gladly look?"
Matvey Grigoryevich has nodded.
What a for he has come to Coniferous was a question of doom - of indelible sad need to be constantly going, to be directing to somewhere, to hide, to lurk and to abstract. It happens so time from time, that people need to run from their thoughts, from memories, or, what more often, from oneseves. All this rarely risks to be finished with some consolation. Even if at the first lightweight glance it so surely looks as some easy and truthful release. Any human in practice is far not transparent and simple: in part of moments too much inconsistent, in part – too monotonous and insipid. He has habit to build all unnecessary and to give up all evidently needed, to go with no goal and to refuse from almost wholly finished process, to repeat old mistakes many times and to have endless difficulty of agreeing on all fully worthwhile. It's very customary, alas, to wish all unattainable and hollow and to abandon feasible and right, to look for doubtful and vainly superfluous and to reject bright, prudent, valuable and deep, to lay all hopes on emptiness and rubbish and to deny all lucrative and pure, to obey to some purposeless void and to oppose own sanity and mind. This is our sad essence, our sorrowful pithiness.
Just right the same Matvey Grigoryevich, according to the calls of own lost nature, has moved from previous location to Coniferous, placed in couple of hundred long miles, where at now he was standing at his newly-found broad chambers and was paying to glad from this matter Oleg Savelievich, who has brought him not more than two minutes ago to successfully shown rented room.
"Yes, all right - no complaints, no ideas." - Matvey Grigoryevich has finally reported and handed over few of greasy money bills: "Great thanks for your participating, you had chosen delightful apartment – as from tempting and colored picture. Even totally speechless and numb will be fully unable to stay without words of lush fat praise."
"The original form of appearance. As at previous tzar, all is strictly the same. Both charm and tone. As at vague antiquity."
"Truly notable. Classicist's paradise."
"Be sure, it's paradise for all. And for you not an underworld too. So, settle yourself and try to get successfully accustomed. All is well."
The guest has left.
Matvey Grigoryevich has frozen in hung loneliness: "Whom, tell, has come to me my being at today... Dark guest-tress, wicked, completely evil and just helpless. All my meaning is lost, steamed as wax. There is no of flame in inside. There is no of former life's line. There is no of me. Who I am... Worthless. Useless. All good is far and far away."
The hero has with anguish slammed the door and infirmly in dolor gone down by shaky ladder's stairs. Has exchanged shabby porch.
In around is cloudy dark urban massif, fully faceless and totally gloomy. Faded lampposts are freely and sullenly droping deep and pretty sad yellowness, diligently and carefully filling cold and thinned lonely spaces. Stretched alone with uneven long contour bleak firmament is smoothly turning own insides in indifferent ashy gray fog, dense, filamentarily woven with murk's mass and sedulously rolled as pergameneous lifeless moist canopy. Slender facades of lonely and cumbersome buildings, monumentally frozen in shy weak confusion, are here and there proudly arising with sharp endlessly high graceful spiers, in exaltedness pointed upwards. Hazed heaven's dome, richly bleeding with rains, is silently, dispassionately shining through painfully indifferent tight sadness. Surrounded by cloudy obscurity veiled vastness is dutifully entering in motionless and timid, bored tranquility, attentively and carefully saved by landscape's melancholy. Impoverished and fragmented shy pictures are compliantly and malleably abuting to absolutely limitless horizon, unremarkably, languidly melting in hugs of whitish, careless sky's curtain. Quickly wilted, but still not coped to fly away dry foliage is helplessly and ruefully fluttering into mutedly pitiful dying. Naked mournfully perishing nature is wearily plunging into widespread tart gloom. Far and pale, deftly scattered out as kind of mosaic night windows are sadly smoldering in freezing rue of gloom.
Matvey Grigoryevich has longly quietly sighed: "So regrettably vain is this late humid autumn... And I’m also the same. I am empty. Fully empty and dead. And all paths are just dark, are so much troubled, wretched and bitterly confused. My current way is lost in years' abyss, into abyss of doom. Imputed path is finally completed. All what's able to happen doesn’t care and doesn’t concern. My life disintegrates on vacuum and void. On futility, ashes and gloom. And nothing will return me sense. Only little is left. No fire, no sparks. No taste, no mirage of past. All has passed, all has hastily collapsed. Where is my former paradise, my joy..."
The hero has looked in cheerless distance of depressed windy street: "I'll blend myself with darkness and will win. It's so pleasant at now – to get forgotten, or to slip, to come broken and die. Just all I need. And at tomorrow I have to start to find some work. Nothing good even partly. Without proper help of noose no chances on rescue at all."
Matvey Grigoryevich has cringed and promptly added shaky pace.
The silhouette has calmly disappeared.

III
There is no of joy into anxiety. This morning too has given only coldness, pain and darkness, deep sorrow, gloom and tart emotional detachment. Matvey Grigoryevich is huddling into market, is choosing boots and products for small dinner. Behind of shelves is miraculous fuss. Engaged is process active buyers are pushing, crowding, confering and watching.
Matvey Grigoryevich has taken one step forward and then instantly faced with some pensive young man.
"What an abyss, please somebody tell, has forced me to forget my own wallet! I've been dragging to here for whole hour – as an unlimited full idiot! What a hopeless damned fate..." - has howled the stranger.
"That's daily thing, exactly usual." - the hero has sighed and hastened to get fleetingly informed: "Have you come here for groceries? If it's so, I can help, can give you my remaining pennies - you'll return after time. I in own turn, if you are curious to know, am at here for the only fourth day, and only single day ago have managed to provide myself with job, that's why exist on one prepayment. But I'll share with you – I have also been dragging to here for an hour and quarter, and I'm unable to experience it twice."
"You need to be remembered, to be immortalized in relict human book. Such kindness nowadays is sadly rare."
"It's not worth to dirt paper so aimlessly - for the sake of my trivial muzzle. No one will allow such connivance, no one will forgive. Are you still for the groceries?"
"Yes, for most modest spectrum of such ones, so I need just a little. Almost literal alms."
"Then you can safely wait for my full sponsorship."
"What an astonishing financial prospect - a real feast of monetary waste."
"Yes, it is. An astronomical mad loan. I've no doubts, such huge operations are greatly dangerous for all world-wide economy."
"You are truly good-natured. You warm without any flask or fire. You so easily turn all the cases in plus – into joke or in hint, such things are much more favorable much more approachable for heart, much more bright and laconic."
Matvey Grigorievich has wearily nodded, unhurriedly and lazily repeated this short movement one more couple of times, has meaningfully frozen, and then, just after counting of few coins, has handed them to the new-found poor comrade: "Rake all you need from endless shelves, then transfer everything to bag, and in revived by such pleasant broad actions nice mood we will trample to homes with the similar usual paths, which had led us from homes to here."
"We will do it quite fast. Not even having time to get captured by fear that it will poorly come overgrown with wild grass into our long absence. We’ll get some trifling food and rush away. But all of this, of course, will occur, if only we will cope to squeeze through crowd."
"It’s true. They've crowded us as densely as flock of twigs in closest hedge. Sometimes you run away from here, even having forgotten at all about any of bought products and much much faster than from plague."
"I agree. This insane fuss will stand until deep night. Give them hand, and they'll leave only shoulder. So much hard is this life, so much bitter, frantic and unhappy. Slanted, crooked. Like some curse or damnation."
"I'm not sure, that the last one is global, but if you'll get such poor burden, you will clearly notice – both with heart and with mind."
"Aptly, dexterously."
Have proceeded to making of purchases.
Having packed all acquired goods, have impassively headed to exit, pushed through crowd, then successfully sat in town crew, sailed in way.
Anatoly Efimovich (whom turned out to be met by Matvey Grigoryevich poor fellow) has exhaustedly sighed: "Our grand immense buying is totally and finally completed. Congratulations for such luck. We've retreated in time. That's aesthetic."
"Probably even exotic and masterful. As if by some scenario, not less. Neither clothes has been torn, nor our faces have been spoiled. Just pure beauty."
"Really beauty. Indeed."
The heroes have suddenly got silent. The voyage has continued plot of self and after even half of hour was with insipidness quite abruptly torn off by Anatoly Efimovich's order to make a stop at one of corners of old two-story skimpy house with strongly broken stone arch, quite uglily and clumsily repainted in disgusting caustic red color, so startlingly rejecting with own evident tastelessness and already remarkably faded into places of fresh blooming shabbiness.
Matvey Grigoryevich has followed his companion and very soon was found by oneself into small and indistinctly shadowy room of the last one.
"Here I live." - has admitted the hero, then taken out few of scattered of bills from the insides of little dresser and calmly counted appropriate amount, just the same that had been kindly lent to his person before: "Thank you, really thank, I am obediently giving owed back."
Matvey Grigorievich has slowly grasped such modest cash.
"So, let me feed you in some tavern?" - the interlocutor has lavishly suggested: "We have one into nearby house. Very nice, by the way."
"Will not you go bankrupt on all money, if you'll regale each single guest in such a manner?" - has softly asked Matvey Grigoryevich: "My dear friend, we are strictly not rich."
"Still how much accurate and deep can poor people understand each other's matters." - has lingeringly answered Anatoly Efimovich: "Such fact is shockingly surprising. It turns out that hardships and difficulties, if they had fortune to be properly assigned, can help to keep mass of humanity together."
"But what big difficulties do we truly have? We - breed of poor people. All sorts of difficulties, burdens and bemusements belong at here exclusively to rich – how to get dwelled in better palace, where to order best servants and maids, in what of shops to buy most briskly looking jevels. And for us all is soothingly simple: if we don’t have enough for bun, we take its half and crawl to home."
"With such of judgments it's not long to get transformed in sternest optimist at earth."
"Please, rescue me from such a share, I am entirely refusing from this role, protesting both with my whole flesh and each soul's nook - till stiff grinding of teeth and long desperate squeals. Any optimism's signs are most pure and most evident marker of human insanity. Such a fact doesn't have even minimal shadow of doubts."
"In this position I'm in full agreement. As if your words were taken strictly from my lips. I would even perpetuate your nice initiative on highest legislative level - would forbid to all optimists to take good jobs or to become politicians, I would even deprive each of them of any human rights. Or at all would with instantness send on the gallows."
"They will smile even there. No of methods can help them. And I’m even quite ready to bet, bet on cutting of head of my boss, that sick positive thinking is nothing else than an incurable disease."
"Yes, noble leprosy. I know."
Have moved to bar.
"What about will talk?" - has interested Anatoly Efimovich.
"About meaningful, essential and deep. About happiness or sense of our life. All the rest is just dust."
"Each happiness is utterly amorphous. It's rather difficult to be sufficiently correct in such speeches, being always exclusively sad and unhappy. Pretend, you're looking at a still-life and seeing skillfully depicted tempting lemon, you clearly know its tart taste and from one single speedy glance you already are perfectly feeling firm persistent acidity approaching up your helpless tongue with understanding of gastronomic essence of the picture. But if image will freely contain something you've never tried, then your opinion of probable closed taste of observed vague object will include only guessings and errors. And even though food perception is fully differing from happiness' expressing, but for the last one, after all, you also need some positive experience, without which all vain discussions are nothing more than void's piece."
"Then let's choose more semantical context."
"It depends first of all on viewpoint, on point of perception's application. And such one, by the way, is possessed by vain stereotypes and wrong prejudices. All this is fully sacrilegious and dead, unacceptable, painful. It breaks whole canopy of world, whole last one's harmony and practical advantage. Even reading own language, but presented in words, that are turned upside down, we can't determine fast enough, what does these strange unusual letters mean are and which linguistic affiliation are they having. Any simple and obvious circumstances most often look as something hazed and difficult, as confusion or trick. Elementary things are all the time exceptionally misty, are blurred, foggy, far and dark. This huge world seems to be something strictly impassable. After all, you can't even imagine any thing more irrational, fluid and imperfect than our views, opinions and thoughts. And we've decided to discuss things as life's sense."
"In world of evil can't be any rightness, any kindness or peace, even slightest."
"That is right. All is spoiled. All pure, essential and good. Both mind, sublimity and talent. What still saves innocence is openness of soul - that primitive naivety and helpless, nude simplicity of faith, come from careless days of young childhood, so sadly vulnerable, fluent and short-living."
"It’s too easy to get fully lost... Fate's labyrinth is dangerously cunning."
"It’s strictly only at first glance. Realize – all is highly subjective - any scales, any frames, heights, ideas, any idols and principles, any known of religions and any given of beliefs. What is our existence, birth of children and sex, rites and science? Artificially taken particulars. Ask anyone – how you've spent your last day? Has eaten food, with luck transformed it into feces, said something vain, heard something similar, that's all. What weighty is at here? You continue to live, continue generation's sequence. Sooner or later some of them will be born infertile or disabled, will die in war or become usual scum. Why do we need in life itself? You've been convinced that people should get dead, should get sick, fight for something unknown and politely subservient to their superiors. You will be just a slave in any scientific community, you will tremble in front of all their regalia - I know a lot of scientists, they do exactly so, among of them blind worship is more valuable than any sweetest carnal orgasms. We are equally trembling in front of politicians, in front of firmly settled public norms. If I'll want to destroy all the world or to kill couple hundreds of people, they'll start to hate me with whole zeal. They will require my prompt death. But who are they, who are they all? Not more than dull molecular machines, got used to own defenselessness, to utter weaknesses and total imperfection both of consciousness and flesh. What the whole world here really is? Earth and sun. And rest vast universe around – deep wide infinity of space, so generously scattered on parsecs. What is the company around? Even if current president, someone high from world's clergy, or the most outstanding psychiatrist will ardently persuade you to give up your inconvenient for flock of them perception, tell, who they are? Who will remember at least one of them after century? And after ten? Who are they all for history and being? Who is truly significant there? I understand all atheists just perfectly. It is difficult to trust and to believe, that this delusional mad world had been created by some kind of higher matter."
"With such judgments, of course, you feel freedom, but you also foredoom all yourself on oblivion, it's too sacrificial, too painful..."
"It's inevitabe condition. Isolation will never destroy. On the contrary will only save. The taste of truth is getting genuinely pure exclusively in total isolation. And in terms of neglect to oneself. You should know, that on thread of life's going it's far not always possible to bead both wealth, success and gleam of glory. This is really sad. But anyway it's sweeter than mistakes."
"These scary things sew greatest fear."
"Any fear is feeling, as fact, exclusively just compensatory and only, it appears from one of three lacks - lack of firm confidence in force of own rightness, lack of same confidence in world and lack of own disdain to rest of people. These are all roots of any fear. Cut off each one and you'll become indeed unbridled."
"Does such broad boldness have some real use and sense?"
"Yes, has. And, to quite powerul surprise, extremely priceless and straightforwardly gigantic. As you are probably informed, both to death-bringing pit of abyss and to saint paradise's width leads up exactly just the same unfussy road. So, all depends on how you are walking, under whose higher guidance. Under what motivation and aim. And freedom here in such a case is most unique and precious flagship, at once for mind, fate's course and claims of soul."
"The only thing, too short is all this courage, too ready for to fall apart in crumbs in any single one of seconds."
"If you are going to surrender, you'll never be the winner – this is fact. And fear is that sort of acid, which even with one tiny drop can effortlessly melt all the mind, can almost instantly most ruthlessly erode entire volume of its frail defenseless essence till deepest possible of holes. For holding miracles weak gripping is improper."
"But where to take due scale of confidence and calm? What to choose as a reference point, as a guiding salvatory beacon for expedition through of life."
"Choose the most sovereign route, most independent, free and autonomous. Remember one, truth does not tolerate the way of humiliations, it deny any kneeling positions. Only one, who is proudly staring into darkness of daily turmoil, will be able to see precious flame of enlightenment. Outside of belief into mind and prevailing of meaning and prudence, in global reasonableness, we are having just purposeless vacuum, routine."
"And what about happiness at here?"
"This is horribly difficult topic. One fact, each happiness is citizen with no concrete residence permit, you never know where exactly you will meet it. Where, in which manner and with whom. I don’t obtain such miracle myself, that's why I'll better stay completely silent, do not want to become faked adviser."
Have subsided to staring in windows. After one half of hour have parted - said few words of goodbye to each other and missed.
That's all the meeting. All the dialogue.
Matvey Grigoryevich has left the tavern, seen off Anatoly Efimovich's retreating silhouette and dejectedly sighed. In around is monotonously colorless damp park, exhaustedly and cautiously bored and generously washed by icy water storm, not subsiding all previous night in stubborn restless beating to the citizens' many-faced windows. Above of covered with rumpled, tightly shriveled foliage ground are haphazardly scattered over into free odd geometry thick, full of doom lacy layered clouds. Along the sides is drowsy nondescriptness of numb calm. Into cold and dense air are lonely notes of mournful sad alarm. Among of dreary naked trunks of trees is silently indifferent twilight, so generously carefully sprawled with gloomy blowing of sharp mystery and dolor. Into thoughts is broad vanity of perpetual true inconsolableness.
Matvey Grigoryevich has stopped and sighed again: "An invisible thread of the fate - where it goes, where flows out spent time, to which parts of eternity, to which unknown limits and extensions... Any human in general is a changeable runaway creature, so constantly seeking and suffering, waiting, so frequently irrational and mad, exactly unadapted to smooth measured living and logic, entirely torn off, enclosed in hopeless mixture of society and turmoils. It’s so hard to survive, hard to feel as yourself and to stay hidden from harsh abyss of foundations. Possession of some peace or exaltation, independence or true inward harmony are strictly instantly get punished. Life is keeping you out of meaningfulness, out of priceless limits of mind. Any greatness is sinful. Any beauty or freedom, any lack of own vices and defects are directly condemnable. Only grayness is broadly encouraged. Dull and ugly vile cripples, total lepers and morons - that’s what modernism needs. That's what now if fully in favor. Trouble... Grief."
Matvey Grigoryevich has fallen into thoughts, then walked along of blurred terrace. Then sipped doom sat down on bench. He had moved to another new town. He had tried to forget all himself. He had changed his location. But by simply transporting of body you will never detach from oneself. Or from reality or longing.
"What a for do I live? Now I work just on grave. On coffin's boards. I'll get its box and will calm down, will fall asleep. Oh, poor fate – only torments and bitterness. How sharply disgusted. How much tired I am. Of everything and all."
The hero has fallen fully silent, sat a little bit more, then has risen again and exchanged few of quarters, looked at watches. Has passed about two long hours.
"Where to go? Again to Anatoly back... Where else. At home I'll straightly hang myself."
Matvey Grigoryevich has dived in space of arch and then climbed to already-familiar door. Has knocked.
"What an awful nightmare has so horribly lifted me up?" - has promptly jumped disheveled Anatoly Efimovich, then muttered and then looked at guest's features more close: "Oh... It's you... And I already has been sleeping."
"I'm not in time, therefore sadly sorry..."
"All is so. But come in. I has been able just to snore in dresms right now. The best pleasure for lonely is sleeping. At such one, you seem to have an intercourse with time, copulating with being and rewinding away its perceptible part."
"This is utterly funny. As for me, it’s most elegant form of the coition. But who f*ck whom?"
"If to judge by my terrible fatigue, f*cked was me. I've been sleeping for two hours only."
"I've freed you from foundational great need. After all, having truly defeated own drowsiness, you'll probably become completely independent of all insidious intrigues of every night. After all, who can know, when we seep, maybe somebody change our memory, tune emotions or fake all impressions. Paranoiacs would ardently dream of full losing of sleep."
"I would prefer to lose all contacts with the paranoiacs, their worldview is painfully contagious and infectious."
"Bad example is fiercely sticky. All the mental plasticity is pointed at sorrow and confusion, at destruction and nonsense, at fear. Not to be truly free, not to step with full proudness. Alas."
"We prefer just to crawl. This is deeply in blood. Let’s, at least, have strong tea, my wide offer."
"With huge pleasure, just pour."
"Then I'll splash you whole cup – till its edges."
"Very nice. I will tell you it's luck - to have ability to spend even hour together."
"I agree, current abyss of darkness has taught us to rejoice even only from match. Any human, as fact, is a workpiece, eclusively malleable, so easily transformable in anything – into dust, in newly-minted idol or cold ash."
"So it is. And such a doom sometimes is coming, that it throws in wolf howls. And wandering by circle for forever is just the same as standing into corner: the same full hopelessness in essence. What builds route's vector of each fate? What kind of reckless trajectories do adjust and control so much absurdly intertwined lines of lifes... We cling to total secondariness, to vanity, cheep hollowness and void... "
"Let’s talk about something weighty. At now I'll listen you myself. Let’s imagine, that this piece of sugar, which I've so kindly given you for tea, is all the meaning that exists into universe — all of potentially accessible attainments, all clever thoughts and theoretically capable discoveries, how many from its global volume is already achieved at this day by humanity?"
"Hardly more than a couple of non-essential molecules and only. Please, do not think that our vain civilization has achieved something high. All alienation from the bottom is not much more than on one step. After all, there’s nothing at here to be broken – entire world is not more deeply complicated than a stone. And anyway time from time there is so unbearable fear for oneself and for fate, no smallest matter that last damned one is just empty. That damned last one is stupid and wrong. Fly all over the whole motley globe of the earth and you'll sadly not find even fragments of sense, only shadows. And the scariest horriblest thing in own accepting of the very teasing sense, in its straight understanding and even real finding and obtaining is the fact, that this so precious sense doesn’t rule into our lost world, doesn’t serve as an obvious power, doesn’t even determine some real priorities, doesn’t bring any peace or firm confidence, only fully indistinct and doubtful strange confirmation of own justice and rightness, identically wholly controversial and only partially useful and convincing. Any fate is continuous risk, and in couple with sense it’s vice versa only more thoroughly and broadly realized. Life does not tolerate incomplete ones of bets. It is given to play exclusively all in, on all the spectrum of your values. Well-being fades entirely and only. It dies at once. That's always irrevocable and hopeless. Grief comes here stubbornly, persistently and brashly. And almost constantly gets welcomed."
"Tell me better what's meaningful for you, describe it, outline."
"Any meaning is feasible dose of eternity, enough reliably embodied in temporal and perishable things. It's light and minimally enterable fragment of infinity – that modest fraction of true miracle, that can be really received and some a way indeed discovered. But, as I have already totally upset you, even such a bewitching attainment is also fully powerless and helpless."
"But how to catch, to notice and to snatch even this strengthless piece of the greatness?"
"It's believed that this life is opening your eyes exclusively if really appears what to look at. We're ceasing to be fools when surely arises some expediency in having own mind. And out of free points of its straight application, such one is wholly rudimentary, vain and excessive."
"It's so eagerly desired time from time to break out of endless harsh pettiness, of total routineness of being, desired to possess of something high, to have ability to trust and to believe - believe in something valuable and worthwhile, in something really deserving your frank hope, in something absolutely good, idealistic. In something crystal, alien from sins, from all fake, all impassive, deceitful and wrong. I want just to believe... To believe not in vain."
"You've chosen very interesting word - to believe. Faith into general is quite specific notion. Life-affirming, as fact. I will say even more - that at all there's no disbelief, only faith - in happiness or its unrealness, in grief or miracle, in whole justification or full nonsense, in God or sure utopianism of any his true presence. And to believe in wrong and bad, as not so difficult to notice, is into times and times much simpler - sad examples, confirming own prevalence are more frequent, more strong."
"Here I most sturdily and zestfully agree - with each of words and even every of their letters, fuss and haste are too strong and too harmful, such ones envelop all of things into baleful veil of own vainness, in heights' and bloom's impossibility, in void. They kill, oppress, leave crashed and crumbled. And it's so cherishingly wished to be at here just simply free, to get abstracted, to run away from being's hell, to rush in shock as far as physically given – for only purpose to turn able to fall off from cursed surrounding encircling of never-ending swamp of filth. But who will answer where and how to discover that hazed salvating timeless shelter, directly common both for exhausted puzzled mind and rid of hope torn faded soul. I want to faith, to have firm soil for plans growing, for next prosperity and flight. I want assuredness, want kindness."
"No of kindness or goodness at here, no one drop - there is only evil and its reliable clear absence. And most regrettable of things is hopeless fact that such antagonism, sedulously assembled from dreary randomness of endless griefs and troubles and of sharp meannesses and lies, is highly durable and solid - much more than any monolithic iron object. Common evil is highly structured, it's extremely harmonic and joint. All this firmly gives birth to one question – by which a way it had turned possible to synchronize all of evil's participants? By which a way had it come managable to fill each spot of our world with so impressively identical low nits? But all, as always, is quite simple – deep uniformity of values, of daily principles and getting education, deep uniformity of soil for ideas and artificial sick views. Growing up on such common conceptual line, you don't have even any weak chance to be somehow exclusive and free. That's why this world is flooded with wide bunch of ugly clones, surrounding you almost at each step by so much painful, tight and poisonous destructiveness and so much strong and tart oppression, which are erecting dead obstruction for any meaningfulness, prudence, depth and use. Captivity of being inappropriate, of inability, oblivion and troubles, of isolation from success and ill and awful aspiration to belong to full slops - that's all what main of living plots indeed are made of. It is too difficult to try to disagree when you compete at once with whole reality's construction."
"At here I'll let myself to argue – it's much more easy to break down and to discredit in own eyes such type of world, which in inside is monotonously ugly, vile and wrong, it's much more evident and simple not to accept its laws for the truth, but to consider such one's presence for obsession. I agree, people's meanness completely devalues all sorts of materiality. We'll never come to paradise, that's fact. But how to survive and not to start to disappear, to save oneself in this race into hell..."
"Into walking along of each edge, the most important thing is not to turn. Keep durability and strengths, even being in process of dying, even right at the most helpless point of agony. Except of you yourself, nobody will rescue, nobody will warm or protect, no damned one of all muzzles."
"But what you'll say about miracles? Or even meeting with their witchery is also powerless in hopeless matter of acquiring of indeed not just vain, but profound, immortalized prospects?"
"This is extremely friable and marshy ground for discussion. True miracle is scissors, which divide all your life on two parts – on before and on after. It's not just temporary thing, not short-living and fleeting enlightenment, not a spark, but a real huge flame, which one a day with help of hidden precious magic should transform all the previous fuss into ashes. True miracle is path right to blessed priceless bonds of heaven. And its sure complete retribution - for past mortality and pettiness of way, is getting heeded and received with even much more great voluptuousness and pleasure, than the very prompt sharpen ascension to the highest semantic and sensual peak, which by itself as one of mainest inner parts is fatefully inherent to such matter. True miracle is hopeful saint escape, is brave and doubtless reprisal over mediocrity. It is your personal detachment from the world of fools. But will we meet it, will we ever attain – how to foresee and to presume..."
"You've put too much on single magic. To be a god, some people say, is not feasible even for God. Nobody will reach irreproachable being. But I am puzzled much much more with something else – with deep duality of any social matter: each one, who stays not fully mindless and insane, of course, quite clearly understands, that all current society is nothing more than lifetime dose of hell, than bunch of freaks and miserable betrayers and dissemblers, so greatly soulless, envious and petty, but just the same sick bunch of lepers had some a way acquired all best prosperities and benefits of world's civilization: both clothes, and writing, and even recently invented electricity. But how this wrong and destructive humanity had achieved all this tempting accomplishments? By which a way? Such fact so awfully perplexes and puts me in unstoppable hard stupor and stiff fright."
"You're stubbornly forgeting, that no of eras can be indeed illuminated by only artificial lighting. Any hopeful technical benefits for each of us are fully vain. Since the first one articulately speaking, this world has not become either better or kinder, or maybe much more logical, or truly justified. In our case, we've got lost on the route long before of the moment we've learnt to walk at all. The very postulates and laws of whole earthly existence are entirely filthy and sick, unforgivable, rotten, distorted. This is world of contempt, inequality, sorrows and sadness, world of ones, who has fallen, and of ones, who has pushed, world of absolute squalor. Life at here is impossible."
"I accept, only madmen agree to survive. Whole life is expectation of some trouble, whole life is endless painful fear of to miss something yours, all life is immense blurred hope – that one, which is so similar with torture. Why should I live?"
"Please believe, either sooner or later our noose will be also successfully woven. Legs are given for chances to fall. And if to say about any fear - it's from weakness of brain. The most important things happen only at once - each cup gets made and broken exclusively just one all changing time. So, according to this, if you'll meet true insight, do not worry – you'll surely not miss it anyway. But such hazed vague chance is entirely equal to chance to have flying on comet."
"After looking in sky, you'll never turn yourself in bird, I accept this sad truth, but how to get free from this world of mad lepers?"
"The main thing is only to remember, that, justifying some of flaws, you automatically instantly betray any greatness, perfection and grace. Your perception of beauty is tightly correlated with perception of ugliness. This is fact."
"Not in vain people say, that all notes for the playing in paradise music are getting written into hell."
"Maybe, truly right so. It’s not for me to judge, I haven’t been in any of these places. But probably I will correct it soon. Every life is too short, you shouldn’t hope, that something will come true. You must be fatalist, it's smarter."
"But nevertheless I really want to know – is among of this broad insignificance any sphere or thing, that can serve as a key to the truth, are any loopholes in wrong present?"
"After all, any truth has a lot of wide doors. That is why keys are countless too. And the first from all keys to eternity is modern mathematics. With its help you can effortlessly imagine immense numbers, incomparably larger than all the particles of universe, these numbers are not physical, there is nothing material what is somehow embodying them, but such ones are existing. Another thing is scale of world, which also firmly serves as one of most main keys to reality's frames. If you're rightly comparing events with significance and clearly seeing depth of concepts, making correct gradation and hierarchy, then you're unwittingly getting as close as it's possible to most fair and sober opinion. Admit one plain, but priceless fact of freely sent to each of us vast lavish presence of rather tricklessly accessible for learning detectability of truth - if you'll cope just to catch it. And when you'll cope, try simply not to be kicked out of its cradle. Try to linger at there."
"So, it turns out, that having surely decided to get breath, you vice versa promptly suffocates. Anyway, all we have only risks and deep emptiness. Nothing else is prescribed and imputed."
"If life is sending you at risk, then you are one who should be sacrificed and killed, or you must confidently win."
"What use from such a consolation... From any of most favorable outcomes and endings. The taste of victory itself is fully hollow - our path is too temporary, too short and vague, after all."
"Temporality is not a stumbling block or an absolute obstacle, which can't be beaten, curbed and passed. You're walking up along the sand and your helpless footsteps should come certainly melted with no of even frailest leaving of any proofs of own previous obvious presence, but they will surely remain for a few of next days. If such matter takes place at an abandoned territory, then perhaps these dim steps will successfully manage to show to some person his lost oneself lifesaving path, having followed which one, he'll get rescued, having left after time both long posterity and some material and mental fruits and values, without which's plain unremarkable existence whole unending world's pier would be fully another. But what is this – just simple steps, which, at the first mistaken glance, cannot have even chance on preservable trace of own fleetingly short timid presence."
"But it’s too scary anyway to get forlorn, erased and broken, to come deprived of even aimless temporality of life."
"Such a fear is normal and natural. Any breaking of life is a thing anyway irreplaceable. From splinters you can easily make any thing you just want. Any thing, but except of the very original structure. Having fallen, you will not keep flight anymore."
"Such understanding kills all freedom ..."
"Any freedom is working like clothes: total nudity is also fettering your mind, it’s rather difficult to behave in such state enough natural. All is useful and good only strictly in measure – even absolute paradise."
Brief calm pause has inefficiently hung down on a moment.
"Where to find that notorious grail of true wisdom, if anyway all somehow harms in unconventional and stupid application..." - has humbly sighed Anatoly Efimovich.
Matvey Grigoryevich has yawned: "Think another – in more broad and more gradual manner. Life of two, if to look from aside, is always just a little madness, life of small compact team is madness slightly bigger, and life of whole humanity's abundance is at all total concentrate of insanity, total piece of delirium, rave and barbarism, outrage, humiliation and tears. Pure deep mind can appear in terms of full loneliness and nowhere else. That is why, choose this state as an absolute reference."
"I’m living in such one from the very birth's date. For so long period I've got completely tired."
"But what for do you need any unity? For to be cannon fodder? Thousands of people day from day are tirelessly dying or getting maimed, injured, lost and crippled. And, if you're in society, they will force you to save them, to sacrifice oneself, and it seems that your personal life is most valueless. It’s so strange. And after all, any filthy atrocities are, as fact, entirely allowed by some highest world's principle, into trusting to which one they condemn your behavior. It's amusing. The one, who drops the vases, is reproaching those ones, who're having boldness to refuse from being catching."
"But what of benefits do I really have into being alone? Only bare enlightenment, which is totally helpless – as vain freedom, you've mentioned above. I've been always desiring to be at here at least with someone, but not with void and myself. But I hopelessly have no damned one for to live with."
"The matter of life's chances has never been composing real canvas of any results. It's the first. And the second – just get up and go out, go into outside right now, go and look - for most random spontaneous girl. And I will stay instead of you."
"Yes. Deal." - Anatoly Efimovich has got surely up, then pulled on thick raincoat and waved his hand: "See you soon. The apartment is yours."
"And I'll try in own turn not to get overbored."
"As you want. One request – don't play golf, these walls aren't spacious enough."
Anatoly Efimovich has left.
Matvey Grigoryevich has lonely longly sighed: "I've driven him away of own house. I even did not let him sleep. Well. What an idiot I am..."

IV
Anatoly Efimovich, who had got incomparably tired day earlier, has woken up only far after afternoon. It had sadly turned out impossible for him to come able to find at least anyone. He had been only aimlessly wandering from one place to another in vain walking by gray empty streets right until deep last midnight, which one later he had been calmly sitting just till three o'clock with Matvey Grigoryevich, boldly melted in darkness of night at the end of the dialogue and optimistically promised to come back in the evening.
"Oh, unhappy and meager affairs, endless void and dullness, endless troubles and fog. And after one short single hour I need to drag myself to work, to my poor, wretched work. Just some kind of nightmare, not less."
The hero, due to lack of jobs, was sadly forced to carry labor into tight dusty walls of small workroom of theater - creating tons of decorations and with neatness and cautious care patching up motley scenical costumes, repairing items of unlucky inventory and refueling kerosene lamps. Such position was utterly average. The salary was totally the same. All the fate was in grayness and vainness. In deprivation, waiting and distress.
"What an excellent picture in window: all you see - only haze, but no of daily vanity as well as an additional sweet benefit, it pleases. I need to take a walk at least. Only where to go... No shyest particle of matter which one of dances is suggesting you your life, take the rhythm anyway and keep moving. If no of happiness was given from the start, all is strictly the same if such one was surprisingly taken away. For lonely person it's indifferent and equal where to walk – even right into midst of the cemetery. That's why let's go."
The hero has got up and reflexively cringed: "It's time to start to loose my mind – just systematically, thoroughly and surely on purpose, even lovingly bowing before of own loneliness and composing admirable praises to universal global insignificance and lawlessness of being and unstopably fervently waltzing with those who rejoice with own abysmal personal and endless common wretchedness of mind. Fate's course never depends in full measure exclusively on only you yourself. The rules of game are always incomparably more influential than any of the cards. I still am dreaming of innocently bright and irreproachably right gratifying targets and beginnings. Okay, enough weak-witted reasoning and twaddling."
Anatoly Efimovich has gone in outside.
Bleak street is quiet, calm city is impersonal and faceless, inhospitable, cold. Wet quiet air is thick. All outlines are hidden under canopy of whitish immense fog, broadly spreaded in heights over cooling in sleepiness area. Harshly desolate quarters are sad. All is silent and dead. Both not abounding with taste or eccentricity, exactly average and strictly monotonous, slightly pale, fully wilted landscapes are shyly and unhurriedly clothing into grayish and shadowy veil. Rueful silk of emotionless dampness is exhaustedly creeping by hopeless surroundings with all-consuming languid gloom. Enveloped with some tragic weightness facades are hesitantly looking in around. Defenselessly and humbly glowing puddles are time from time occasionally flashing far in darkness. From wasteful abyss of nowhere is smoothly and effortlessly engaging with own tissue inseparable deep November anxiety.
"What an astonishingly piercing woeful wind. What a fantastically perfect boundless numbness. What an enormously deep anguish. What an absolute sorrowful bitterness - like a mirror of my poor soul. All is joyless, all inside and around is crushed, all is sunk in oblivion, into mortal dispassion. What an exhausted time, what an indifferent and desolate dead season. Harsh apathy in any tone and corner. In everywhere of this world. But in the highest concentration - into me. Yes, that's right, all is so."
Anatoly Efimovich has gradually added clumsy step and wearily shrugged his tired shoulders: "Oh, endless hopelessness. In such weather you want to get frozen or lost, that is all. It can happen sometimes, that all day is entirely vain — no things go right, no mood, no strength, only total unluckiness. And some of us have one or two of such unhappy days. But someone has the whole life, which is fully unhealably so. And it seems, that it's better and greater not to be ever born here at all. All destiny in hopelessness, all my share. The whole model of fate is unsavably wrong. It works like poisonous sieve – you only miss and miss, and miss - either one thing or other, all you acquire – losses and confusion, deep recklessness, disunity and slurredness of future. No even slightest, short enjoyment. Only hefty depression. And all the longitude of immense human being, all broad deepness of life does not bring even tiny prosperity, only void. And no of gleam, no of echo or shadow of luck, even rare and wholly occasional. All earthly pier is a kind of some hellish dark swamp, which promptly gets more greedy and addictive after any attempt to get out. In such a state you're ready to believe in any curse, in any type and sort of devil. And, maybe, even in TV and meteorology."
The hero has turned towards local embankment. Everywhere is gloom, everywhere is coldness and silence. Into distance are rare dim lights of infrequent lone barges. Under gray weepy sky are calmly staying weary contours of horizon. Underfoot are chilled colorless stones of faint pavement. All is average, primitive, dull. At one of slim and blurred lanterns is standing unfamiliar bright girl, exceptionally rakish, quite immodestly clothed and inwardly inspiring unprecedented voluptuousness, depravity and absolute perverseness. Into hands – thin long cigarette, on free brave shoulders – leather jacket, on covered in stockings thighs – extremely short calico skirt, on white neck – golden necklace. Such variants have never been exciting, have never been even partially alluring either body, or mind, traditionally causing exclusively harsh shyness or firm contempt, but at this tempting time renewed palette of constant soul's disorder has inadvertently thawed, having luckily made all the previous hard hesitations irrevocably melted. Anatoly Efimovich has deftly overcome all inner doubts and made bold sure step towards fully bewitched by dirty lustful aura, indecent sinful figure.
"My best greetings. I'd like to come united with each other. I have completely unambiguous desire to become much more close."
"With one like you? Am I an altruist for morons?"
"Which way my poor personality has sadly managed to upset you?"
"But with what should I be even barely glad or inspired right now? Just one more idiot in front of my cute face and no shadowy glimpse of further benefits or use. Where my life still continue to take such silly elements as you. Bet, that even with helping of stick it's not easy to drive your cursed person away."
"We can meet with each other without any reason too. All I want just to get stable model of real relations, not of fragile and only just exhausting, but of ones, that are pure and exalted."
"Stop feign your being smart, all you want just to f*ck me and only, exactly similar as all the brainless others. About which of high saint aims you're telling, an ordinary showing of your purposeless animal essence – for empty sake of egoism and only."
"You are thinking I'm ill, am obsessed with the poison of narcissism, am rid of meaningful deep content. You are making mistake, I am totally opened, with no duplicity inside. And you've already shown me as a professional seducer, as an unprincipled souls seeker. You've put me into so unusual skin, that such a turn is even comical and funny."
"For what time else you'll test my patience with your twaddling? You're only growing my disgust. Your speech is evidently stupid. You're far not interesting, alas."
"No heights are visible bottom. You can’t even imagine an irreproachable frank person - an unenviable fate, by the way."
"And from your fate each one will pee with boiling water? Which charm you've found in own being? You are so obviously eager to any kind of humiliatins for only one low worthless aim – for to get any pity. What a partner you are? You're not a man. Trashy miserable soul. Useless rubbish."
"And you desire rampant boldness? Such one is most deceptive from all features."
"And your self-humiliation, you will say, is holy, sinless, pure and fully honest. You're ordinary fruitless storyteller. Boring fibber and fool."
"How long, tell me please, will your arrogance bubble continue to inflate oneself? What amusing, explain, can indeed truly be in your cheap trivial ability to make each single one offended? You consider it's great, then get and greet my best my congratulations. After all, if to keep speech transparent, you couldn't turn in bitch from good sweet life."
"And you would like to be a psyllium for me - to heal my heart with only one appearance. It doesn’t work like that, believe. It's better not to trust to people. Especially to men. If it in principle is possible to call you with such word."
"But who will follow for so self-confidently lost in pride's nets you with such of manners, except of totally offended and oppressed?"
"You'll be first, who will instantly rush after me, if I'll let even smallest permission and freedom."
"I've only presented my kindness, and you've already totally recorded my lost person in number of the henpecked ones."
"But, having abruptly denyed any leniency, it remains just to send you away. What a for do I need you? Just tell. You're suitable exclusively for being constantly used, deceived and fooled."
"It's quite simply and easily possible to deceive and perplex any kind and each format of person – no matter, will it be a clown or an enlightened brilliant professor. Or you. All depends on the type of each case."
"At what kind of weak chance are you hoping?"
"On rather daily, gray and usual, not even partially really connected with some true miracle or will of lucky stars."
"So you indeed rely on fortune? Are you mindless or what?"
"And you're afraid of coincidences, I see."
"What for is all this babbling? What for you've done such strange acquaintance?"
"For fully trifle little thing – an ordinary turning into couple. I even can't imagine something better."
"It means, with fantasy you also have a tragedy, that's funny. So much flawlessly aimless you are, so much vain."
"And you yourself is thinking you're from clouds? What kind of reputation have you chosen for yourself? No other thoughts, exactly such, that strictly no single one can be compared with your person. Without presence of observers any flag on the tower will be only a purposeless rag."
"And you are ardently desiring to turn in one of these devoted blessed observers. You're even zealously salivating. What an unstoppable mad nature. Incorrigible beggar. Well, explain what you want? Tell me more, I’m still patiently listening."
"I don’t have any super ambitions, don’t feed myself with excessively high expectations, all I really want - just modest union of two - without any of excesses and with no of mad riot of utopian plans, but with small tiny part of festivity."
"Tell more details and more particularities – what a for do you need this strange wishes? Do you want me to leave my address? Or should I generously spread my tender legs right here and now, having lost all my previous memory? What a kind of my craziness are you mindlessly counting on?"
"On acquaintance, just on simple acquaintance. Even if it so surely seems to be totally cunning. Well, give me your address."
"You are weird. Good for mocking."
The lady has politely breefly given flesh of small crumpled paper note with tightly scrabbled modest couple of overwhelmed with inner coldness short smooth lines: "I am Elena, if it has any actual matter. So, fill yourself with utter gladness. You have got it."
Anatoly Efimovich has quite silently squeezed tiny piece, then shaken it two or three aimless times, put in pocket and briefly reported: "I will come."
"And now it's time to go to work ..." - the hero has indifferently sighed and monotonously trudged up into distance along of gray and colorless embankment's width.

V
In boring grayness of tight gloomy and dusty warehouse, is quite tiredly standing Matvey Grigoryevich - fully out of breath, unbearably exhausted, wretched and worn, extremely waiting for the slowly but rather surely creeping ahead peaceful finish of work, so much highly appropriate and full of inspiration. In around are different boxes of all thinkable scales and dimensions, heavy bags and huge rolls, impregnated with resin. Daily routine, no joy in addition. With dirt, harsh dullness and long longing. Neither vague salvation nor indistinct dim hope. But soon it will be cherished moment of so enchantingly encouraging returning back to home.
The hero has looked at pale clock face and stretched.
"With all hard lifelessness of my unhappy flesh, I thank my watch for so much generous providing of such a bright, impeccably sweet moment. Incomparable time, most significant ever. It's right to meet it with applause. My relief is so surely limitless, that it's totally equal to getting in paradise, into bottomless, endless nirvana."
Matvey Grigoryevich has taken off his robe, then changed clothes and gone out to leading away from all terrible terrace, has exchanged two - three hundreds of meters. By sides are shabby, sadly mournful hazed quarters, bleak and gloomy, dispassionate, plain-looking and dissolved, with painful dark aesthetics of permanent and immense devastation and constantly unchangeable weak grayness. Sky's dome is gloomy, overcast and threateningly blackened, strongly hopeless and doomed, enveloped with cold depthness and not passing, persistently torturing apathy. All houses are shyly unpretentious and stunted – of one - two floors, not more, surroundings are insipid, landscapes are average and simple. Close streets are deserted and empty. Crooked windows are often with inappropriate inserts of plywood: even glass is a luxury. But what to do... So are realities of working beggar areas. Nothing pleasing, exalted or holy. Single darkness, perplexity, filthy language from here and there, global poverty, stray ragged dogs, tattered children and countless cripples, in all the voice aggressively and obstinately asking for some money. There are few rare taverns - with thick tart smoke, undressed low girls, voluptuous spirit of cute sinfulness and cheep surrogate alcohol. Entertainments are scanty - to drink, to fall in thickets of paid sex, to get sick or to beg and dilute boring calmness with fighting. That's whole spectrum of meager adventures. You also can quite freely hang yourself. By the way, quite appropriate action for these local wrong latitudes, but unexpectedly unpopular and commonly unwelcome. It is more usual to endure. To endure and to complain. Such things at here are into blood. Sometimes it’s greatly sad what this dead world is doing with a human. He can be fully humiliated, deceived, turned out into fool or totally dishonored. All this is not too difficult. And after all, such poor ones – wholly stupid, or empty, or broadly unprincipled, absurdly petty, ugly, full of envy and hatred – such ones are almost everywhere, all the crowd is so. They are already broken. It’s too late to save any of them. And there is no sorry to fallen. Lost heartless whore, covetously standing with long cigarette, impetuously trembling into hand, will never show your fidelity, sincerity or frankness, rude untalented philistin, filled with evil and flaws, will never find inside of soul any tender right things - neither breathlessly faint generosity, nor slightest purity, love or devotedness. Such people serve as animated garbage. As useless corpses, falsely endowed with spoiled attachment to the world. They are also alive, in spite of ugliness and endless sins and weaknesses. What's more, they are at every corner. Hard poverty is turning out souls is stones. Together with your wallet, your heart is also getting poor. This is fact. When you have nothing for to eat, you'll at first eat your dog, then your friend, wife and childs. These are instincts – rather harmful and pestilent matter. It can't be hastily crossed out or forgotten. This world is bad. It's awfully unsuitable for love. Or for honor. This world is nasty rotten bottom. The bottom from which one you even can’t be pushed away.
Matvey Grigoryevich has languidly sighed: "Life is inhospitable, lost, rectified from all true. One more beggar is waving with icon - is asking for some coins. This one without both of legs. He will not go to much far..."
The hero has looked inside of pocket and sadly spreaded both of hands: "Only absolute emptiness, no help for today."
The path has slowly continued. Half an hour later, the door has meekly shown own face. Room's depths are quiet, dense mass of air is unfresh. Mood's atmosphere is the same. Window's square is closed with defencelessly thin whitish curtain. At naked wall - small bleak floor lamp.
"What we're having right here... Nasty, ugly reality, but luckily and marvelously brightened by the precious memory of so saint and so pure immense feeling, by some great miracle experienced in past into blissful and priceless vast union, which is staying entirely fresh into thoughts. Anna Evgenievna, she was a kind of impeccably crystal obsession - sincere, hot, serene, sweethearted, incomparably deep and completely entirely mutual, exactly perfect, utterly majestic, divinely beautiful and unrestrainably tart and impetuous, strongly coveted, sacredly holy, unprecedentedly frank and reliable, exorbitantly delicate, alluring, sensitive and tender. As whole eternity embodied in each second. And now no future, no life. This is surely obvious. It will not fade, will not grow with own ashes, will not wither and die till the end of my being. It's so painful and tragic to know that, having touched the highest sky, you have to spend all the rest empty time on the earth. It's directly unbearable. This world is too spontaneous - all is appallingly chaotic: any happiness, any true meaning. Life is an abyss, a swamp's pit, a cursed killing death's wheel. All what's given is only to seek, to get confused by expectations, to believe and to grow up mistakes, to suffer day by day and only. Any chances are meager and rare. Life is hollow, hazy and aimless. Each possibility and hope is just a spark, just a blurred far sign. It happens accidentally – by luck. And all the previous essence, all the reality itself can get crossed out by one single indeed influential insight, by one single inverting life's following case, at ease dividing all your fate on terms of after and before. No future, that's so. No suitable choice. No of things can replace irreplaceable. There is no me, no holy devotion. No joy, no miracle. Only gray daily life. Endless routine. Ordinary mornings and trivial evenings. Sure hell. So enormously long, if you're healthy enough. No future, I know. It's not existing since her loss. And never will appear."
Matvey Grigoryevich has gritted his teeth and motionlessly frozen at the window's frame, then amply bursted into tears.
"The road is in firm deadlock, into darkness. Life is not somehow important, vain world is not essential, not valuable and not pleasant. Indifference in all. Indifference and total devastation in most absolute power's degree – in straightly strictly all-consuming, omnipotently mighty untamable way of own harmfully sad implementing. I'm not here anymore. I have died into there - where our saint inseparable union was ended and my lifelong dark loneliness was set on dreary hopeless start. All is fully burned out. All that was able to be flaming and to live has become just an ash. Deep damnation at me, impersonality and rue. No of future ahead. All that waits - only death. Death and sufferings. Pain. No of future."
The hero has fallen onto the bed and turned to wall: "To forget all myself, to forget and to meet next own finish. To meet own finish and dissolve. To dissolve like a smoke. Like a ghost. What for to live... For to annoy sky's heights and only."

VI
"Our living is short and by this so much pleasant – rather soon it will mix all my flesh and my mind with earth's soil, my torn heart will just sing, all existing is boundless plague, presented as a holiday, as feast, but nobody calls me to the table." - was muttering and whistling Anatoly Efimovich, returning from the theater's workroom: "The day is ended, work is finished, at now way to dear home. I’m so free, so clean and opened. For dirt and enslavement, accordingly. I'm free to do exactly all I want - to blossom or to wither, what is closer. Does it really matter..."
The hero has quickened his calm pace: "In the evening will come Matvey Grigorievich. I've left him duplicate of keys. And where is that paper. Where it is?"
Anatoly Efimovich has looked through of his pockets and carefully taken out gray greasy piece of faded sheet: "All is here. Yeniseiskay 12, apartment 6. Hopeful, nice... Now I'll make sure visit."
Yeniseiskay street was going at the farest suburbs, circumflexing with poor oneself the most worn, unattractive dark neighborhoods, wholly formed from of dusty old barracks. And indeed. All is hopelessly so. Gray and boring pale shadows are lonely hovering around, wet winds are dragging over land, single rare pedestrians are meekly crawling by road's sides. Nothing bright, nothing artful and great. All houses are frail and remarkably weary and shaky, all yards are faceless, worn and dirty, all landscapes are exactly the same, all colors are deplorable and dreary, all views are trivial and dim. Gloomy weather is cold and oppressive. All is low, all is rueful. The twelfth house has slowly appeared as a two-story yellowish building, typified and comparably old. Bent staircase is rid of any railing, frazzled shutters are broken, roof is also quite flabby - all in sorrowful unison. Door is massive and heavy, door's handle is of grayish bone. Instead of standard rug - a cat.
Anatoly Grigoryevich has knocked. After short humble silence, calm footsteps have got heard and quite soon disheveled and battered Elena Mikhailovna has looked out from darkness of tired apartment: "Who I'm seeing right here! Why are you, pretzel, so rapid? Like young ripe cherries. What a for have you come? Did your innocent soul still lowly wish to have a f*ck?"
"I have come by unsaid invitation - for tea or coffee in your walls. Or for hot conversation."
"I prefer to sip cognac. What lost sick manners are you having - to suck tea... Useless shit."
"Let’s try this strange absurdity at practice. Let's have own personal surrealism of meal."
"What a dreamer you awfully are. Okay, come in. Freak in feathers."
"I'm obeying..." - the hero has crept inside and soon found himself into middle of dim, rather spacious room with a large wooden bed and a little cupboard. At the head of the bed – a small table. On the table – a thin tablecloth, a bunch of withered flowers, a heap of colorful bright magazines, a few white napkins and a bottle of odorous oil. Dense warm air is spicy, even cloying, faint outlines are wavy-blurry, vague contours are smooth and amorphous, sweet atmosphere is frivolous. Elena has alluringly sat down onto edge of her bed and then piquantly spreaded own legs, cutely straightened her stockings and pointedly walked with skillful fingers up from each of knees: "What are you staring at? Is it really so joyful? Have you already fallen into pleasure or what? "
"I'm only quietly sitting at far distance, am observing your rich carnal values, so persistently shown to my eyes."
"Are you glad with such spying? Let's praise my hell. Deify me, flatter, squeal and lick with adulation. If you've so frantically wanted to be near."
"Why you've painted my role in so perishing colors. My modest meek participation is entirely sinless and shy."
"It's impossibly hard with your manners. Maybe so some of things will be going more interesting." - Elena has with graciousness got up and, having pulled her panties off, agily, playfully and smugly thrown this treasure in indifferent side of Anatoly Efimovich.
The latter has quite leisurely and calmly followed with own glance safely-landed wet trinket and remained wholly motionless.
"At least sniff for beginning, you should love such addictions."
"Like with cat, you are playing... What a fun is to fall into mockery, to abuse someone trustful, to come flooded with poisonous smirks and dishonesty, as if you're getting excited exclusively from lowness' taste and only, as if you are obsessed."
"What a lover you are. An immense tragedy, not human. You're inept, sickly stupid, wrong, lost."
"I'm fully ordinary, featureless and modest. I've only barely come in, but you've already sunk me into shame, in endless humiliations and reproaches. As if I'm damned, as if I'm leper."
"You say, you've only come in. So, linger for one half of hour. My boyfriend will come too, will smash your face in scraps and splinters. Such a fun will be certainly priceless."
Anatoly Efimovich has helplessly sighed and purposefully stared into void: "What a vile evil irony – so disturbingly cheap and so aimless, cruel, stupid and sad. Misfortune. What a lost kind of world, what a terrible fate – dirty swamp, darkness, rubbish. It's disgusting and painful to be, to maintain self alive."
"Why you've fallen in silence? My heartfelt conqueror of soul." - has sneeringly and confidently asked Elena Mikhailovna: "As if you've filled full mouth's scope with water, you've so quickly calmed down, as deadly shot. Why are you speechless? Should I open the door and let your ugly muzzle out?"
"Awkward meeting ..."
"But which one else can you perform? Don't annoy me, ill moron. Go away, while I let."
Anatoly Efimovich has indifferently risen, approached closed exit and, having lowered own eyes, in numb obedience proceeded to await for door's opening, then with lifelessness gone outside. Has calmly crawled downstairs, then taken one another couple of weak steps, slowed down,  then inconsolably sighed and exhaustedly cringed: "So crappy plot, so inexcusably disgusting. Each life is similar with night dreams: sometimes it's wished and full of sweet attractiveness, and sometimes – filled with coldness and sick tremor of fear. No escape from ill-fated reality, no salvation, no way."
The hero has added own speed, turned the corner and then restlessly stomped into distance through of broken old tract, with compassionate rich generosity thickly flooded with helplessly shivering, hastily fluttering foliage, damp and totally swollen from day slush and night tearful rains, inseparable from late autumn, so immodestly stayed till the very postponed beginning of upcoming unfortunate winter. Everywhere is tart limitless sadness, deep wide numbness and drowsy confusion. Above of colorless landscapes is hanging static faceless curtain of submissively weightless gray fog, enveloped deserted surroundings into randomly casual manner. All of lines and of contours are blurry, gently bordered up with thin featureless veil, empty spaces are softly oblivious, depressed and calm and also fully fully lonely, all views are unpretentious and boring, disorderly and freely scattered by the sides, pale, mourning, ruefully despondent and thickly closed in gloomy ring of uneven and faded shy shadows. Silent town is insensibly careless, independent and murky. Atmosphere is feeble and frail, tints are scanty and meager, all is trivial, hollow, vain. No of joy, no of minimal slight inspiration, no of feelings inside. Fully nothing.
Anatoly Efimovich has exchanged rare meters of quarter and quite imposingly gone home. Matvey Grigorievich is already in there - is making tea and waiting for the owner of the dwelling, so generously sheltered him in.
Appeared from the door Anatoly Efimovich is murky - unnaturally quiet, detached and fully lifeless.
"What kind of filth has caught your soul?" - predicting hopeless course of the recent events, has asked alarmed Matvey Grigoryevich: "As if you has returned from death."
"Worse... Worse, my friend." - the hero has complained: "Such a low and disgusting procession befell, more than fatal, it can't be verbally depicted, but I'll still try to start descriptiveness of case..."
After these blurred words, Anatoly Efimovich has begun his disappointing story of past sharply unpleasant low incident, so terribly egregious, blatant and flagrant, unacceptably vile, outrageous, painful and wretched. Having told all details and all aspects, the hero has with helplessness let sigh and involuntarily spreaded his frail hands: "All the story is said, experience of bitterness is immense."
"Such a context, of course, is entirely far from the being a gift, but theoretically tolerable too, offensive, harmful and insulting, but not over of measures, not over of last given edge of inner limits. And if you want my personal reaction, then I’ll inform you of nice fact, that you had been a little bit a Hercules today, all of own pettiness had hung this slutty mongrel on your shoulders. Was you bent under heaviness? Was you hunched? Was your weak spinal column sonorously cracked? On hundreds tiniest of splinters. If not – then nice. Forget this garbage, do not litter own soul. It has no janitors, by the way."
"But how to throw oneself in careless conditions – by one tension of will it's impossible. You can't remove all sediment from heart in one a moment."
"It's our weakness. Our inner lawlessness."
"I agree. This thing quite distinctly justifies so utter relevance and influence of Satanism: not the devil is strong, but each human is weak. Greatly weak. Weak and stupid, his essence is ridiculous and changeable. We go anywhere. Like a dog, and even with no help of leash, we stretch for every faint temptation. Or vice versa run away from fear's nets."
"Fully true. We're afraid to be dead, but aren't afraid to be entire hopeless fools. The last sick case is incomparably much worse. Much worse than all known plagues. Than any abysses and traps of current world. Believe, it's so."
"I believe with whole power of trust. We grab for mind exclusively in moments, when it's lost. It’s so familiar for us to cry and try to bite own elbows. We feed us mostly just with them, either getting with no of purpose amazed or shrilly weeping by same reason."
"Alas. Alas. Life's path doesn't guarantee you any final becoming smart holistic person, it also doesn't give you real gaining of due intelligence, deep skill or broad experience. And the most offensive painful thing is dark fact, that you easily able to become an extremely sick fool even being among of exclusively high mindful people. Any luck into essence is a degree of correctness and trueness of own interpretation of life's circumstances. Degree of favorableness of useful profitable coincidences and measure of kind pettiness of troubles. An amount of everyday miracle."
"Yes, degree of utopia. I've clearly understood you. It never will be really like that."
"But at the same identic time, nothing happens occasionally, no one thing in this world. We both are getting born and died, are both blooming and withering and are going to the heaven, as well as to the hell exactly not spontaneously. In such a way you can find your own person exclusively in place, that was assigned, nowhere else."
"These philosophies, of course, are greatly deep and highly smooth, but such ones are not taught to console you or warm... This world is bad, it's so stupid and empty. Our current extinction is working so good, that do it mostly automatically."
"So it is. Into sieve you can bring sedimentary thicket, but not water, not liquid part - our world can preserve all past progress, but not past greatness, not past heights. Into absence of true generosity, no education will give mind. Our present reality is already provided with all, but no goodness is seen, no prosperity. Adversity and absolute contention. And endless emptiness in souls."
"Being's emptiness forces to rush, to stay active. And ones are filling it with greatness, ones wrongly other - with dirt's mass. All depends on the person."
"Everywhere one filthiness. Even deep into heart."
"But which unique exclusive features does this saint sphere really include? The most harmless safe thing you can get from a woman is her bunch of venereal diseases. Despairing exitlessness, being here and there, is squeezing right from everywhere. And, what's more wrong, this harsh world's viciousness looks for us seducive. No one of acquainted with shame will get ever connected with pleasure. And do not trust to tricks of life's conditions. Great resources, as usual, are embodying in life the most awful and terrible goals. And don’t worry of others - all of people are equal, each one of them is made of shit, the only question is with which sort of additional flavor."
"But how to guess and to predict, where you will meet with fatal swamp and fade."
"Anywhere of here. And at any of days and of moments. Predictability is also nothing else than a kind of forerunner of errors: if your life has become understandable, then rather soon you'll stumble and get withered..."
"Quite consolable new, very calming... And most annoying awful thing is the fact, that all dirt and deception, in first turn, are invading all maximally pure and immaculate spheres and matters - trustful love, saint fidelity, crystal faith and deep empathy. They hurt you in most holy. It's utter sacrilege, that lasts all human times."
"It's new reality of being. Do not forget, that most unique and precious coins are getting counterfeited usually the first. Any primitive feelings and states don't need at all to be somehow substituted."
"All given ideals are blurred and indistinct, till sadness breakable, indefinite and faint – no strictly obvious right features, one endless vagueness and weakness of all we actually have."
"This is for safety. The more clear is the border, the less it's difficult to cross. But in general, try to be sober: placidity is poison of right spirit, true philanthropy does not choose sentimental positions. Stay more hard, otherwise you'll be crushed."
"This is fatally painful... You do not know what to wait for. Grace and adversity are mixed."
"It is equally easy to foresee both great achievements and great troubles. Especially if you are not a scientist or confident predictor, but just an ordinary idiot and only."
"I agree. But it's also not easy to become an exceptional idiot too. It already requires some professionalism. For idiots such quality is fraught with soon quick death. In where to find reliably firm justification? At least, partial one."
"Mental gold is also quite materialistic. Life is far not eternal, all goodness can be really embodied exclusively in limited short way. So, look and try. Not having fallen in attempts, you never will experience high matters. And don't afraid to overdo - life is surely cyclical: if you're faster than time, then this life will quite instantly put you again back to start. The more doubtful way you are having, the more tempting life's final you'll get. Just believe me."
"Where to catch any confident bliss? With help of what?"
"The brighter is your flame, the less smoke it produces. True stars don't soot. Look for correct and harmless phenomena. Fully useful and formative tools never have any features of damage. Just don’t be fooled by things as beauty: even worst of bacteria can look nice into microscope, but such ones inevitably cause awful lethal pandemics with many millions of lives. People argue and seek. They consider that beauty is complex, incomprehensibly vague and strange. But, as fact, it's quite simple and easy. True beauty is the highest example of inner perfection. It very rarely can live inside of soul. More often it's just physical and carnal. Beauty's prettiness can rather easily be densily combined with moral ugliness and dirt. Real beauty is miracle. But only if it's living into thoughts. Or deep inside of loving heart. Beware of beauty. And of pauses. Long standing near abyss inexorably causes quite insistent desire to step."
"I need to choose right way of thinking. Right ideology."
"Never do it, I beg. Each ideology has features of free creature - it enslaves you, captures and cripples. As fatal witchery. As grave."
"I have noticed myself, that consciousness is differing in dependence on thoughts. Sometimes you're getting great enlightenments, but sometimes - unforgivably stupid mistakes and eclipses."
"Each consciousness is similar with furniture: it's getting transported in disassembled state and only: from your one understanding till further, you are usually staying as fool. You also have huge scary risk, that you'll never be rightly assembled again."
"So many downtimes fate's route has, so many volumes of harsh emptiness and vainness..."
"Time tends to minimal intervals, it adheres to maximally possible compression, like matter of black hole. So, if you're having long delay, then earlier this adjourned event had been simply untimely."
"But how to come consoled with such a trouble."
"To be more mindful and attentive. If somebody will ask you to describe him a nail, you'll easily describe. But you'll forget to say of nail-head form. You'll be asked to continue your telling. And you'll cope. All is right, you’ve done well. But you haven't describe something else – the human head, in which one this damned nail has been hammered. You'll come instantly silent. You've missed the main. Don’t gravitate to objects nearby, develop force of mind and only. In most sweet and most interesting journeys we're going not by legs, please note."
"So, how to protect oneself..."
"At here we're having field of paradoxes. By the way, quite despicable territory. The more smart and more mindful is person, the more stupid and sorrowful share he has. This is fact. Exclusively reliable and confirmed. The only thing - not documented."
"I ought to be in sadness all the time."
"So it is. Protection is entirely unreal. Drive away all, who have any doubts. Remember, parasites are clinging to host organism, not to similar individuals. Nits get glued in first turn to the geniuses."
"It really turns out, that the highest degree of your love to your God is your hatred to people. This, by the way, is giving birth to question - can any hatred be for good."
"I agree. All is blurred. All we really have. You can distinguish enemy from comrade exclusively by color of his flag. We have no person for to love or to preserve. Oneself and nobody else."
"But, according to lies of statisticians, this world is constantly developing and growing. In exponential sharp way."
"Exponential things don't carry any drop of use, one inspiration. Their effectiveness stays close to zero."
"I at all do not want to survive. I vice versa tend to grave. In ugly world, best place is next to exit."
"This world is made of sinking and unsinkable. If you're afraid of something wrong, then this shit will quite surely happen."
"All around - just anger and envy."
"Remember, envy is harbinger of respect, it's quite natural type of perception of being by most of current human nits."
"Into midst of them all no one way to be saved, no one evident road to paradise."
"Each proper step can be made exclusively from correct right position. And our world is too much far from all of them."
"No understanding and no clearness of living. Of any of events and of world's path. And even of most primitive of aspects."
"It is not possible at all to understand and realize thoughts' course of madmen with mind's help. Especially, if you is one of them. It's enormously difficult to analyze any overly smart complex person, but it's even more difficult to analyze an excessively stupid one: too much primitive things have no of logically clear justification or of at least most inaccurate hazed explanation, such ones are totally irrational and pointless, incalculably stupid and exceedingly harmful, insignificant, vain and rid of slightest ones of chances of at least any use of own consequences. All of us are inside of this thick mental slurry."
"Where to get own identity?"
"Anywhere you want. Into ocean, each fish is a fish. Fish in aquarium is also the same fish. And even being into tin at the table of schoolboy, it still remains to be a fish. But, having got inside of soup, the last one promptly loses this past state. In such one it's not more than a corpse. From time to time perfection's presence does not require broad globality. It need one banal preservation. Preservation and minimal wealth. That is all."
"Mind and peace quite surely are mutually exclusive. And all of us are living in one life..."
"Life's road is really just one. But turns are personal, exclusive - as well as endings and gait's pace."
"That is trouble... And so strange meetings can be brought time from time by such turns."
"That's right. All devils are primarily flirtong with soul's fire. And wings are not a tail, to worst of sadnesses and sorrows - they never cope to grow up twice. Learn to travel through being. The road to happiness has no of distinct signs. So, be prepared for all sorts of paradoxes. The more simple is essence, the more dissimilarly last one gets perceived."
"Where to rush? And how terribly long?"
"If this life has not given you any reward, then your battle is still going on. So, keep trying."
"But any rush is leading into errors, into abyss and only."
"All this is by the reason of predominantly sensual perception. But it's also entirely justified: collect all feelings in together, and you'll get a holistic depiction of world, but collect all of thoughts in together, and you'll get total nonsense. Get used to flawfulness of humans, such one is deeply under skin."
"World is difficult, alas..."
"World is highly mosaic. Its whole harmonious and integral boundless picture stays solely on countless amount of small accidents, of invisible coincidences and remarkably wide bright absurdities. At first glance all it seems fully stupid and greatly ridiculous, but at attentively sent second, after tedious long observations, such a point of view is looking stunningly reliable. There are no of chances, no of true opportunities. For to get any real achievements you need to have some way, some path, appropriate for next implementations. Such paths are often twisted and confused. Fate does not tolerate straightforward boring movement. And all of wanderings are absolutely foggy – such ones don't give you any promises, any surely evident hopes. Only endless uncertainty. All life is nothing more than depressingly long expectation, inconsolable, blurred and vain. It contains only murk. Murk and our lost souls. Quite sad association, after all."
"World is sick, its strange tormenting path is fully dotted with thick chaos, with terrible impermanence of all. Current being is close to absurdity, it can be justified exclusively by rave, by deep delirium and utter imperfection. Reality is futile, wrong and ill. Its dark fate is unenviably miserable. All the people are empty, daily life is entirely primitive. It's a swamp, a dead field and an abyss. Dirty bottomless pit. Huge, exorbitant, painful and hurting. All you're able at here just to lose. From exalted and delicate things till exclusively harmful and senseless. All feasibility is ruefully utopian. World is fatally sick. Sick and wretched."
"Your thoughts are so much close to mine."
"In pessimism all people are the same. Explain me better, why each of lucks is getting given us by so infrequent portions? That we even can't feel its true taste."
"It is more prudent to catch any fish one by one - for not to break your fishing rod. All has some explanation. Even hardest delirium."
"So much easy it is to get lost and to fade."
"Jealous vanity doesn't accept any nudity of being's meaningfulness – it in every of possible ways is swaddling any reason into lie, into immense harsh pettiness. And do it instantly and firmly."
"What is writing lifeline?"
"One guile insidiousness and only. Life does not lure, it only waits for your mistakes. For to give you self-guilt in addition. Than you're turning not only in victim, but also in great idiot and fool."
"We are led by oppression..."
"Oppression, weakness and addictions. No of matter which ones - all of them are entirely equal, both religious, social, domestic or narcotic – anyway the same evil and misery."
"What a way to survive? Into immense vast world."
"World is huge, I agree, but it's filled with one fuss. So don't pay any real attention. Use all bad as a roadside, but not as road's width tself. Deny such nasty harmful matters. And if to say of happiness – it always works as thin spring ice: at the evening it's hard and you're easily walking by surface, but at next morning it will freely turn out in water."
"Inaccessible, unachievable is any inward or outer greatness. There is part of processes, which ones are not supposed to get own finish, there are such of paths, that never will be passed right till own end. Apparently, the road, which is going from monkey to human is also sadly just the same."
"Life is different, mixed and dissimilar, it can easily have any status and form, the only question is from what it to assemble. With each human all works right the same."
"And after all, after every of steps, even after most little and harmless, are firmly standing awful painful consequences. All this instantly kills your whole inner initiative."
"All consequences work as square of shadow - with proper lighting, such a thing can quite easily be disproportionately much more voluminous than the very initial object, that has dared to generate shadow's existence. Don't be afraid of any being's consequences. Be afraid of the evil ideas. Without them first ones aren't able to be born."
"No matter at all, how careful really you are. As no matter how much promptly you are rushing, anyway in each sent of life's ends you'll finally become an outcast and only..."
"This is totally logical. Into crooked special mirror, the most ugly will look normal person."
"Amazing depth of contemplation. You deftly notice each detail."
"Just such ones are requiring most great broad attentiveness. All great things either perish or collapse exclusively by action of the small ones - lost screw-nut, having suddenly fallen away, immediately scatter all of parts, been united before."
"Tell me else - what ennobles us, what fills with greatness? What exactly, explain. If such thing is existing at all."
"What ennobles each person? Love and loneliness. Love allows you to rise to the highest of peaks, and loneliness alienates from mediocrity and primitiveness. The bricks of your self-building can be laid in two ways – you can either expand the platitude of averageness, or erect endless tower of own individuality. And, please, remember one more thing - troubles never unite any souls on forever, sad such ones don't bring together on long time. Grief glues two people only on own period. Involuntary lashed to each other two dissimilar hearts will never mutually stick."
"You've convinced me, okay, there are no of rules. No of rules, no of evident norms. And no of trust to commonly accepted."
"Any norms are first step to extremes. Don’t forget."
"Is understanding possible today? Isn't such one exactly utopian?"
"Well, let's try... What to tell me to you, if to do it most fruitfully. Drive away those ones, who are saying, that they understand you and feel or ones, who're saying you are good, stay away from them all, any human society is a bunch of sick vices and flaws, they are not able either to respect or to love, if they've chosen you, then you'll quite soon sadly found yourself into role of a victim. Shy away from becoming a fool. Remember, gullibility and trustfulness are the hardest example of all vulnerability of human, so cunningly embodied and sculpted into our most sacred saint matters."
"It seems, we shouldn't look at all for any heroes or culprits..."
"You're right, exactly just like that. The game of fate from the very first start of own acting to the latest performers of play is purely and fully anonymous. And don't forget of being's guile: all life's tactics and tricks are mainly aimed at most frank and most worthy of people – the same fishnets are catching and capturing the most large and most weighty of fishes, which are not able to escape through of gaps of net's cells."
"Our present is wholly deplorable."
"The present is entirely deprived of any even partially tolerable barrier function. Separating your past from your future, it doesn't give indeed true safety to any single of these times. Every memory can be defiled, every future – come broken, plans - get spoiled. Neither things, which already are done, nor that things, which are only intended have reliably obtainable chances of long-living and firm preservation or unshakably strong fully endlessness well-being. All around has only unhappy involvement into totally stern omnipresent unlucky amorphousness, very vague and too unreliable, unsteady, blurred and chaotic – just that one, which, as fact, after all, is the only accessible form of imputed existence."
"If to look into essence, even greatest and highest of things and events are exclusively foggy and shaky and, in burdening poor addition, so much helplessly rightless and weak..."
"All of forms and dimensions of globalism, from only purely social to wholly universal, in modest practice of this world are not more complicated and extensive than the simplest and easiest minimalism. Exactly any immense scale, no weakest matter how huge it's and gigantic, can be with equal easiness quite instantly endowed with utterly detailed self-automation and with highest and strongest degree of own predictability and clearness, enslaved in frames of sure heavy constancy. This world, from nearest forest stones till most far of sky's countless galaxies, is uniformly straight and mathematical, entirely identical and utterly unvaried in structure. No even smallest difference at all, what a reference point you'll choose for own mental and soul development. Any truth can be only full, omnipresent, all-consuming and totally boundless. If you was born for to get mind, then neither place nor even time will ever be some weighty hindrance. Believe to sayings of lost me, all is quite able to become subordinated. Exactly all, with no exceptions. As well as everything is surely explainable and willful."
"I agree, life can't be justified by scales or highest planing, all its flaws and iniquities, all troubles, pains and deprivations can't be forgiven or forgotten, or crossed out and simply erased, all such things are extremely unreal – anywhere, into any of worlds, and even deep in most enchanting concepts. No general harmony is in power to heal local tragedies. Ascending to whole universe and timelessness, you anyway will never answer to most simple reproaches - why someone is unfortunate or ill, why low society had been formed from last morons and freaks, from worthless rotten nits and madmen and how to give an end to all this horror. If our world is relevant and pointful from every atom till each star, from the smallest of ants till the greatest of scientists, if it's totally correct and logical, then such a world would simply not exist, at least in so much nasty form. And if to say about mathematics, it was really funny and nice..."
"The behavior of any of crowds is solely determined by dispersion of chaos, enslaved it. Any complex huge systems are surely identical and uniform. Having lost your uniqueness, you automatically sell your poor soul to hopeless statistics. And the last one is equal. Both for cumbersome people and tiny molecules. And for miracles too."
"So heavy praises to statistics."
"Such ones are fully justified: the only law that functions everywhere is law of uniformness: any evil, as well as any kindness, are similar in own organization."
"If all of things are so simple and so explicit, then it sadly turns out, that only you yourself and your previous stupidity are truly guilty in fate's way."
"Saddest thing, all is clearly so. And any guilt is working, by the way, like a kind of cursed coat: it suits to any human shoulders, to any ones, except of your hopeless own."
"What circumstances to search for inspiration, where to look for such positive matter?"
"Any cases and circumstances are also stubbornly requiring to have enough experience and mind, a smart one will quite easily turn any rubbish in evident plus, but a fool... You need to be more prompt, more quick – no running horse will ever get in shackles."
"And sometimes we are really rushing, so generously spending all own strengths, but still stubbornly have no of movement..."
"Just here you can see all unhidden destructiveness of the labyrinths - you've diligently gone the same duration of your way, but you've progressed not more than just a little. If you are running on the spot, then your long-suffering, cursed figure aren't even partially dragging to own goals."
"And no of prospects, no of chances, no of hopes, even weak..."
"All visibility of prospects is totally determined by one thing – by distance from your current life's position to the bottom: if you've not risen even slightly, then any evident horizons will remain far away from observing ability, but if you've flown directly upwards, then you'll quite broadly contemplate all your path from own birth till the end of sent century. So, sometimes, even getting much closer to goals, we are losing their view, right as well as all previous faith in their true feasibility. And don't forget, that thread of fate can be torn at each moment, and even for one step from sure finish."
"I know all this. I know such hopeless knowledge."
Have got silent, calmed ruefully down. And the evening has only started to gain own slow movement. But no of doubts, rather soon will be already early start of murky midnight...

VII
The street is sorrowful and gloomy. The sky is filled with gray faint clouds. Into air is helplessly hanging cold and steadily lonely autumn drowsiness. Inside of quiet and sad landscapes is getting carelessly frozen indifferent and mournfully stiff shawl of impassably sticky despondency. The day is promising to be completely dreary, the weather – to be wearisome and lifeless, and the time - to be fully unhurried. No dynamics, no fun, no colorful shades. All is bound by harsh melancholy and boredom, widespread indifference and desperate oblivion. All is joyless and static. No wind, no people, no mood. Only vacuum – both deep inside and in around. One vacuum and bitterness. That's all.
Matvey Grigoryevich with calm and stenciled steps is going through of wide and vague street, occasionally looking at its sides and straightening old collar of own coat. At oblique chipped curbs is lonely heaping moist damp foliage. Near of fading horizon is meekly melting flabby tent of veil, sadly whitish and sullenly pensive. In undistinguishably faceless dormant houses are fearfully sparkling blurred windows, shyly closed with thin featureless shutters.
"The world is utterly unable to give miracle. Especially twice. This world is empty. Superfluously empty... And even vice versa - it's not empty, it's so immensely filled: filled with fuss and vain routine, with mediocrity and inferiority, mistakes and meanness, pettiness and fools. And right inside of this uglily filthy lost abyss all we have to rot till end of days..."
The hero has dejectedly sighed. The day traditionally doesn't shine with brightness and goes aimlessly, relaxedly and smoothly. At calendar is Saturday - free time for walks, dark thoughts and deep depression. No of worries, of goals and of plans. No of interests too. No of feelings. Rare thoughts are chaotic. There is only emptiness, grayness. Nothing more into meager addition.
About half of hour has passed by. Matvey Grigoryevich has looked in one of taverns, in inside is unbounded vastness, in unbridled and calm atmosphere are sitting utterly diverse and motley visitors. Under sooty and shabby gray ceiling, are huddling thick pale puffs of smoke. Snow-white tablecloths are imposingly flaunting on tables, so elegantly sparkling into liquid faint darkness. At each corner are granite flower pots. Behind of low wooden rack are scurrying youthful pretty waitresses. Into heavy dim windows are hazed vertical glasses. The leather-covered huge door is showing discreet small ornament. By free sides are volumetric statues. On one of walls is large Persian carpet.
The hero has promptly looked around, has chosen one of tables and stretched out: "So, let's take one more look... What do we have at such a place? Fussy clutter, turmoil. Attractive vicious environment - dense mask, that gracefully conceals white spots of disappointment. My scraps of soul are flying into abyss, and I have no of ways and chances to collect all them back, but I want to believe, to keep hope, to faith in miracle and luck. I wish to get exactly rid of any rubbish. Of unsettledness, emptiness, fear. Moreover, there are only two real kinds of own fears: the first one for next future,and the second - for finished lost past, for probability to give it's image up. About tiny current moment we don't care. We're thinking purely in advance. We're afraid to lose things, that we even don't have. Or to forget events, that never will become repeated. And time is just an avalanche. Incomparable, hungry and bottomless. It can't be somehow restrained. And the person in front of its power is not much stronger than sand's grain. Beliefs or weaknesses, or sharpened vectors of vain fashion are so easily taking away from own sanity and poisoning defenseless ghostly mind. All of attempts are temporary, blurred. After all, nothing holds us at heights so impressively good as clear memory of bottom. As nothing strengthen inner faith as firm as sure coincidences' viewing. Our God on his throne, in a fact, is still anyway workable due to last ones and only. This is utterly true. Even saint omnipotent life's contrast will not ever save our lost souls. We so easily blindly return own road's route to past troubles, we're so sadly and awfully ready to accept any miserable shit. We have no shade of generosity, of inner beauty, of mental correctness and spiritual blooming. Indeed exaltedly built person will harmlessly participate in orgies, in dismemberment, torturing and agony. But one inwardly fallen will even pray with endless filth, will save child's life with soul full of tart rot, will heal doomed leper with harsh pusillanimity. No things are absolutely good or absolutely bad. There are very different things - available, desired and compelled. So do not mix reality and dreams. Each dream is mirror of the soul. Set of plans and intentions is in highest degree reflecting truth of our humanity. You can be lying under bridge, but think about something perfect, but also can, becoming married, be sickly thinking of betrayal. There are no guarantees. No stability. Only hopeless swamp. Swamp and helpless lost souls into moving to bottom. That is all. This world is incorrigible and dead. You can't cure it, can't save. Only finish. Push away all the globe from its axis. It will be ideal decision. Even peerless."
Soon this mental excursion has been suddenly broken - an unknown pale-faced lovely woman with tender sunken cheeks, juicy lips, pleasant figure and mysterious splendid appearance has approached the hero and hesitantly started conversation, as long-awaited dear guest: "Are you also spending your evening? Such ones, as well as each of mornings, are never looking nice and good. You’ve also come to get distracted. Like me, not wanting to give up to own oblivion. Weak bonfire of soul requires to receive maintenance. Even death is much better than loneliness. If to belief, that seekers always find, it will be so fine to live."
"With own hopes to get warmed as with ice – the same volume of use. What to expect... Among of ones, who voluntarily has gone in hugs of traps, any searchings are wholly discredited, exactly blackened – from the very young start, but for to dare to extinguish own soul there are no sufficient strengths. The end of world has not been somehow announced exclusively officially, so, in fact, it already is going – just all-consumingly and strictly irreversibly. For true goodness and kindness at here there are both no sources and no points of sale. All you may – just to drown into routine and only. No sip of matter, in which way to combine unsettledness and losses, you'll never get any marvelous idyll. The world in own complexity is equal to molecule. Even time has lost weight till own skeleton too. What is true, what is aimful... Everywhere is only randomness. The universe has totally expired, has got rotten and rancid. What to say of ideas, of reliable of structures. All has already helplessly collapsed or will do it in matter of days. You can meet nothing really good, even wandering here all the century. No integrity, constancy, harmony – no. There is only swarming of troubles. The ones, we're strongly holding for."
"I'd like to choose pure randomness as helper."
"Such thing is surely unable be working, it’s too mindless idea to search entirely lost ones and to cling to their vain useless fates. And I myself is most damaged and broken – completely, irrevocably and fully."
"What kind of doom has happened with your destiny, if you are having neither light nor even grayness, only darkness and black endless murk..."
"I have collapsed, have got torn in small pieces. Since that sad time my star has been extinguished: without any living way, you have no need in guiding objects."
"Doomed, dismal ones don't have demands in talismans, I know."
"For funeral all music is just secondary, formal. If they will want, will bury you so deep, that no of moles will ever dig. And me myself have been already even sprinkled with thick soil. So, no variants at all. And if to start describtion of my pain, such one will meekly occupy multivolume memoirs, but if to say as brief as only possible, then I need to report just one thing, that I had very sweet mutuality – greatly bright and impeccably crystal, unbelievably deep and exalted, not especially long and not full of abundant amount of happiness, but so immensely valuable, flawless and holy, so startlingly exorbitant and strong, like the highest of any existing obsessions, like some blissfully tart heaven paradise, embodied in modest earthly being, like something after which there is only absolute emptiness..." - Matvey Grigorievich has got completely silent.
"Not every life is getting spent for good, I know, but you at least quite objectively had so much precious fact of this boundlessly priceless saint touch to own miracle, to the limits of heavenness, packed in lifetime inner paradise, where inside of your joint souls' alliance, right among of deep feeling of greatness, there is nothing extra, but happiness. Endless happiness, goodness and joy, creativity, mirth and sincerity, total frankness and love, that one, where every moment, every superfluously delightful common second are bringing only awesome harmony and bliss, where all of tones are written in white color, where vast expanse of affectionate, sweet gentle abyss is temptingly embracing two pure hearts and leaving them completely out of all reckless and purposeless rampage and lowness, from which one there is nothing to take, only dirt. Reality is only a tool. A tool of violence and meanness, dark arena for harsh humiliation, for despair and endless huge losses, for cult of faults and mental illness. It is not what you're wishing to get as perpetual permanent cradle, not what you may want to deliver to neighbor or friend. Such place is good for torments and decay, for all ugly and empty, for duplicity, anger and cynicism, not for life. It’s world's bottom. The one, below which's width is fully nothing. Hearts are languishing, feelings - devaluing, thoughts - becoming more shallowed, minds – promptly rotting. Nowhere to go. This is agony, murk. Everywhere, into any of places..." - the interlocutor has hopelessly extended.
"All we have is embraced by deep tragedy, all of souls are constrained by hard anguish... You are utterly right. Where are you from?"
"From life's void, just exactly as you..."
"What a great immense source – it had given fast birth both to world and to us, surprising productivity and speed. What has connected you with void? With bare doom and naked pain."
"My fate is similar with yours. Same forlornness and doom, same despair." - the stranger has forlornly sighed.
"This matter is familiar and known, till utter sufferings and horror. Into essence of life are thick darkness and thorns, gloom and sadness. Reality is bottom of all vile. We're unable to get second birth, so all we need to share fate we have. And what about your life's trouble? Describe own poor rueful plot."
"Just as heartfelt as yours, but without of parting, without loss of any partner. Just endless void and harsh loneliness as curse. And desire to find frank warm soul – close to mine, incorruptible, sinless and cherished. Simple dreams and not more. Extremely pure and fully honest, but so ridiculous and vain."
"I've been entirely the same. And then I still have truly found. Then have lost. And now am tormenting. That's all the story – unhappy, dark and wholly awful: at first you look, then get, then lose, then rot. That’s reality, horrible place. And you yourself still will breathe some short time, until your agony will also firmly come."
"To suffocate will be much prettier and better. As quick as only can turn possible."
"I will not strangle you, don't ask. I'd so like to be deaden myself – to step from window, as variant of exit. The only thing, it's narrow and low, not too spacious enough, as I see. I'm afraid to get stuck just at start."
"Let's drink tea... As a kind of salvation."
"But what a sense, if it's not poisoned?"
"At now even usual and simple shows single bitterness and only. So, will we order?"
"If you so much want, then just do it. I will not drive you out anyway, lost scalded creatures shouldn’t be offended."
Have called the waiter, made an order. The heroes have stared at each other, then slowly continued own talk.
"Where did your path get broken down? I'd like to hear it once again." - the hero has asked.
"It has never been broken, but always has been going just by side, not by road, tormenting, howling all the time. But my soul still was staying alive. Was calmly waiting for some hope. And now I'm here. Both fully stupid and unhappy. And wholly ownerless, as always. Worthless, vain."
"Someone has understatement, someone has total silence at all, we are all victims one way or another, one thing - in different degree. Small shreds of rare joys are unable to wrap you in happiness."
"Luck is utopian, I know. I only want to become truly needed. To find myself at someone's fire. Even if at already extinguished."
"This world is cold. It’s a sin to be warmed. All are lost. All are pointless. No one will protect you from abyss. Life is rotten and wrong, dark and dreary. And utterly disgusting, after all."
"Where can I join me to joy? In which abode..."
"Nobody will call, nobody will answer... So let’s go back to your ideals - what does your mean as highest treasure? Describe these vague blurred matters."
"Deep honesty and rightness, light of trust - most affectionate, true and mighty to reject all griefs. Are such things able to exist... Within mean framework of lost present. For me just this is the highest of miracles, the most priceless and great. I'm looking for sincerity, for unity of hearts, for similarity and peace. For harmony and tender intercourse between suffering souls."
"You're outlandish, you're unique - as a pearl in an abyss. It’s not easy for you to be here. You have to suffer and endure..."
"I can’t calm down without doing some attempts, without getting own involvment. It’s not for me, not for my temper."
"Such quality is useful, by the way, it is ruling this world. You have initiative. Amazing."
"The last one brings me no result."
"But it's able to warm for a moment."
"For a moment... Not more."
"Life is so... Vain and evil."
"And scanty into any place."
"All is so, you're right."
The conversation has continued own going, and closer to the end of second hour, the heroes have lazily begun to say goodbye. Into role of companion has turned out to be Marina Valerievna, shyly insisted on writing down her address and on sharing with own - into order to fall into silence more rarely and to be in together more often. They both have parted with each other with firm presence of strange sure sense of own immense affinity, equal warmth and profound response – the qualities, of course, utopian and blurred, but very great and totally exalted and even delicate in terms of satisfaction. Matvey Grigorievich has trudged self back to home, and Marina Valerievna has gone to wander by embankment - despair also need to walk, also calmly and even with ease. And then again to home too.
Again in emptiness, in void.

VIII
Overfilled with first snow-ness calm day of Anatoly Efimovich was going rather slowly and usual – with boringness and meek submission to own averageness, foreshadowing in next faint elongation neither miracles nor shocks or tragedies. The hero was routinely wandering around, examining pale neighborhoods and landscapes, so much eagerly blown by pacific fresh wind, like some sophisticated yog, habitually quiet and modestly detached from life's events. There was neither sadness, nor will, only muffled emotional mash of faint weakness and futile soaked dumbness, diligently enveloped and enslaved by familiar inner depression, successfully delivered most stable disappointment and sorrow. Time was crawling as well as a turtle, land pictures were unvaried and dim. Into distance - impassable grayness and faded featureless horizon. All outlines - indistinct, hazed and smooth, all expanses – entirely lonely, liquid air - enjoyably fresh. Anatoly Efimovich, with gladness having no hurry, is humbly trampling cooling soil and periodically looking by the sides. All the city is utterly sullen. Sad, abstracted and closed. Sky is rueful and immensely bottomless.
At simple architectural ensemble of three benches, the hero has noticed clung for attention vacant girl - mysteriously restless, brave and twisted. There were no of sure intentions to heed to voice of rationality, therefore the next step has been taken just forward.
"Good nice day..."
"For me it's neither good nor nice. What a for did you come? There is no damned one you can legally lean to?"
"Since which time is aggression so trendy? I just have greeted you and only."
"What source of optimism you're giving - shabby muzzle, disgusting and nasty. Are you a lover of own worthlessness? Such ones are popular at now."
"If to push everyone into dirt, then you'll remain among of ugly lepers. Your rejection is stupidly harmful. Why are you so? What just for?"
"For not to be surrounded by brainless fools as you, for not to spoil own life and to make it protected from idiots."
"But if to say of normal personalities, do you think all such ones are already unreal?"
"You certainly is far from such a type. Any moron like you even just partially never will be named with so unique and rare term."
"And you yourself is just a goddess, an absolute pure gift?"
"For to get sure, that you're stupid, there is no need to obtain with three heads. Having started to tell total rubbish, you'll never say me something wise."
"Then what from your supreme positions, so much critical ones, is important in life, what serves as main and dominant world's purpose?"
"Am I your personal enlightener or what? Do not spoil my mind! I have told you - get off. I don’t intend to speak with you, that's all. Leave me now and go away. Your person is uninteresting, sick."
"Am I not suitable, you're thinking..."
"Stomp away, drive you out right now. Or you're entirely a fool and still have plans?"
Anatoly Efimovich has drearyly cringed and, having sadly waved his hand, turned and walked into distance.
"What's wrong with current actuality... Any meeting is small inner tragedy. Either I’m so poor, or this world has already gone crazy... Utter trouble in any of days. She has emptied me even worse than devil."
The hero has assuredly rejected ill idea of next seeking walking and frantically started own way back: again to own apartment's door - the best curtain from world. And the only place you can get truly hidden.

IX
In nondescript, slightly crowded interior of Matvey Grigoryevich, are calmly sitting two quiet persons - the hero himself and haphazardly added Marina Valeryevna, very shyly and timidly glanced to his cradle. Their fully cautious, quiet speech, insinuatingly embedded in tuneful, pensive melancholy, meekly spreaded by gloomy and doleful room with a languid and malleable cover is inassertively proceeding to go on. Peaceful time of warm unity is staying sweet and tartly tender. Behind of humid trembling folds of thin watery curtains is glowing breathless, faceless city, bleak and gray and not rainbow-colored, dissolved in dense oblivion and rue. In translucent hazed square of window are gradually shivering wet branches, old, angular and frozen under ice.
"All the fate by itself - one never-ending wanderings and searchings, woeful way through of torments in role of hopeless pilgrims. We slowly grave ourselves. It can't continue for too long. Why all is so and what for..."
"What a for is this world? Who will answer... Its construction is greatly impractical, meaningless - involved in deep absurdity with every own detail. But we still live, not too bright and too rich, not too colorful, but definitely live. Our path is unsteady and stupid, but some people still tell us to value its road, especially those ones who are religious."
"They are even more low and disgusting. Even worse than devil and sinners. Not inside of religion is holiness, not in vain ceremonies and rites."
"I agree with all mind. So, what is life – one demon on the same another and with devil in pair. Any single of faces is muzzle, any heart – garbage can. All salvation in staying in noose - the last escape from any cases."
"If it will be in need – we will do, will squeeze lost necks in such embraces. It's not too difficult, as fact. Anyway, for survival no reasons."
"I agree, staying here is pure torment. All what's given – just absolute apathy, in any hypostasis of vain earth, all is petty and perished, fussy, fruitless and low – that is all."
"This feeling doesn’t let my person too. I see this world as some caricature, as ugly mockery, as global room of fear, as torture, dreary nasty swamp, hateful bottom and hell. Any people deserve only contempt. Any road – rejection and pain. Any thoughts - sharpen fear. All I want – just most prompt self-destruction. I'm so tired of endless enduring. I'm so sick of this vicious shit!"
"Here, for every life's hour, we have to get free full glasses of milk – as compensation for world's harm."
"I am afraid even broad milky sea will never make my lost soul cured. It's so much difficult and hard even simply to come free of thoughts, and to refresh own mind or feelings is unreal at all."
"All the soul is burned out and transformed into dust."
"All the consciousness too."
"And all fate."
"And all fate..."
Have turned silent. Lonely glances have stopped, then got crossed.
Silence. Silence. All the fate lies ahead. All the fate, all life-road. Inconsolable, rueful and empty. Just purest tragedy and only.


X
As we know, state of mood after firm disappointment, especially if such one was repeated, is not too optimistic and inspired. That is why Anatoly Efimovich was also at one dreary time both mentally and sensually empty, extremely apathetic and depressed, sitting purely motionless and with best lifelessness of spiritless wax figure forlornly looking at landscape into foggy pale window. Outside is just coldness and longing: vast deserted surroundings and dwellings, painstakingly enveloped and enclosed with opaque thick veil of whitish-gray reflective mist. Everywhere is just one stern dead desolation, numb shrouding by minor melancholy and all-consuming senseless disappointment. Along of lowlands and corners are loppy flocks of shapeless shadows, monumentally clothed into viscous silence and scattered in random pointless way. At careless and modest faint horizon, are heavy silhouettes of languid tasteless views. In humble sky - restrained vain clouds.
"Here we are." - has sighed the hero with sadness: "She has mixed me with shit. Almost so... The most main thing is not to get surrendered - not to be like all others: completely humiliated and harshly humiliating. The main thing is to stay outside, to stand as far from life as given. What’s weighty here... What we really have... Just emptiness and dirt, endless fuss and stopless averageness, deep mediocrity and sins. They don’t live, they mostly only exist, they all are deadly forced and wretched. Reality is ruled by widespread ordinariness – low routine vanity and primitively simple daily flurry. What purposes it's for... People are nothing more than an expendable material, cannon fodder - petty, stupid and sick, angry, useless and hollow. Are they able to be somehow suitable? The whole world can be easily built exclusively for simple combination of two souls, sincere, frank and fully loving, for two high ideals, estranged from stupid crowds, from incurable humans and universe. Any people are futile consumables. And all of them are utterly afraid, that at one poor day will be sudden huge shortage and they all will be hurriedly sacrificed. Truly valuable great and unique personalities are never getting written off, they are staying preserved from above. And they have no troubles, no coincidences. At least, as long as they are needless. Identity is cloudy and strange. The more weighty you are, the less support you're getting from around. Relations with each miracle are basically freaky and exotic, incredibly fragile and unforeseeable. They are so simple to be broken and destroyed and so unreal to be rescued and repaired. And even having surely corrected all of obvious flaws, you'll inevitably get stuck at many others – less sharpened and remarkable at first. You can't get rid of all mistakes, can't eradicate them on forever. This determines their absolute permanence. But at the same dejected moment slick and marvelous fate fulfills own brilliant ideas with so astonishing huge speed and awesome accuracy, so much easily bringing together or similarly scattering apart, getting steadiest chance to survive and rise up or vice versa promptly turning into dust. After all, it should have some clear aim. Not only people take own risks, life also gets great mindless risk by making bets on our being and building vague expectations and vain hopes. Our clerical office of heaven is similarly staying onto edge. All of powers are equally weak. Such ones are omnipotent very rare. It's so easy for them to cut off any process, but not to sculpt and to create. Kindness does not develop and blossom on ugly rotten soil of modernity, only fades and dissolves, disappears from of souls and minds, from heart searchings and ventures. What remains... Only emptiness, grayness and flaws, abundant sins and their owners. Reality is deep and nasty swamp. Total bottom and hell. Exactly miserable and crooked. What to do... Just to live, to endure. As well as stupid purposeless ancestors and hopeless, meaningless descendants, what's more sad. In around is wretchedness, hell. Hell on earth. For all who are indeed alive. Just purest punishment. Not less."
The hero has sorrowfully sighed, reluctantly got up and, having slowly gathered, gone out.
Outside is profuse lavish snow. In monotonous and tired empty street, enshrouded up in darkness and harsh coldness, are quite peacefully swarming swift, fussy pedestrians. Dark mournful area is staying quiet and gray. Into distance are patiently yearning in haze faint and vague landscapes, calm and gloomy. Deep agony and apathy, depression and irrepressible strong pain are everywhere. As well as sadness and thick murk.
Anatoly Efimovich has slowly turned to local public room for dinner – location, very poor and unfixably smelly and vivid.
In rather spacious and long unlightened room, are standing three firm dozens of broad tables in pairs with heavy oak benches. No tablecloths, no trays - nothing useless at all. At far end of the hall there is sharing point - small semicircular food's window with pocky face of fat and reddish cook. At here, for couple of voiced coins, you can easily get rightful bowl of nasty viscid tasteless soup - thick and fragrant. There are also bread and soft crackers. Even pies as a present - with liver or potatoes. On weekends are pancakes. In addition is tea – quite bitter and disgusting, but carefully mixed and so perfectly black. Most often people are just swearing and gladly beating own faces. But they do it with part of intelligence - with kind of beauty and of grace. In some aristocratic, proud way. Great feelings grow from low ones, fact.
Anatoly Efimovich is estranged, entirely upset and absolutely dismal and indifferent.
"Give me portion of soup." - he has angrily muttered and strictly stared at the cook, hatched out from of narrow window.
"So, what exactly do you need? Am I a shaman for to guess."
"Since when we've started to obtain once with several breeds of so precious slops?"
"We're expanding one-selves, we are growing. Assortment and service, as you see. In best of European manners."
"And what varieties do we have?"
"Two sure ones - with peas and beetroot. You can even take out some coin and gladly flip it for to choose."
"I will prefer to throw it in your face. Give me one, that's with peas. And a pie, that's with liver. To the pie pour me tea."
The cook has started ringing with tin dishes.
"Take the money, as gift. I've put in there one extra coin – save the last one for difficult day." - has extended Anatoly Efimovich, then impassively taken the order and unhurriedly gone to free seat.
Still having occupied own legitimate half of modest meter of the table, the hero has extended tired legs and clung to tempting plate. The brew is truly great and noble. Both viscous and hot. Pure beauty. Belly's joy.
Atmosphere is normally fussy, nimbly prompt and inspiringly vivid, motley crowd is simple and low, time is lazy and languid. All is usual. Sure rest, even pleasure.
Soon, after several of moments, some unfamiliar tall lady with brightly pinkish poppy face and an average length of own hair has approached one of nearby benches. For view of inexperienced eyeballs she was seeming to be about four of decades old. Excited by apparent inner gap, the lady has quite boldly and intentionally crept up to one of visitors and then sat down on his knees: "Pick me up, lovely stranger. I'm charming. I'll console all your flame. All your pains and all sorrows."
"Get out, witch! Or I'll smash all your muzzle right now."
The woman has got up and promptly moved to other vacant knees: "Be a gentleman, please, don't leave me in oblivion and sadness."
"What a filthy and low lamentation... It’s time to go just away." - Anatoly Efimovich has taken rest small part of pie, grasped in palm and then firmly trudged out.
"So miserable act... The one is full Gertrude of own flesh and the other is moron and nit, moral freak and dump scoundrel. And all of this is public, is for show. Pure nightmare itself. I was lucky with previous times – at least, I've been offended one-on-one. Such abundance of love is also not for good. Rotted matter, lost humans."
The hero has humbly looked around and finished taken pie: "Now I'm free to go home. From global ugliness away."

XI
On caressed by free fussily swift blizzards street, there is far not crowded. All of colors are meekly dissolved into silence, shades are simple and calm. Light frosty wind is fresh and friendly. With great diligence crumpled snow is still neat and entirely white. Thinned blurred sky with grayish liquid clouds is wrapped by dimmish tender shawl of unpretentious dense haze. Habitually hopeless dark surroundings, completely grasped with all-consuming long faint veil, are carefreely motionless and thoughtful.
Matvey Grigorievich and Marina Valerievna are leisurely and shyly going up – through alienated, peaceful park. Atmosphere is weak and relaxed, conversation is quiet, mood is usual. In both of souls, as well as at street's width, is languid permanent depression.
"What our life is going for, I once again am thinking of this matter." - Marina Valerievna has sighed: "After all, you get warmed just in such rare meetings and only. You come to life exclusively by case, from time to time and very briefly."
"All should have certain evident sense, explanation and reason. But I hardly believe into such ones. Especially in good. World's pier is cruel and dejected, indifferently cynical and vain. Such one is not not accustomed to stability, to any logic or high aims. It's not addicted to such things. Any smart sober person very fervently wants to get out of here. In any shelter and location. But we live, live at here..."
"It has own way by will of trouble, as well as many other things - from people's meetings to world wars. We all are pets of hopelessness and sorrow. There are no prospects, no clear opportunities. Degree of fortuity and freedom are not close - in truly probabilistic system there are no rules and no meanings. Any people’s decisions get made exclusively by fate. Our total worldview is just a simple sediment of way, of ideas inspired by living, it's inexcusably subjective and too useless. We can only to wait and to guess, to go through dim and ghostly road, to wonder and to make mistakes."
"Fate's manners are unbearably disgusting. But I secretly want to believe..."
"We're going into abyss, you and I. You - by one track, and I - by neighboring, entirely the same. Don't dream, for us it's fully wrong. Clothes of fate are not tight, but it’s not easy to get speedily undressed. You can't reject what is prescribed."
"I agree. Any hope is too vague, any chance, any glow. And it's not clear what you have – a long-awaited brightened exit or simple lightened deadlock."
"All good is just an unexplored part of bad. All is poisonous, crooked."
"We all are too much optimistic. Any human is so, no of matter how hard he'll be punished, even moved onto guillotine, deaden, anyway till the moment his head will hit down at floor, he'll have no shadow of believe in own end."
"I completely agree. Too seductive are hopes. There are two of most heavy of troubles - trust and passion for mercy. Any kindness is just self-destruction and only - the most effective and most painful of its ways."
"Yes, I know. There is no of faith to world's play. To its roads and their circumstances. All is fatal - from magic to science. Ones, who've saved you today, tomorrow will identically trample."
"So it is. Deep tragedy has place at each of roads. There is no detachment from such one. Nowhere. And even in paradise."
"There's nothing for hope, no one reason."
"Any hope is wild running - either timidly rescuing or harshly attacking, from something terrible and wrong, or to something desired and precious, each hope is just a kind of compensation - for internal deep discomfort, it's adaptive and vain."
"True hopelessness is really more romantic. The thicker is the gloom, the brighter are the stars."
"You are surrealist. That's nice."
"All natural is rid of any shame, dreams too..."
They have exchanged with short shy glances. Meek voyage has continued to prolong.

XII
The road from work is average and stingy, although also so sacred and warm. Anatoly Efimovich is calmly going by its route - without will or firm participation, meekly glancing around and unhurriedly breathing with cold, condensed air. Lifeless quarters are creeping along, rare carts are with coy passive pace sliding by, unremarkable faceless pedestrians are vainly flashing one by one. All is filled with oblivion, thoughtfulness, grief. Daily routine is gray and indifferent. Pale familiar frames of surroundings are both unhappy, numb and faded. No mood. No plans. One despondency.
"I have to go to bazaar..." - the hero has advised oneself and, having promptly outlined the shortest route, has gone in needed plain direction. And once again one emptiness and dullness, impersonality and murk.
The bazaar is not crowded. All ones of counters are scarce. All ones of visitors are smooth. Tired workers are slow.
"Cabbage looks as at burial." - has inwardly concluded Anatoly Efimovich: "Clean and neat, but entirely tasteless and withered. It will not climb in mouth even forcibly. Potatoes are the same."
Soon the hero was called by the stranger.
"Tell me, where is the exit?" - some unfamiliar, plump woman, pale-faced and pitifully tired, has looked inside his eyes in waiting for relief.
"I have to be at now more suspicious." - has decided Anatoly Efimovich and held out in cold hopeless voice: "Right there - behind of last thick columns. If you so want – I'll see you off."
"If it’s not difficult for you."
"Then let's go."
"Okay." - the lady has agreeably smiled and wandered ahead for Anatoly Efimovich.
"So, here it is - the talisman of freedom, broad way out – the one you have been asking for."
"You are so helpful, so humane."
"You're also great possessor of humanity. Of tenderness and kindness in inside."
"You confuse me..."
"Not on purpose, believe."
"I'm shying anyway." - the woman has got silent and timidly extended: "It's apparently joyful with you..."
"Are you also alone?" - has asked Anatoly Efimovich.
"Yes, alone..."
"I’ll buy some useless things and will come back. If you want, you may wait."
"Yes, I will."
The hero has returned to poor grocery and, after couple of short minutes, has been standing at previous place with gastronomy-filled huge bag.
"Have you already got equipped?"
"All is like that, and even slightly more than needed. So, let's start own way?"
"Just with pleasure."
They've joined hands and stridden step by step. Peaceful road is calm, tender dialogue is gentle, thoughts are mutual, warm. Soon they've reached local square. The lady has got gladly introduced as Elizaveta Kirillovna. She has asked Anatoly Efimovich for his address and promised to gift visit, if it'll be possible to manage with own shyness. The silhouettes has parted. The hero has sighed and suddenly has felt an unforeseen unknown inspiration.
"You are so awesome, earthly routes." - Anatoly Efimovich has sighed again and sadly glanced at own watch: "And again back to home..."
Yes, again.

XIII
Behind of low window's pane is slowly going snowy evening. Matvey Grigoryevich is sitting with Anatoly Efimovich in mutual meek spending of free time. They are brewing cheap tea and quietly making peaceful conversation. Atmosphere is friendly and hospitable, words are easy, vivid dialogues are deft. All the talks are devoted to being.
"Look around. Just look and get feared. This world is wretched, it's elementarily miserable and fruitless, irrevocably pointless and lost, vain, ridiculous, mindless. It's hollowed and destroyed not just in cover, not only in external part, but also straightly in inside – ideologically, deeply. It's distorted and rotten, disgraced, its life is utterly inglorious and meager, oppressed and useless, aimless, dead."
"And what's worse, this absolute tyranny is so much powerful and so authoritative over our living." - has remarked Anatoly Efimovich: "Life is wheel, huge and stopless, and all of people are too small, too much faint in its shackles and fetters. And there is nothing for to do with this poisonous matter..."
"To endure and only, to tolerate all time. And we've got masterfully used to this sad process, got totally adapted to such way. Human brain is enormously patient to madness: so stiff insanity is playing in around, but only few of us get crazy."
"Very funny statistics, I see. Even rather impressive. But it doesn't deny global hopelessness."
"So it is. We are dying. Humanity can calmly be protected from any awful thing but not of wrong, pernicious itself. Our finish is not so far."
"Our fate is quite pitiful, wretched. Human's role is entirely modest. Any human is working as dog: within of leash it will tear you in pieces, and if somehow more far it'll just helplessly bark and not more. We burst with all of might, but anyway still stay with no presence of results. With such trends we'll have no survival."
"Such one is not so necessary here... All of things our world does with us, it first of all is doing with oneself. But it's indifferent to any further future: it can with equal easiness and calmness both develop and die, fly and crumble apart, wilt and blossom. There are only coldness and dogmatism. Endless shackles and traps."
"No dogmatism is surely straightforward, its moving cannot be controled, all depends first of all on your subjective, inner reaction, on personal experience and views and on reached measure of mind's wareness and nature's goals and values — on individually formed details and aspects of views, responses, skills and strives."
"I agree, role of mind is directly exorbitant, but single understanding is also not enough for real happiness. Sweet idea of chaos' submission to thoughts is enormously wished, but equally utopian and empty."
"This, perhaps, is for something better: chaotic processes don't need in any supervisory high organs, their stability is incomparably more firm than any others. We haven't arguments for mind. The last one usually just hurts. And not a swamp itself is harmful, but its blurred coastline. So, out of weakness, no confusion is dangerous here. We have to fight and to endure, not to look at the scale of world's madness, we should be able to resist and contradict."
"This is true, but contacting with abyss and only, you can’t grow up idea of eternity. Such a foundation gives just devastation."
"I agree, outside of own positive sure experience, desirability of negative decisions is almost undefeatably alluring. In order not to suffocate, you have at first to come refilled with air. In order to survive own humiliation, you must preserve some former memory of good, of past experience of greatness. Any harm and perniciousness, which are perceived by someone after glory, will be endured much more smoothly than initial lowness and meanness, where you are having no pristine breath of air, so madly helpful into time without oxygen. In current time, to be equipped with priceless skill of informational protection is much more needed than to eat. Dirt and grief are at every of steps. If not to blossom, they will crash you."
"Fresh sharpened memory of beauty protects much better than any one of most protective guarding dogs. But no of difference and matter how you're hidden, as no of matter how much ardently and fully you are relying on past flight, you can't get rid of sudden painful longing, can't get holistic rescuing peace."
"The taste of pain and humiliations is too fatal - each one, who has been living as a victim for long time, if it will not be stopped, will one a day turn even worse than own tyrant. This is firm sure fact."
"All the world is not more than a swamp. And such strange puzzling similarity of fools, as a harmful and painful result, is gradually building hopeless line of glodal vanity and madness."
"And what's more tragic that this abyss quite strongly forms new daily life - environment on which depends all fate, all prospects, chances and all future. And what you'll do – meekly drown or float: in mercurial bath it's not easy to sink, right as well as to take long firm swim into helium."
"Then tell me, how not to die, not to get disappeared and lost... What principles and postulates to follow?"
"Take as a rule one single simple thing: the concept of tap dance - even if you have taken step back - by kind of poor chance or force, then right instantly do two steps forward, correcting past positions you have lost. Don't be afraid of losses or omissions: eclipse does not diminish star itself, it only limits visibility. Do not trust either feelings or thoughts. Empiricism is utterly unstable."
"I agree, it's primarily needed to protect your own head – in first turn from wrong thoughts and decisions. The worst thing, that can be with each person, is own falling in mental obsession, which one can be determined only by idea: both devil, god and harsh cold nihilism in essence are nothing else than just simple ideas – no matter primitive and small or deep, voluminous and prudent, but anyway so powerful and risky. Do not stop taking care of head – of mental part, not of purposeless hairy. Sane mindful person, straight and sober, even being with crashed broken cranium is dying as a smart and worthy, but person blurred and deceived by vile duplicity and hoax will stay as fool with any safe and pristine skull."
"We impose all these terrible fetters by will, voluntarily. We so much love such mental traps. Seeming volume of room is totally determined by interior, not by obvious size, as well as human vague mind is constantly determined by experience. And the last one is correct not often."
"I agree once again – true fool will easily astray without any forest. But world is too insidious and tricky. The deeper is life's swamp, the more harmless it looks. All of dangerous spheres seem entirely safe."
"Here functions our mental imperfection, our lack of free promptness and readiness for any complex, difficult solutions: any multidimensional spheres and shades are nothing more than simple combination of usual components and tones, which aren' so unpredictable for guessing. This truth is rather understandable. But almost never opened for perceiving."
"Then what helps to be smart? In dense surrounding of fools."
"Experience of previous life-way. Such one like kind of priceless sieve divides all things on useful and on harmful, on right and bad, on purposeful and windy, on eternal and firm and on breakable, faint and short-living, experience is excellent barrier between amentia and genius subtext. Experience is absolute great gift, pure insight and huge treasure. But this world is so bad, that even pricelessly saint last one is often fully powerless and needless."
"We're waiting for predictable clear spices. Cynicism, hypocrisy and dirt, which are flavored with mercy, compassion and ruth, are making you entirely confused. As fact, duplicity at all is not a human feature. It's too bemusing, too much puzzling. This poisonous and mean characteristic in first turn is belonging to devil, it is not natural for humans. It always leads us to deadlock. Such one contains some volume of duality, some internal pernicious splitting, traditionally hidden under mask. Any cunning intention at all is principally kind of mental illness, which one in contradistinction to all other equivalent psychic diagnoses brings you pragmatic benefits and profit."
"You are right, so it is. We're not accustomed to perception of harsh contrast. All excessively bright is at once overshadowing everything gray. Being blinded by any of feelings, you're unable to see even abruptly objective, simple events. We are so much used to dividing whole world in true friends and true foes. Parents, wife, mates and fellows are ours, and strangers, foreigners and beggars – they are alien. But what do really we have? Which certain guarantees and proofs? Yours is only you. You yourself. All the others are strangers. Both parents, children, husbands, wives, any relatives, anyone. Even God. You will read your night praying not properly, and tomorrow morning your saint God will quite easily cripple your body. No one will provide you with help, no of creatures."
"As for me, the most progressive of all people are astronomers: they are looking for life outside of the lost solar system. Apparently, they've sadly realized, that on ours cursed earth all is hopelessly useless."
"What this life mainly is? What does its matter really keep? All your way, all your movement to aims, expectations and prospects is going solely by fortune: all being is a kind of ride on train, where you don't know time of final station. Your train is staying too much long and you're already firmly thinking, that it’s time to go out, that it’s really yours. But life's train starts own moving again and drags you forward to new heights and new achievements. But sometimes it just stops and doesn’t ride to anywhere. Is it really yours? Is it indeed that cherished stantion? And what's more, time from time trains get broken. Life's modest locomotive too. Such one identically has unflashy limits. Not everyone will reach all expectations."
"Once again we return all the thoughts to experience. To its use into struggle with hopelessness. We get determined mainly by the heights, by warming limits of achieved. Not by anything else. Each person, who has never been looking at God, as rule, will idolize some stones. The best cure from own pettiness is your acquaintance with alternative. Young and unpracticed can be quite easily attached to any sheep. But exalted and competent one will hardly get in such enslavement."
"All you're telling is correct and right. It's also clearly explaining inner essence of any of fears. Any fear is lack of firm faith into better. Faith in better. In better and only, not in other vain things, not in any amorphous "God", "fate" or "truth". There's absolute bottomless goodness, an unlimited, boundless one – right incomparable with any other idylls, with any ideals and dreams. And just in this embodiment of miracle we so much ardently desire to believe."
"I also surely believe in something else - in principle of magnetism of objects: put all iron away from detail and the last one will never be pulled to the magnet, put all bad and all filthy away of yourself, and no adventures, traps or demons will seduce you and lure into poisonous nets."
"So it is, all I can – just to say, that I fully agree. There is no significant difference between of influence of darkness and of light. Nothing happens for free - neither God nor the devil provide us with their services for no aim and no reason. We are having no gratuitous purposes, the only thing that some of them are wrecking, and some are filled with sense and use. That's all."
"I deeply understand each single word. Inside of  world, where society is only a herd, there are only two human roles: the role of sheep and the role of its herder. And whom you'll be in hugs of future – a harsh and merciless oppressor or a helpless and soft feeble victim - depends on inward shape of soul."
"It’s rather hard to change such roles. Having passed through of sadness and stupid conditions at even shortest period of life, you'll get unreal immense hardships with returning in state of smart person, even doing with confident ease most great and brilliant inventions and discoveries."
"Here we are led by fog and doubts. But what the last ones are in essence? Total rubbish, not more. Any doubt is case, where vile lie, using helpless forgetting of sanity, tries to commit impingement at mind. Any doubt is absolute poison. That one which we're accepting from this life quite voluntarily and freely."
"You forget of strong lack of sane minds and firm meanings."
"Any meaning is utterly vague and weak, such one is shyly serving as the highest degree of the life's structurality, it can't be shown by method of amount - a large and wordy mindful text, exactly genius and awesome, but with wrong shifted order of the letters will be totally equal in volume, but absolutely useless in own logic. Any meaning is only a form. Incredibly fragile and awfully short-living."
"I agree. Once again I agree. And after all, the most comical thing is that even if our reality is calmly separated from grotesque by most bottomless abyss, from poor us to fatal edge of this vast gap is just one tiny step."
"I'm sincerely sure, that if our lost universe is still accessible for kind of reconstruction, then the last one can really be done exclusively on hospitable soil of world's preliminary overall destruction."
"I support. All is vain and unstable. And, fully wanting to survive, at first get sure that your source of salvational force is itself not beneath of some dangerous threat."
"So it is, all we have is not simple, but don't give up to slippy tricks of frightening complexity of being. No one kind of complexity can guarantee you absolute perfection, true geniusness lives in elementary, in pure simplicity and only. Take the same form of circle – as for me it's an ideal figure, one look at it brings much more pleasure than keenest sex and tightest gluttony together, I generally cannot understand how inside of the world whose rich geometry includes such shape as circle can present wars and terminal diseases."
"But at the same entangled time, the only key to true simplicity lies mainly into presence of complexity: the multiplicity of lines enchantingly determines all directions - of each engaged in combination thread — one single line can be easily drawn as you like, but when the last one is connected with all others it has the only possible strict vector, determined by synchronous coordination with all picture. And the more ample set of components you have, the more unique is type of system. And now think, why we have seven billions of people, but not only a couple of hundreds."
"From my part, I will add - that, contrary to many misconceptions, the authorities also are weak - in spite of any hierarchies. Recognize this phenomenon clearer. Recognize and remember. At first you are experimenting with bacteria as with the most submissive simplest pets, and next the very same bacteria are calmly eating your damned body from inside, in desire to leave only swollen disfigured corpse. At first the lord is whipping own slave, and next unruled and angry slave is deftly killing and crippling the aforementioned gentleman. Any forces must constantly know – they are short. By the way, we are also the same."
"And the shorter is any of powers, the rougher are its ruling measures..."
"Is all this a reflection of one single currentness, or this world all the time has been wholly like that?"
"But what is any era in inside? A short-term portrait of infinity and only, it does not carry any sense. Any era is only a mask. True face will constantly stay hidden."
"I most entirely agree, each subjectivity is totally specific. Painted tiger is greatly more peaceful than any real cockroach – someone else’s disaster and grief will even partially never turn as close as any single one of own."
"It so easy to make a mistake, to stay a fool, to get directly emptified and lost. And what is meaningfully else – do not trust any polar phenomena, shy away from such type of events. Life at all is a bunch of great contrasts. All what last ones most frequently can – to hurt and to depress and only. Besides such ones may hurriedly get nullified in harmful mutual addition, having left only absolute vioid. And vain and hopeless barren us."
"I know. Be most firmly aware, I know. Fate can't be curbed by intuition. It's greatly painful to accept, but all is so."
"Here works the measure of each consciousness. Any consciousness has own capacity, own strict volume. And doubts are just circles on its surface. Their presence does not somehow depend on mind itself. Depends on thoughts and last ones' application. And as you know, thoughts are fire. With the help of last one you can easily make guiding torch gifting light in cold forest at night, but you also can burn whole own house. All depends on the vector of use."
"And from decisions, from attachments. You can be tied right with everything – with each ephemerality and abstractness. Moreover - very tightly and forever. And what is really more – a lot of finest threads around of some tree and you are much stronger and worse than hawser."
"Quite perplexing and ravishing tellings. Cognition is so strange and vague thing that when you do it, you do not even know whether you're calmly getting more sober or conversely becoming deadly drunk."
"I agree. Unquestioningly, fully. Simple forcing from doom gets differentiated very very hardly."
"Any forcedness always is temporary. And any doom is usually lifelong..."
"We never know what is good, and what is poisonous and harmful... No matter, what we think and do."
"At here can help the benefit of utter lie's excess - in such a world, in such its system one foolish lie is regularly exposing some identical other."
"You're looking right in essence. A spark of truth gets own birth exclusively from stone of deception."
"It's important to seek, to stay active, not to fall into friendship with pain... To fight for these extremely rare sparks."
"Serenity  is choice of fools and winners. And whom you'll be depends on single luck."
"And it's so simple and so easy to get used to abundant and vicious emptiness, persistent, irrevocable and global."
"True emptiness is fully indestructible. Can you manage to keep own survival for many trillions of years? I'm not sure in this. But world's emptiness clearly is able to do it. And don't forget of compromises: their path is nothing more than way to evil, the most ironic, cynical and low, it's road to death, to murky finish."
"So, what's uniting all of us? At once with emptiness and satiety together."
"Both humans, human God and devil are similar exclusively in one – in periods of their own involuntary powerlessness – no one of this triad is omnipotently enough for acting as a sure leader in this mutual strange hierarchy. Each of them time from time comes through sufferings – from saint angels till baleful devils. From leper childs till crippled soldiers."
"Such state of things is straight path to hysteria. Beat at one time both alien and yours. Such way of acting is so firmly known – both for God and for devil at once."
"According to this cheerless truth, even those who's going to God are anyway much closer to the devil."
"It is not possible to follow God at all. At least to worship such an object. You can worship one devil and only – having bent till your knees, you're unable to see hidden face of own Lord. And you don’t even slightly know – is it really saint hopeful God or tricky and dishonest devil...."
"That's fully actual and right. God also doesn’t have a post of fool – such ones get given only by people. We ourselves get dressed in role of idiot. With some help of the devil, of course, but nonetheless we do it freely."
"That is why keep own personal flag. Do not choose neither faith nor philosophy – otherwise you will rot."
"And once again about darkness... The devil never lies in little, he only stumbles in such things. Into global he's staying unnoticeable. And into something insignificant, we sometimes can remark his faint presence."
"And what about people?..."
"They are even much worse. No one demon is equally wrong. Take a look at the state of humanity - the face of world is washed with endless blood, all history is crowned with wars and only, with deaths, betrayals and hard losses... Any people are aimless, be sure. They are too primitive, too simple."
"Simplicity is strong by one fine fact – such one can be effortlessly repeated. It kills by own unlimited amount."
"In such a poor broken world, all you're really free is to rush from extreme to extreme."
"And if to say of such a theme, are the opposites really similar? What do you personally think?"
"Extremes are similar exclusively in one – in own immense injustice – in rushing up from cold to heat, you agree on the same discomfort in return for the previous one. This is all similarity."
"Stepping back from extremes, from recognizable specifics, you're also slowly getting lost – inside of deep uncertainty, fog, in amorphism and vanity of blurring."
"I know, vagueness is harmful. But in its hugs you're feeling less offensive - it is not visible who cut your thread of fate, no sources of grief stay observable, no poisonous roots."
"One crooked way or another, life will surely win. For to bend any metal, you need either hyper impact or superfluously high temperature. Our fate has enough ways and methods. If it wants to defeat you – it will."
"Here you need to be able to see given chances – too see wished light inside of darkness. For to reach any actual heights you do not need in wide huge road, you need just into vacant place in front. Place for movement, for path. So, any tightness is quite tolerable."
"But current features of the path are building all its further content: the same fact how you walk – with which pace: quick or slow, entirely determines time of stop and nature and acceptance of events."
"It's right to trust to independence. Most of flowers get died not because of barbaric harsh trampling by some rough and uncultured people, but by negligent care of gardeners - inept and plainly stupid. Be more thoughtful and deep, then the question of false world acceptance will go out itself."
"Here the integrity of attitude is useful. And such one gets cemented by the dreams – amazingly, but still. One single dream can easily resist to all the world, to all its disparate rue facts, in seconds healing from all fears!"
"From fears isolation is most useful: in loneliness all fears get experienced more calmly – if your person is sailing alone on some boat and suddenly you get approached by storm, you even do not pay attention – waves as waves, not much stronger than usual. But what will be at crowded liner? Some person surely will start to cry and scream, explaining that you're drowning with whole company. If you're alone it's much more useful – for thoughts, inventiveness and madness – the most assuredly reliable and large-scaled."
"That's also fully right. Big troubles come, as rule, when you're inside of company. After all, any danger is kind of an abyss, and any fear - step ahead. And hesitations are the same: the longer you're preparing, the less of time you have on the road itself."
"Here also works perniciousness of scales – all such ones never argue with real infinity - with each other and only, all truly absolute is not available at all for any of comparisons or comments."
"Besides some romanticism is needed: access to sky begins from simple runway, which one is modestly located onto land, each path to greatness grows, as a rule, from small, from inconspicuous and weak, from something that at first has been just nothing, but with long time has gladly coped to get transformed in flawless miracle and treasure."
"I know. Eternity is heavy bulky rock, which's staying on thin shoulders of small moments. On rare accidents and trifles. And so wonderful is every strange connection between of thought and future matter: what yesterday was only an idea, tomorrow will calmly be a part of entirely real reality, and any matter in own turn at one of days will give rise to new judgments, inventions and ventures."
"And what's indeed more great and shocking – the fact, that for the purest bliss we need exclusively in banal correspondence - to hugs of happiness and joy, of pleasant helpful cage of circumstances: the very coincidence of width of long fate's following of rails and of personal sharply strict distance between of pair of your wheels."
"In addition each case is extremely unstable. Fate never keeps brave theories: it is impossible to go for any variable objects by an unshakable strict road, for one of certain life conditions you are perfectly suitable and for other conditions and frames is suitable some other lucky person. And no of winds can blow in two directions."
"Only so it is. Full confidence in luck of all ideas, in broad success of everything and all is inherent not more than to several few of directly notorious madmen."
"Anyway, fate is surely quite influential. All casinos are different, all losers' fates are just the same. If you're unlucky into one, you'll be unlucky into all."
"I agree, all the life is a coordinate plane, and your ability to stay in its positive part and not somewhere else is determined by one arithmetical indexes of your internal inner structure, any person as fact is the same equation, with own graph, own firm integer indices and with own fractional remainder, and which digits your fate will insert in your living is a matter of simple luck's scale..."
"It's a pity, all this is just scarily puzzling and only... Even far and indistinct background cannot be some way changed or improved, what to say of own road and essence. But in a fact, the only tool for to use any circumstances is our personal reaction on their presence. The point of transforming all the being is lying deep inside of mind."
"Here work prerogative of state: the form of chosen existence determines all the essence of its content, all width, all usefulness and meaning - life still remains to go on, even having entirely lost all the previous values, molten metal remains to be metal in spite of absolutely liquid consistency, this is utterly rigid and old, but still horribly stunning and painful: yes, molten metal is a metal, it can't be taken, can't be used for dense structures, but such impossibility is short, it's always temporary, pointless - after cooling, each metal will easily get pristine properties, having calmly returned in original state. But can some broken life repeat the same? No of pains pass through fate with no harm. This is bottomless tragedy. The one, which is so clearly familiar. From the very first day till the last sluggish sigh. All the way, all the limitless road. All the being at here. From its start to its finish."
"Into what to believe?"
"If someone suddenly will ask me - into what do I really believe, I'll frankly answer - I don’t know. This question is too too hard and too much painful for any helpless human brain. I don’t believe in world of matter, reproach religion and reject any use of humanity. All we do, learn or study, get from rumors and gossips is just vain silly walking around. Aimless, empty and sick. As I am guessing, road to truth in fact is simply doesn't given. This world is wretched. In its frames any pureness and greatness, any straight independence and sense are enormously punishable. They approve only sacrifices, inner pettiness, dirt and cognitive crudity, obedience and broad insensitivity. I live where nothing calls for hope. At here I do not want to stay myself, I do not want to leave here my close neighbor or even to advice such lost location for my enemies. Here's forbidden the main – right on being yourself. They constantly demand some integration - with others, with the system and its dirt. Today each ideology is poison. But what do I still hope for in this abyss of rotting modernity? For which of forces and events I am awaiting? If to tell in few words, I bet on humans' right on freedom, on independence of their minds. This is the best of all remaining opportunities. Even if, due to powerful circumstances, you can do only small, just choose an elementary oblivion, choose your own isolation - from all reality itself, choose immaculate freedom and strength. Shy away from all dying. From all surrendered and forgotten. Don't hesitate, each survivor should have sure chance to reject ones who've chosen to die. Having stepped into abyss with others, you will save no one from their number. Be only for yourself. Then, at the end, you'll find yourself as entirely honest and innocent - at least for single own fate. And, what's really more, the path to God gets shown more often by the devil. The ones, who rush to cleanse oneself and to fall in repentance, are, as rule, the most lost and most burnt by fate's route broken people. If you want to deliver oneself into sky, start to push from the bottom."
"My thoughts are totally the same. No of matter how strange it may seem, but in our world for safety and own superiority you need to show confident passivity – deep personal internal reservation. You'll never overcome all injustice and filth, you will not wipe all human tears, you will not save all those who are dying, you will not satisfy all needs. For unshakable faith into good you have to keep persistent disagreement, ignoring all destructive, false and empty. You will not stop world's moving into abyss, but you, at least, can not to do own step. Deny all blurred intermediateness, deny without hesitation, be glad to sacrifice with all that is imperfect, boldly throwing away all of meaningless things and vain purposeless lifes, which are far from of role of small part of eternity. Believe in saint prosperity of future, in all-consumingly right order of all things, in unambiguous perfection of next peace. Believe in firm authority of greatness, in sense of birth and living route, believe in randomness of path, in its most soon justification and next depth. Believe in correctness of idylls, in global harmony of all, in feasibility of paradise and joy, in undeniable supremacy of logic. Only then your small path, even dying, will calmly see bright gentle flame of mind. We live for acute purity of brain, for helpful unity with purpose. Outside of high reasons and truths, outside of wide fullness of being, outside of sensations and pleasures, there is no of you, no of balance, no of true inspiration and fire, only vacuum - endless and painful, all-consuming, tormenting and dead."
"We all are slaves of any rubbish..."
"Not of any, don't lie... Remember, our human world is controlled by one rampant phenomena only. Only something that surely claims onto being a storm can enslave people's masses. Such things are clearly known – war, sex, thirst for profit, religion and lowness. These are events, which make main plots of history of people, of history of miserable and sick, decorated with bunch of hard weaknesses and unable on any resistance to sinful temptation. Therefore, don't look for force in grace, take most destructive cruel tools and send people on obvious death. Have no of doubts – they will go."
"But how not to be afraid of so much fashionable evil?"
"By the way, rather simple. For this you need one banal non-involvement – in any kind of confrontation. True kindness living fully out, it doesn't owe anything to evil, true genius is free from fools' opinion. Graceful people have no slightest attachment to ugly, saints have no duty to love sinners. Exist in total isolation. This is smarter. Otherwise, your existence will fade. Preserve own firmness and steadfastness. And use cruelty as tool. If the devil will shyly obey our God and all people and will do self-destruction, will you really forgive him? Apparently, yes. And just by this you'll betray truthful light. Remember, devil in all cases deserves exclusively contempt, exclusively straight punishment and bloodshed. The same applies to foes too. And what's more, any rotten commitment meekly hides under mask of own excellence, under rightful and glorious veil, under fruitful and meaningful shade. The same weed grass most abundantly grows on fertile mellow soil. The devil hunts on aimful sinless souls. True averageness stays directly needless – for darkness, God and even people. And what I'll say in huge addition, they are disgusting even for themselves. But such ones represent world's majority."
"All it means, that this world is so much inappropriate – for each of good and aimful things: for blooming, happiness and any of bright heights."
"The fact that modern world is utterly unsuitable for luck is explicitly clear. True happiness needs different conditions, the ones, that can be made exclusively in frames of isolation, in individual greenhouse. So, having got entirely imprisoned, you shouldn't have some stiffness, harm or tension. Professional and qualitative court completely suits for playing tennis. Outside of its square there are wild thick forests, broad highways, long car parkings and metal constructions. It is not possible to play in such locations, but playing onto comfortable court you don’t think that the last one is far far not infinite, not spreaded to whole earth and even universe, you need a local area and only. Don’t try to give own happiness to all, don’t try to wrap each one in its saint matter. Most of people are simply not capable of feeling and experiencing it, they are initially internally defective, unsuitable for greatness and sincerity. That's why, each alliance with them, even faint and entirely short, leads to death of your personal harmony. Learn to be happy deep inside - right among of unfortunate ones. They are unhappy by themselves, by their absolute wretchedness, such thing is not your guilt or your omission. Life's game is not of global happiness and bliss. It's gift of chosen ones, not wider. Our mad broken world is so shockingly strange not by comlexity or tricks, but by presence of meaningless part. Most of phenomena and deeds don't carry any useful logic, don't carry depth and involvement in inner perfection. We see one pettiness and baseness. Reality consists of sins and flaws. That's why I so want to cry. To cry and to be silent and once again both to be silent and to cry. World's pier has turned in painful mockery, not more, in pit of mourning and decaying, vile and empty, deceptive and low, enveloped by dense fog and laught of devil."
"Where to take self-control in such abyss..."
"Remember, God has been bequeathing to believe in first turn in oneself, and only after into him and into others. Self-doubt is straightforward God's betrayal. You also should not go just to light. Life's lantern can belong to devil. Look only at the essence of each kindness, analyze its true aims and sincerity. Don't trust to double-faced faked good. Do not take it. Most skillful sweet idealism and best perfection can be shown, as a rule, into vileness or in art of to kill, or in alcohol drinking. Don't be good into negative ways. Don't look at naked skills. They never show degree of their use. Otherwise, you'll be thickly surrounded by most gifted and talented cynics and murderers. You must admit, it works as poison. Despise all people – each single one of their innumerous breed, without any small exception, not allowing to love them or feel. Remember, playing up with victim, the main of things is not to miss whose role it is to be a hunter."
"But who is guilty into all?"
"Creator. Only Creator. Remember – surely and firmly, no one of persons will ever manage to become more sadistic and sinful than God. Nevertheless, human staircase of claims almost never ascends till his person, people criticize only small implementers, but not direct organizer of whole madness. And what is more – each emptiness and fullness are united, are conjugated by some low interaction – here you are taking cup of water and want to drink all its free liquid, the cup is staying wholly full, and you are staying sharply thirsty, but next you swiftly overturn aforementioned poor vessel and it becomes completely empty, and you are getting rid of recent thirst. What does it mean? The fact, that fullness causes emptiness. They rather easily change places with each other. It turns out that any world's emptiness is someone’s secret huge excess, someone’s satiety. This is utterly topical. In world of social stratification, heterogeneity and distance, life becomes harshly polar and splited – on poor and rich, successful and unhappy, smart and crazy, sincere and low. And in this abyss of disunity, lies main root of worst evil, of pain of ones and of prosperity of others. It shows us a transshipment hurting point, which in some strange and fairy way divides all fates on flight and fall."
"It's so much simple to get mad."
"But what, in fact, is our mind? And who to whom indeed belongs: do our thoughts belong to us or we belong to their matter? After all, at first glance, it entirely seems, that we're completely rightful owners of own heads, that we are their firm holders and full managers. But in fact it’s not so. What all our mind is? A complex fruit of past associations and hazed views, result of deep combinatorics of experienced. In whose hands is this list of evens and commitments? You leave you house, see some person, he sticks to memory. Or not. Depends on brightness of his features. You could be beaten into childhood, be hardly injured or raped, your list of personal experiences is, probably, more harmless, but no less specific and unique. It can't be artificially repeated. You make judgments on basis of past, of your own mental baggage, you make any free choice just the same. You could grow up as fully rotten, but you've been made as pure and good. In whose hands is your fate? We all are victims of own minds, not last ones' commanders and authors. We are slaves of desires and weaknesses, dreams. We're prisoners of heads. Of memory, which's constantly transforming, stimulating and sharply upsetting, inspiring and depressing, deifying and throwing down. It's firmly staying over all – over thoughts, over deeds and life roles. Over all we are getting and feeling. Over whole human path, so much aimlessly given in hands of unstable and changing conditions."
"With so endless nihilism and so full-sized, significant decisions, are you yourself afraid of anything or someone? Do such mad things exist at all?"
"You want to know, what makes me scared? Lack of limits in all. Any sphere and thing can be freely expressed in unlimited immense degree, any state can be utterly wrecking – humiliation, despair and powerlessness, inner wretchedness, losses and pain, it can be totally exorbitant. The person who has got into our world can become fully worthless and crippled, torn in pieces and lost. We have modern technologies, life is constantly moving to progress, but it steadily keeps endless lawlessness, deep oppression and hurts – into each of own days. It straightforwardly kills. This is the worst of world's manifestations, the most disgusting and unjust, the most nasty and shameful. It puts your into scale of real madness, of nightmare and hell."
"Why bad entirely prevails? What a for, by which force?"
"Why poisons are so mighty? The biggest tragedy of truth is its full indistinguishability by the everyday life. You will never distinguish true love from of false one, as you'll never divide true affection and mockery, frank reciprocity and use. For such of confirmations deep situational revision is required. Deep and rare life's circumstances. It's similar to way of denouncing of fakes – good gilding never differs from true gold, but in acid it's instantly melting and dying, unlike to real precious metal. Without of appropriate experiment, no gradation between of true gold and its fake will be ever revealed, even if you will spend time of century. Into fate all is fully the same – without some specific twists, it is simply not real to verify authenticity of love. It's the biggest of pains — the fact of possible upcoming disappointments, of betrayals and lies. This is close to pure abyss, pure fatal abyss of mistakes, despair and detachment, of alienation, sorrow and oblivion. We are not competent to separate evens. We are free just to wait. We have just right on one hope for revealing of circumstances. The very one, that, by the way, is so needful, but so much rare."
"My question will be probably delusional, but nevertheless - with whom today it is most correct to identify hopeless lost human - with God or devil? Who is closer?"
"With no one. Every person is too complicated. But whole society, by the way, is already quite able on being compared - with an anthill: the same fuss and harsh nonsense. That's why compare yourself with kind of disinsector – exactly tired and distressed. Or with anteater."
"This is awesome. In my turn, I will add my entirely frank admiration of how gloriously, hurriedly and brightly is agonizing our sick society. We demand a third-party opinion, a view from outside of us. We interpret it as most objective, reliable, pure and fair. This is simply breathtaking! We all a priori surely admit that all opinions of people close to us will be initially unjustified and false. We are seeking for truth from the strangers. This is a tragedy, not less. In such reality we're having no future. It's not life. Even nearly. It's torture. Moreover, I am extremely sorry that most of prominent world's figures don't have professional profound education in sphere of biologic study. It's unacceptable and wrong. Information of worms and of parasites would be extremely useful in frameworks of the current humanity. There is an unforgivably huge number of the last ones in nowadays decomposed population. Such excess is entirely awful."
"And most regrettable sad thing is the fact that we all go nowhere, and do it by a circle way, by eternal damned ring, where people calmly move to abyss, and we also move up by identical route but only into opposite direction."
On this, their conversation has got frozen. Silence has tediously spreaded own hugs. Faint semicircle of the moon has appeared in small blurred window. One more sad aimless night. Hello, dejected hurting darkness. We were waiting for you. You're a guest.

XIV
Completely covered by blissful calmness city is staying totally confused and fully faceless. Air is clean, any outlines – sharp and contrasting, any lines are devoted to sad graceful rigor. Deep, dejectedly sorrowful sky is washed by endless muddy grayness – meek and lonely. All world is unconcerned, but at same time, so alarmedly tense and internally damped and alert, even puzzled and slightly perplexed. All expanses are densely full of frustration, of unfriendly and sick melancholy. Everywhere is hopeless oblivion. On icy trunks, deprived of last thin crowns, is humbly sparkling whitish hoarfrost. Underfeet is neatly lying vast well-groomed broken sidewalk.
Anatoly Efimovich and Elizaveta Kirillovna are slowly walking by main street, in contemplation, thoughts and conversations.
"So depressed joyless weather, just exclusively bad." - has observed Anatoly Efimovich: "But we are walking, are building these talks. We don’t care..."
"We're unique." – has shyly smiled Elizaveta Kirillovna: "We're not involved in games of nature. For us we'll find more tempting entertainments."
"We are lucky with such sacredly blessed exclusivity - no worries, no useless involvement. From of now, we'll have own personal selection for all matters."
"Now all will be ours – both deeds and dreams and even whole reality itself."
"You've decided to build autonomy?"
"The most sweet and most durable one."
"It's a desperate matter - to build a fairy tale in swamp."
"Mutuality does not serve risks, it does not bow in front of their will."
"But betting on one chance, you'll never get big fruitful future."
"We have no other sorsts of roads - either hazed, or the one, that's to bottom..."
"But where to get due inspiration for the first..."
"In inner hopes, in light of heart."
"Heart is dead. All of dreams turned in corpses, decomposed into pain and regrets. All is lost."
At here it's purposeful to note, that human hopes are not able to leave something else. As fact, all concepts and all objects are getting decomposed as usual in frames of strictly common way: any greatness on absolute emptiness, any sense onto any of things, but more often on flaws, and fright and fear – on self-confidence or calmness. It's just for information and not more.
"Think in positive way - more optimistic and more bright." - has suggested in tender response Elizaveta Kirillovna: "It is possible, that world is only outwardly miserable and wrong, but inside is surprisingly weighty and aimful, filled with greatness and use – with pure true fates, outstanding life plots and strong feelings, which are painfully hidden by wretchedness."
"All this is not of our world. At here we're having no exits. Only countless heavy misfortunes, fatal lawlessness, contrast and dirt."
"Even if all is really so, for happiness is needed one desire."
"After all, good position. I like it."
"All we're able to do - to believe into good, or to stay into troubles forever."
"Having place, make a step. I agree, but it's strange to wait miracle out of chances."
"All the fate is pure absurd, not greater. But between of two similar madnesses, it'll be smarter to choose more alluring. We, of course, are accustomed to small. We don't believe in miracles or heights, we rely on one grayness and sins. This is fatally wrong."
"Such type of tragedy is old. World's stage stays broken right from start."
"But let's believe, let's try to hope."
"Romantic. Let's. Such way is warmer. I think, it is excusable to dream."
"In happiness you needn't even in mind's presence."
"Nevertheless, with the last one it's calmer."
"But sweet mistakes can easily replace all bitter truths."
"Very gorgeous. Enchanting. I'm flattered."
"Soon will blissfully be even sweeter. Don't doubt."
Have infirmly exchanged with short glances.


XV
In tired light of sad, faint lamp, in the midst of entirely static oblivion, are meekly sitting two calm silhouettes - Matvei Grigorievich and Marina Valerevna, both are close to each other and to wide faceless window, abundantly enshrouded into darkness. All around is surely boring, firmly buried in hell of caustic indifference of liquid hollow atmosphere. Behind of heavy shabby frame, is humbly staying into murk lonely blurred lamppost, gently lost in unbounded cold and enveloped by silent cool glow of own pale sleepy halo. At all of bleak and sullen sides, is sluggishly and languidly tempesting wet and amplified blizzard. Inside impenetrable heights, is waiting deep dejected heaven's abyss. Near of tacky and watery road are idly standing silver white, newly mounted cumbersome drifts of fresh snow. That's all the harmony provided for perception.
The heroes are commonly united, uniformly oppressed and perplexed. And although crooked and broken fates, as a rule, aren't supposed to grow up any bright expectations, nevertheless, there is no evident line, after crossing which one your life ends and begins final dying. Grayness sooner or later will abundantly get own supremacy, but soul's color will never agree to fade out directly at once and besides so much boringly simple. Having got in deadlock, we are deciding first to stand, to choose examining awaiting. We look for exit everywhere, exactly managing to use all ones of tactics, ways and methods in sure time before of death. Each human life deep inside is a kind of illegal equipment: such one can't be returned, exchanged or publicly repaired.
"Once again, we are spending own longing as usual." - has pityingly remarked Matvey Grigoryevich.
"But what else can we do... Sometimes we have to share pain as well." -  has quietly sighed Marina Valerievna with dismally detached and somber look.
One of main painful troubles of this world is the fact that all possible idylls, by some of miracles, arisen in its frames, are rid of any chance of own implementation. It's inappropriate in all-consuming abyss of nasty lost surroundings of chaos. But, nevertheless, no single one of living forces is forbidding to people to share with each other with ideas, with most sophisticated perfect ventures and intentions, which ones, of course, are far from own embodiment in present, but at least are much sweeter than sadness. That's why the heroes, accustomed to straightforward joyless truth, were sullenly exchanging with own hopes, fully vain and exactly utopian, unrealizable and poisonously vague. Such ones, of course, are wholly dummy, torn off from any fair prospects, but anyway still rather tempting and consoling.
"I so much fervently desire to believe that human happiness is possible and real, that such thing is indeed truly feasible - within of frameworks of today. I want to know, to be sure, that this phenomenon is not just an unreachable utopia, that its marvelous matter is viable – at least some modest period of time. I want to know that something deeply good is truly tangible and able for to be actually tried. For me it's most important and most helpful, most life-affirming from all things. Such thoughts are healing from all hardships, endowing with incredible saint strength and enormous freedom. Daily life is not bright, not abundant, not rich, not graceful and not deep, but its dark greedy pit anyway will never let your rid of rest exhausted soul back into freedom."
"Hope is bitter and hazed, washed with myriad tears. For stable harmony of wishes you have to be extremely sensitive and prudent. The depth of human mind is totally subordinate to one strange indicator - to ratio of mental flexibility and strength of views and ideological commitments. Such quality is globally determined by experience, and not by any one, but only by positive, which by the way is harshly rare. All local truths, attainments and conditions are awfully amorphous and short-living. If your life has become vain and stupid, it’s rather difficult and hard not to break it at all. That is why even small pointless tragedy is nothing else than first of steps to next soon fall in further boundless disaster. Do not forget of one most sick and painful fact, that any definitely clear differentiation between of purest sacred truth and hollow fake elementary doesn't exist. Bad medal never shows own opposite dark side. Poisoned mind never really copes to attain even tiniest part of supremacy. And it's extremely difficult to live - in such close frameworks of life's abyss of global insanity - cursed morbid last one, to worst grief, as right since earliest of eras for all, who're claiming to be mindful, this is quite sorrowfully commonly well-known, is not accustomed to gift freedom."
"But we are calmly sitting just right now onto edge of the very life's abyss and are peacefully talking. After all, we still live. Apparently, for some unshown reason..." - with kind of rue has sighed Marina Valerievna.
"No single ghost of slightest matter, which of views on existence you have, any life in inside is a kind of such function, which exists just for final derivative. All the process of growing and being, all we do, keep and build, all the time of life's way in practice lasts exclusively for modest final fruits, for next results of contact with world's width. Whole imputed by accident fate with all its facts, all tasks and meetings has in itself no smallest possible of signs of any presence of immortally meaningful weight and unendingly viable essence, if it's rid of holistic high goal and huge mission. One pure endowing with your life and with sick randomness of presence is not an aim and not a road, believe, we cannot live like that, this is appallingly improper. Long senseless series of deaths and next rebirths are madly far from any chances on huge prudence, each normal world, except of basing on own inly settled laws, needs to be guided and directed from above. World lives for all, not for any of personal beings. In the end, all the fate can be built just for one single word, perceived by some important interlocutor. We are a moment, cleverly inscribed into canvas of immense eternity. Each human's role is unforgivably defenseless, faint and small, strange and almost completely invisible. As fact, it's only just a drop in never-ending sea of world's existence, so much enormously mysterious and large, that even simply inaccessible at all for any decently profound understanding, for any sober analytics and even reasonable critical remarks. Such one is suitable in fact for single primitive acceptance, fully patient and totally selfless, monotonous, long and not frequently promising any successes, any beauty or blissful and logical final. But it's so teasing to await..."
"You are trying to wrap me with flame." - has in slight torpor smiled the lady: "So much generous act. In empirical world of sensations, each strong emotional experience, as a rule, is called as deepest wisdom and mind's grace. So increadibly often it seems that there is no exit, just because of its true inexistence. As for me, our world is more stupid than cunning. It has no even shade of encouragement for any smart and aimful things. Full emptiness and greatness here are equal."
"Gradations live exclusively in consciousness. Or in heart. Existence stays above of such vain trifles. We have to make perfection ourselves. Saint saving staircase to paradise's cradle is growing up from seed of faith, from strong belief in chosen ideals and prospects, from inner values and intentions. And, first of all, from soul itself..."
"From soul itself... Well said. That's pretty. Maybe our staircase will grow too – just from these timid jointed moments. I always wait for something good, for soon embodiment of hopes, for useful fruits of our unit. I still want to believe, and no matter, if course of life with all of happenings and twistings, all of attainments, heights and findings is unfixably driven by chance, hazed and rare. Life's path itself, when you refuse to shy and fear, is already huge cause for to go."
"We will cloth ourselves into dreams and will go barefoot in nowhere. With no aim and no compass or route."
"Just together – as firm sinless couple? With free trust to next bottomless luck..."
"Just together, you're right. And with strong inexhaustible passionate faith in all better - as into fairest of helpers at whole imprisoning us vastness this ill-fated stage of earth."

XVI
In barely awakened tender city, is staying young and mellow spring. First rare rays of slim sunlight are lonely gliding up and down in foggy drowsiness of sleepy morning sky. Slowly quickening colorless distance, with meek relaxedness enveloped by warm calmness, is feebly spreading sunk in numbness long inexpressive languid views. Although spring is directly predictable and entirely torn from of state of some mystical miracle, nevertheless, each bewitching arrival of first mild last one's days is not smaller than strong zestful act of unexpected endless optimism and holistical deep inspiration. Right now all is just the same: whole space of region right as well as whole essence of heart are vastly opened for next beauty. Pacifically freed from past snow limits, completely bare, fresh and pure, are shyly getting washed by amply splashing frisky streams. All is weightlessly gentle and slightly confused. Impregnated with damp spicy thaw pleasant air is remarkably thick and capturing. Gray district, playfully arisen from oblivion, is temptingly extended with dimensionless hollowness' width. Modest shawl of transparent thin haze is uniformly free and tender. All around is friendly and innocent. Deeply clouded flabby horizons are dimly blurred and forgotten. Into role of last traces of recent harsh frosts are feebly lying rare single plates of ice – already cracked and fully helpless. Everywhere is total serenity, sweet timid peacefulness and harmony of nature. In empty lowlands are walking bored winds. In muddy puddles - floating forward smooth pale shadows. All is nice and surprisingly trustful, all is clear and bright – all of countless places and views. Truly awesome.
Anatoly Efimovich and Elizaveta Kirillovna without definite obtaining with route's goal in sweet intangible embraces of prostration are idly wandering around, enjoying with new friendliness of world, so much enchantingly exalted, strict and virgin.
"So straightforwardly excellent spring at this year, so unspeakably pleasant and fresh, so incredibly tender and nice, that even simply incomparable at all with any other states and miracles of being."
"So it is, you are walking with someone together, and whole world is your personal cradle, that's given only to you, as kind of paradise or heaven, protecting from all alien and filthy, depriving you from nets of fuss and soul extinction. In such of frames you're torn away from low or bad, you want to think of good and only. To think at first and then to wait for soon embodiment, for further meeting with its bliss."
"Such luck is purely exclusive."
"But anyway each case of true uniqueness is first of all determined with one thing – with simple width of your imagination. All we need – just to think and to faith. It’s not a secret, person starts to blossom exclusively from blossoming of soul, and soul blossoms from act of believing... We have only to ask ourselves to keep dreamings, with their all-mighty priceless helping submitting world to greater aims. Full happiness can be just free and timeless, such one gets born exclusively at once and never ends, never dies or turns faded. All will be instantly forgotten, if you're happy. But after all, each of vain us at here is only just a guest, only one of rest seekers and wanderers. Its priceless, if you've got some aim. But anyway and in any of sorrowful cases, don't stop to go and to wait – for real miracles and better."
"All real miracles are coming from above, we'll never make such ones by our hands."
"Repeating something what's desired, you can one day get something real too. Good walk gets started from right step."
"But where to get such tempting nice direction. We all are striving for some pleasure. We rely on sensations, on empirical inner enjoyment. And this is fully justified - completely. We all are ravelers of way in nowhere, and it's more pleasant and more right to do all this at least on cozy type of road."
"And with someone desired in pair."
"Then aim and path are not significant at all..."
"But are such ones so actual for us? Do we really need them?"
"We’ll tear my map and throw away your compass."
"We'll reach all aims without them. I promise."
"In which of countless directions do you call?"
"To common happiness of us... Or, at least, to its sweet tempting borders..."

XVII
Dark evening, lonely, chilled and frightful, has timidly got spreaded by surroundings. Dejected and unpeopled faded district has turned strainingly closed by tartly shrouding thickened dusk. First shadows, meekly strayed in flocks, have boldly taken wait-and-see positions. Impenetrable gloomy viscous murk has amply hung on faceless spaces. Last rest of places have let out dried remains of past day's zeal and fallen silent. Exhausted, shy and quietly frail indistinct figure of Marina Valeryevna has humbly looked for act of lonely thoughtful walking - in rid of life bleak joyless bonds of dreary wilderness and void, looked and timidly sighed: "How much strange is each single of shares, how much far from own being explained. After all, I myself would not ever believe into happiness. With what I live – with total hopelessness and only: no of souls owes me love, warmth or care, I'll never have some fruitful plot exactly right as all I have in my today is also very very little. But I don’t need in something else, do not need into passion or meetings, gifts or lust or rich plentiful prospects. I'm feeling good in where I am. In frames of world, where I'm his guest and where he is my shy interlocutor. Where everything I'm really able to pretend on – just to catch his empathic sad look or deep meaningful silence. And I feel fully blessed. I am glad that it somehow had happened - in my fate, in my quiet modest being. I am glad, even grateful that it is my reality. I'm madly grateful to my God, or someone else whose will had made us. He may not hear me at all, but I am grateful. I just want to protect this condition, to elongate its tender bonds, which I'm afraid to see just melted, to see just passed or vainly lost."
Marina Valerievna has coyly stepped in wet cold darkness. The silhouette has slowly dragged along – by old emptified deserted tract. Contemplation, as fact, is indeed the most sweet from all sins. And now back to home again. It's already quiet cold – time to stop. To return and get lost into silence.

XVIII
Room's space is quiet. And also warm. Time is blowing with mystery's breath, with richness promising temptation. Anatoly Efimovich and Elizaveta Kirillovna are delightedly sitting together, in diligent calm sharing of keen mutual hugs and each other. Voluptuous and greedy atmosphere is lavishly attracting heart and flesh with own amorousness and tart impudent taste of hiddenly upcoming further pleasure. Dark muted colors of wallpapers are gently playfully embracing with thick and tightly splendid vice. Single shadows are meekly awaiting - in unison with other parts of act.
"It's right to savor happiness in couple - with proper seasoning of pleasure. Will you shyly agree?" - Elizaveta Kirillovna has with guiltiness smiled into sinfully lewd teasing manner .
"I agree with whole will." - has responded the hero and insistently reached for already not slightly inflamed frisky partner.
Sweetly juicy and straightly attractive, hot and piquantly naked slim body of Elizaveta Kirillovna has hospitably spreaded all of nooks in fabulously dreamy stubborn languor. Anatoly Efimovich has tenderly gone down by alluring sweet hips and, having frozen right between of opened legs, in utter passion clung to humid gentle flesh, submissively and endlessly dissolving in venomous serenity of process.
"How good!" - Elizaveta Kirillovna has stopped in godlike bliss: "Go on. I'm begging – more and more! More persistent, more sharp. My sweet one, keep it on. So much warm it's in there... Like in oven."
Full of unbearable servileness and thirst, fervent hero has lavishly rushed with his lips to most secret and pleasant locations, gladly losing himself into zealous bottomless trembling and devotedly diving and freezing into sweet lovely fragrance of captivating and delicate wetness of freed lecherous heat.
"My saintly precious, are you happy?"
"Peerless time. So much sweet, so much pleasant and tasty. Most incomparable and darling of all states!"
"Come here and let me try you too. And then take me with force – wildly, harshly and mercilessly rudely, till inability to hold beastly tearful scream, till pure shout. Take in all of my inputs. Fly inside. Like spring wind."
"With the highest of joys! I am yours."
Have entwined in hugs. Here we look at the easiest pass to the heaven - through of intimate gates. The most effective, by the way. And most tart. Most alluring.
Pearls of young timid morning have calmly brightened up room's width, thickly filled with sweet unity and firmly hanging mix of smells. In around is tender shy twilight. On pier of wet, disheveled bed - Anatoly Efimovich and Elizaveta Kirillovna, pacifically bathing into stopped static time, returning souls from recent bliss.
Anatoly Efimovich has unhurriedly wiped his tired face and with frail laziness held out: "So good, so nice. Much much better than all of nirvanas. You'll never get such grace in any church. This is fact. Each one, who don't perceive intimacy as miracle, should be most instantly deprived of rights on sex. Moreover, these vain people should also be deprived of their rights on life too. And if to say of last ones' killing, I would prefer to choose some ancient torture. What our body really is? After all, it's your personal pass to this world. With its help we can communicate directly with reality, with everything that only exists. Each body is a ticket to the present, a ticket to the universe itself. We get connection with the world exclusively with set of own sensory organs, we do it bodily and only, all impressions and any conclusions are also nothing more than kind of summarized specific transformation of initial carnal sensations. And you trust all your flesh to some person, to somebody except of you yourself. What else can be more valuable and sacred? It's apogee of dedication. Its highest peak of unity and feelings. I strongly faith that any intercourse keeps much more holiness than any of religions. You trust to partner whole yourself - most precious thing that human has. It's as magnificent commitment as our presence here itself. Or as God."
"Today my god is you."
And once again new lustful coition.

XIX
As we know, most sincere confession is your confession to oneself. Right now all was just the same: Anatoly Efimovich, enslaved by empty gloomy bedroom, enclouded by tender lonely twilight, this time was greatly clean and frank, deep and prudent. His sullen gaze, sticked to one single point, was remaining entirely motionless. Thoughts were lavish and prompt. Inner mood was deftly fluttering from something incomprehensible to simple.
"Still how inapprehensibly much mutuality really means, what an exorbitant key role plays its preciously marvelous presence. All my fate, all my previous share – what it was with no meetings with her, with no of chances on next unit. All was so secondary, fussy, vain and worthless, so insignificant, unnoticeable, gray, so meaningless, distorted and unhappy. All my being has no slightest logic, no faintest trace of any own justification, no drop of sense without bonds of this saint woman, whose name has surely become much more high, blessed and sacred than God's one. And there is nothing more expensive, more valuable and needed in whole universe. Nothing cannot be even compared with so eminent type of obsession. It's the purest, the deepest of blisses. So omnipotent and so strong. Immense, huge and unthinkably holy. Incomprehensible, eternal. Ever-burning and pricelessly true. And now such miracle is mine and most reliably fully real."

XX
No matter how to explain such human fact, but nevertheless, any constancy, even saddest and totally modest, with way of time becomes enormously familiar and natural. In sure absence of own future, any moment of present gets inwardly perceived exclusively as cruel harmful kind of inevitable harsh punishment from heaven. In most of frames and living's cases we have nowhere for to go. And that is why Matvey Grigoryevich with Marina Valeryevna, having humbly accepted such truth, were selflessly and carelessly trudging along of deserted night street, enjoying with the growing summer dusk and their mutual presence in being, as if, apart of both of them, there was nobody at all onto whole immense measureless planet. For inexperienced first glance, it may seem some a time, that in so much bulky huge universe it's almost surely impossible to remain inappropriate, lost or forgotten, unnecessary, lonely or abandoned. But the larger is our world, the less space it's including for good, for reciprocity, heart unity and meaning, the more sharp problems and more heavy disagreements start to begin to take own place, the more deep hatred, soullessness and hardships are getting sent on your way's plots. The greater is the scale of being, the less is its degree of peace. If you're composing dithyrambs to globalism, then you are stupid and short-sighted. It illustrates main tragedy of world, so sadly drearily concluded into fact, that it's not capable of building of any greatness and success, even if such will be only temporary. It is not capable of it right in own structure. And any spiritual sphere is each time nothing else than a crown - of greatest doom and lack of rights, of overwhelming stiff oppression - inconsolable, wrong and destructive. That's why all souls walk here, as rule, exclusively alone. And it’s good if they walk. But more often just crawl – completely fussily and fully with no purpose, madly looking at cage of lost being as at saint healing cradle of sky. We all just seek. And do it practically always, in some of cases right till point of grave's plate. This world is utterly distorted. It is distorted in the very own attempts, in most initial and basical beginnings, and any try of to correct some ones of things is always leading our living to fully opposite result. Futility, oblivion and pain – that's all that currently remains. It's kind of dying, of extinction. All is surely rotten and spoiled – from blurry abstract hopes and ephemeral hazed ideas till simplest everyday desires, aims and actions. All is clearly lost. At now even luck has turned just useless – it's wholly fruitless for true chance.
But heroes were keeping their hopes. Completely secretly, but still...
"It's so much measurelessly nice just to walk and to be with your chosen, be most firmly and constantly near - into sweet irreproachable harmony, frank and bottomless, sinless and flawless, where you're each second staying next to most demanded and close person, in priceless unity whom you're always coming back to life." - Marina Valerievna has brightened.
"It’s much more easy even just to breath, when you are glued to loved and loving. We're spending time most frequently in sadness, all is surely so, but anyway I am feeling so good, so much free and delighted."
"We always so much ardently rejoice with any touching of two souls, with any fact of their connection with each other. It's real miracle in frames of current being. Inexpressible marvelous treasure, so alluringly tart, unprecedented and deep, endowing with straight sense and clear prospects. Each reciprocity is truly omnipotent, life-giving, gracious and saint. All immense, bottomless existence is just plain rubbish in its absence. And such futility is endless and eternal. It’s not a life, not even last one's distant likeness. You live and suffer. That is all. You also wait, if you're still able. And then you probably just die. We have no path away from aimless road. Each little trouble stably calls you to next huge. Life is long, but it's totally barren, fully fruitless and utterly vain, we have no time for to be happy. All we're free – just to fall into abyss. Just to fall and to try to stay calm. After death of own essence, all around turns strictly indifferent. No drop of matter, which of plagues will upcome. All of finals get surely equal. If you are rid of higher fairy halo, then you'll be lost in any single of life's plots. Such fact is infinitely stubborn, you can't succumb it, can't switch off."
"I agree, now it's easy to faith in all strange. And what is true, whole width of world with all its ways, all inner processes and chances was invented and built not by us, all languages, all human nationalities, all feelings, words, all thoughts and all ideas were made by actings of creator – by someone else, but not by strives of you yourself..."
"It is quite sad. In such a case, it so unbearably turns out, that all chances on our salvation are belonging to alien hands. And not fact that last ones will be tender."
"It's fully needless to safe us... At least, humanity's majority - main mass."
"But at here there are only two – you and I, we're outside of other crowd. And we are feeling more than good. As for me, that's whole secret of joy, of its most quick and plain attaining."
"The only trouble - I'm constrained, I'm not free, fully tied and squeezed – by harsh severe frames of oath, of past unchangeable fidelity's acceptance. All I can actually be for life of you – just only simple guest. I will not gift you love or hot affection, only modest and sinless attention, not more."
"I am perfectly fine in such meager conditions, I understand, I'll never manage to get more, and it's my choice, my firm decision - decision to devote my soul to you, not my body, not passion, but at least whole my soul - from and to. That's how I truly inly want. All other variants are only vain ashes."

XXI
Sweet-smelling peaceful summer evening has with coy tenderness enveloped with gentle silk of own smooth veil dried and exhausted by excess of recent hotness bleak and lonesome dispassionate lands. Tart and liquid twilight is cautiously melting into shallowing gloomy ensemble of cascades of dim shadows and tones. Indifferently fading rare paints are meekly getting lost in gradual chaotic rambling order. Warm bashful wind is sleepily increasing with long minutes. Anatoly Efimovich and Elizaveta Kirillovna are walking in forgotten quiet district in process of relaxing sluggish talking.
"So wonderful it is to be together, where, as in paradise, no barriers, no frames, no slightest difference between of lines of souls." - has softly said the hero with bright gladness: "As in a fairy tale, in heaven - in our tower of deep selflessness and joy, in our personal oasis of pure pleasure. In individual nirvana."
"Yes, as in miracle, I know..."
"Are you sad? Or it only seems?"
"All is right. Do not matter."
"Don't be afraid, we'll never be apart."
"I am not shy for to have fear."
"So life-affirming confidence and calmness. So much incredibly infectiously pretty."
"For your health..." - Elizaveta Kirillovna has smiled.
"And for luck."
"And for luck."
"Luck in priceless."
"Exciting, tempting and addictive."
"Like life itself."
"Like sinful dream."
"Like broad tangible chances..." - Anatoly Efimovich has drowsily sighed and timidly asked: "Let me visit your home. You never let me such of visits... We all time meet at my rueful room. With only darkness in addition."
"Not now. Maybe one a day. For us your darkness is best friend - for pleasant processes it's useful."
"With last words I completely agree."

XXII
Monotonously sad slushy rain has grievously washed promptly ended short summer, which one, having so hastily finished just one tiny single day ago with all own burnt persistent heat, has deftly changed past weather's state on strict coldness and downpours. All is lifeless and dark, long deserted terraces are indistinct, streets are empty. Among of frozen canvas of pale sky is numbly hanging waxy looking moon. Everywhere is absolute sadness. Barren district is quiet, filled with bottomless dimness, deep depression and tearful hopelessness. Landscape is simple, gray and silent. Bitter gloom of detached weary vastness is causing sadness and sharp rue. Far houses are fully indistinguishable, shyly faceless and tightly embraced in apathetic painful harmony and all-consuming harmful dying. Air is fresh, chilled and static. Lines are strict. Views are soulless. All is sunk in oblivion, harsh agony and haze. All is motionless, inert. Matvey Grigoryevich is wandering around by colorless stone road of terrain with dreary thoughts is hurting vain addition.
"What for is life, for which of vague prospects... What for is it entrusted and imputed. After all, any heights, any bloomings are rare. All is aimless and vain. All gets built by pure random, by its strange blurred roads. Souls are weak, minds are useless. If you go with wrong steps, you will perish. All rules of game are fruit of current winners – I know this truth, I know it really well, but who assuredly will answer, how to become that one, who wins. Into fuss it's completely unreal. In the hustle and bustle of all. Miraculously if only. What in own turn is matter only of fate's will. What life is... I don't know. Someones maybe indeed truly know, but, to sorrow, not I."

XXIII
"We have to talk." - has remarked Elizaveta Kirillovna and then immediately lost in hesitations: "But conversation will be not so smooth and easy, not especially pleasant and not expected for your soul. But I will try to do it calmly, without all unnecessary pain – with totally turned off emotions and in delicate temperate manner. I've introduced myself to you not fully, not completely. But, faith, I didn’t want to lie. I just have been unable to say all. I've been appallingly afraid. I have a child... His name is Petya. At now he is twelve years old. I've been alone with him most often, and his father... Our meetings were rare, he hadn't any need in me. But recently, I do not know why, he has decided to appear, and I have turned to be unable to refuse and not to rush and to devote him all myself, like weak-willed, like inly replaced. I have been loving him so long... So many nights were spent in tears, so many dreams were fully burnt, so many wishes and desires. I have been knowing, that I'm totally unloved, but I still have been neatly waiting. Have been immeasurably wanting. Have been so ardently desiring. Like never ever in before. I've been so glad with every meeting, with every look and every luck of intercourse... Forgive me please, I'm wanting him too much. And Petya by some reasons hates him... I really do not know why. That is all. All I had for to say."
Anatoly Efimovich has entirely endlessly faded with whole appearance and mind, then with hopelessness and anguish clenched his teeth and got steadily frozen, unbearably harmed up by sharp, harsh pain.
It has seemed, that whole his life today has suddenly got splintered, got swiftly firmly separated from all luck, from all joy and all prosperity and balance. It happens so time from time, that practically full and finished happiness can get cracked and internaly burnt. And just exactly right this variant of curse has now happened with the hero. He has helplessly shuddered and feebly lowered his eyes.
"We have no need to see each other. I have already told you everything I've planned."
"I’ll ask about one small thing - let me please see your Petya, I want to say few words to him."
"Okay, I'll let."
"And do not to leave me so much sharply... Will you promise?"
"I'd greatly like to, but I cannot..."

XXIV
Room's pier is small. Air is boringly static and viscous, faint flimsy outlines are dark, atmosphere is simple and careless. Mood is lowered. Thoughts are bulky and largely chaotic. Views are sad. Anatoly Efimovich is sitting next to Petya in attempts to begin conversation.
"I am not used to be an enemy to people, not accustomed to that. Each connection between human hearts, in all acquainted of own forms, with no examples of exceptions, is fruit of fullest trust and calmness, of understanding and respect. I want you peace and lavish future, which, by the way, are so much tragically rare at ours emptified today."
"All breeds of people are the same. You show your kindness just in words, and in fact come and go away, only bringing me pain and disturbing. What for I need your understanding... To understand is rather able even dog. But dog's attention is more fair and reliable. So, just stop and don't spoil my soul, it is too tired of such rubbish."
"All I’m saying is fully sincere. I cannot be with my Elizaveta, that's why I can't be with you too. I cannot be in role of stranger into house. This is worse than torture."
"I don’t need in your cynicism. All people really love the most is just to lie. You consider me foolish and young. I have seen any people, and each one had no soul, only cover."
"I have quite similar opinion and views. And same of thoughts of people's masses. Of every single one of them."
Petya was not expecting such an answer, that's why has shyly hesitated and with fearfulness timidly asked: "And what for you is aim of life?"
"The main purpose of life, dear Petechka, is to be here a Human. In full degree of such a word. And not from lowercase small letter, but from proud and powerful capital one. All we need – just to keep honest living, to grow deep faithful love and to maintain frank hopes for better. We have to save own precious souls, not to get in dirts' swamp or to fall into pettiness, in betrayals and rotting. All we have – just to be. Not to exist, but most assuredly to live - believing into miracles and creating the last ones for others. And the greatest of miracles, Petechka, is hope's flame. The most important, pure and life-affirming. The most strong and most sacred and holy. Most influential on feelings and on mind. Nothing else can inspire you more, nothing else can give path to light's gleaming, to correctness and clearness of goals. Only hope heals and carries through abyss, truly leading to rich worthy finish and preserving from baleful turns. Only presence of hope leads to God. Only tireless straight strong believing."
"What if I'm having no hope?"
Anatoly Efimovich has got paused and hopelessly sighed: "Then it's death. All of tries will be useless. The worst existing of conditions is hope's absence."
"And the most frequent, by the way."
"I agree. Path to better is short, short and narrow – one wrong step, and you've fatally stumbled – stumbled, wilted, collapsed. And all past meaning has completely disappeared..."
"Zero is head of any numbers. It brings them down right exactly in at once." - has disappointedly said dejected Petya: "It’s not my principle to trust to breed of people, but I’ll probably try. Please, just don't vanish after week, don’t leave my mother as all previous dozens of partners. I remember each one of their flock... Will you have cup tea?"
"With rich pleasure."
"Then let's go. I even have such priceless treasure as lump sugar. It’s also kind of miracle, like hope."

XXV
Unhappily enveloped dim expanses with monotonous sad whitishness young dawn has confidently hung by modest peacefulness of room, having started to play with its things.
Little Petechka, who has got finally accustomed to new mentor in past three weeks of their grown depth communication, is already not sleeping – is waiting for the time of noon. And for huge reason, not in vain – at such good time should come Anatoly Efimovich, who has become completely irreplaceable: with him you can have joyful time, you can discuss all shades of life and do all this on wholly equal full positions, without mockeries and contempt, you can jointly go for walk and till satiety listen to tellings of city, you can even get journey too zoo, and he will easily provide it. What a fabulous marvelous beauty.
The door has got own sure knock, and on vastness of threshold has appeared familiar angular silhouette.
"Hello, Petechka. I've come to you again. Today we’ll visit one my friend — he is entirely like me. And maybe he will be there not alone. We'll also buy some gingerbreads at way."
"I'm wholly filled with hugest wish to go."
"Then let's start."
The path has luckily got birth.
As it was recently predicted, Matvey Grigorievich indeed is not alone - with Marina Valeryevna, who has tenderly come to meet guests.
"Step inside, take your sits." - has extended the lady: "I've baked pies."
"And we've bought gingerbreads in addition. Just purest arsenal, not less!" - has remarked Anatoly Efimovich.
"An imperial set." - Matvey Grigoryevich has smiled: "Well done, we’ll gift to our bellies truest feast."
Have joyfully sat down, laid out all dragged scopes of food, then curiously stared at each other.
"How blissfully warm is close company..." - has delightedly sighed Anatoly Efimovich: "Just heaven's paradise at earth."
"But not with everyone it's possible to talk at sad today." - has extended Matvey Grigorievich.
"Why most of people are so bad?" - has asked Petya: "Why all is so?"
"Current people are dying at now..." - has complained Anatoly Efimovich: "Such ones have hopelessly become completely rare."
"These are not people, Petya, do not look." - Marina Valerievna has joined: "It's simply stupid to rely onto worthless opinion of those who despise themselves, who are tormented by such trifles as hatred, envy or betrayal, they know neither truth, nor even sweet alluring part of lie."
Petya has looked directly up and then suddenly asked: "May I call you my mommy? It’s so much good with you in pair, as if we have been sculpted by one hands."
"Of course, you may." - has with harsh bashfulness responded him the lady.
"So, how not to lose own heart?" - the boy has shyly asked again.
"As a rule, any meaning arises more often there, where desperation has become to feel too bored." - has remarked Anatoly Efimovich: "And time-line is entirely endless and cunning: at first life cherishes you, then beats. But please persistently remember, true soul will never die or shallow. High feelings never fade or disappear. It’s rather difficult to find such priceless treasure, but it must be, must have existence in this world."
"I believe." - has nodded Petya, gritting teeth.
"Don’t be sad, my sweet boy. All is surely fine. Let's better go to play in lotto." - has suggested Marina Valerevna.
All have concordantly agreed.
Have started to play lotto. Now, at least, next two hours will certainly be not so gray and bored. Game is better than life. This is fact.

XXVI
Bitter day has approached poor Petenka. Scary, dark and disastrous. Fatal, dashing and horrible. Heavy, black. But has started it totally calmly and with no hints on any harm – with hopeless murk of ashen morning.
The ceiling has got gradually whitened. Behind of cold and freshly misted window – long veil of monotonously thick fog - cloudy gray and opaque. All the house is still closed with darkness. On things are many-faced slow shadows. In tartly viscous air – familiar from day of birth depression, slight detachment and yearning, rather careless one, by the way.
One minute from the waking up and it’s already time to trudge for lessons - to put the books and drag to boring educational procession at local charitable school - the most available of studying institutions. With piece of trouble, all is done. And now the road – monotonous, joyless and long. Some torments more, and will be usual class.
Six vain hours have flown rather quickly and uniquely calmly - no one has even beaten and forced to pass through humilations: for school realities such luck is outlandish. And now back. And again long and tiresome road. This time in opposite direction. At the street all is quiet, but in home... In home - agony and hell. The door is opened, in inside - fussy noise and new people. Petechka has got timidly hidden, then carefully crept in space of room, sneaked and fallen in shock.
All ones of things are upside down, on bloodstained floor is lying lifeless Anatoly Efimovich - with broken head and scratched face, next to the body - Pavel Alekseevich, the very "father" of our Petya – fat red-haired policeman with rank of captain, also stained with the blood and with freshly dissected blue eyebrow. Into distance of meter is young fearful sergeant – with some paper in hands.
"Do you know what to write?" - has rudely looked at him the kinsman.
"I guess, an accident..."
"Write, as I've told. You will write, that the victim was drunk and, trying to get up from chair, has lost own balance and got fallen, broken head by the corner of table. And write my Lizka as a witness. And no one word about me. Or I’ll split your head too. Has you heeded?"
Petya has instantly gone limp and, having gathered last strengths, in utter panic rushed away.
Stiff sharp attack of incomparably caustic hurting pain and inexplicably excruciating humiliation has promptly bursted with deep waves of internal breakdown and not passing harsh bitterness, so all-consuming and so scarily frantic. So recently arisen pure awareness of life has got entirely erased without traces. Where to go, where to run and to whom... The only variant is given – to try to rush to Matvey Grigoryevich and Marina Valeryevna – they are able to save.
And now their dear cherished porch.
"He... He... I must destroy him, I mush punish! He has killed! Has killed my Anatoly Efimovich! We have to kill him too. Right now."
"Who?" - has asked frozen Matvey Grigorievich.
"Father..."
"What a sorrowful tragedy!"
"All the house is now upside down. I'll never go back in there. It’s much better to die on the street, if you will not accept me."
Matvey Grigorievich has urged Marina Valerievna: "Past peace is finished. We have to move away of here. Far and in quietest one of manners. And Petya will take way with us. All should be done completely rapid. Pack your things and some goods, into evening we'll ride on Siberian train, I hope we have enough of coins for to be taken with no tickets. And then obscurity and randomness in all. At least, for first most hard of weeks."
"We must kill, we must do it."
"At here we have to do step back. Please, shy away from shit like he. You have to live, do not spoil fate's line of your future. And you, Marina, put some tea. Maybe last one in ours calm life. The main thing is to get an escape, to disappear from surrounding us filth. To disappear, but to manage to get rescued."

AFTERWORD:
Life after moving to Siberia was fully unremarkable and joyless, plots were plain, past emotions were canceled, all what was actually given – just one endless uncertainty, inconsolable, hopeless and gloomy. Unstable, shaky line of painful fate was adhering to rigor and constancy, having either in near or in far distant future no tempting chances or bright prospects of any meaning, weight or luck. In such a way have passed two years – completely lifeless, sad and aimless. And in next all has got even worse - has died new-found Peter's mother - at one of days has got a cold and then turned helplessly unable to recover. This dark event has caught Matvey Grigorievich like thunder – having striked him away and fully plunged in an enormous deep weakness. But even this was not most memorable thing, the loss of Marina Valeryevna has seemed to be rather feasible for so patient and strong Matvey Grigoryevich's burnt soul, very painful, of course, but quite bearable. Something else was remembered remarkably better... That has happened after five long of years after death of Marina Valerevna. Petya, who has totally grown at that time, has recalled this dark day very well - it had happened at local bazaar, Matvey Grigoryevich, as usual having taken Petya, had been walking through ranks and examining trivial goods onto shelves. The day had been completely hot, people had been arrivingly scurrying, time had been going in a hurry. At the end of the market, an unfamiliar, already aged man in a long frayed frock-coat had approached Matvey Grigoryevich and unexpectedly greeted his person, then had explained him some of things and handed over small worn letter, demonstratively bowed and pronounced goodbye. After this rather trivial meeting, Matvey Grigoryevich has instantly got changed - he had got sharply boiled and angry, almost wanting to rush at the stranger with fight, but kept calmness and helplessly crawled down the wall, wildly sobbed and stiffly grasped his poor head. Petya also had got fully stunned and bemused with such matter, then had hurriedly run to Matvey Grigoryevich and had taken his hand. He had remained entirely detached, and only after few of minutes had despondently said, coming back to oneself: "All is lost. All the fate."
Only later our Petya has sadly found out what a person that time it had been – none other else than Arkady Ignatievich.
"Good day! By what of fates we've met!" - he had greeted that time: "How unthinkably long long ago has been our last parting... I have to tell you one a thing. I had to do it much much earlier, I know. So, after years, this is moment for to make it. At last meeting I've told you full lie. But not myself I have decided to do so, not by my will... Your Anna Evgenievna... She hadn't died that helpless time, she had gone to another adorer - moved to live to his house. After year from that she had decided to tell truth and written this apologetic letter, where had timidly said, that she is happy in own marriage and had hopefully got priceless luck to give birth for two children, which are good, smart and healthy... But you had so much promptly disappeared. And now we've met each other once again. How you are? Have big family too, lots of children...?"
Here Arkady Ignatievich had been mocking, very shamelessly mocking - he had been clearly, firmly knowing, that poor hero was entirely alone. He had been knowing it, but been completely smirking. Since then, a lot has slowly passed. Matvey Grigoryevich has notably got changed - has become very quiet, dry, depressed and dejected. His mood has melted far away, his strengths have faded and dissolved, his hopes have turned in senseless ashes. It has been seeming, that past loss has returned with a hundredfold volume, having fully erased last zeal's scopes. From that moment the hero has got deeply silent, rid of any emotions, addictions and joys, having sadly acquired one habit - to go almost daily to the cemetery to Marina Valeryevna: to speak with grave and dear soul, the one, that has already longly left, but stayed alive in frames of mind. In frames of furtherly hung abyss...

Blurred distance is sad, hazed lifeless outlines are bounded by dusk, smooth views are lonely and depressed, indifferently dark and sharply hopeless. Everywhere is absolute bitterness, apathetic oblivion, pain and dejection. There're two standing silhouettes at one of faceless graves - Pyotr Pavlovich and Svetlana Sergeevna, nice shy young  girl, whom the hero has met into crowd – just single couple of short fleeting months ago.
"Matvey Grigoryevich, my mentor and my parent, successor and full substitute of Anatoly Efimovich, you've always been a Human, and now you're no more with us, already painful half of year, at now I’m gladly not alone, as you can see, I’m sorry – have not found my partner at the term of your life, you had been so much wanting to provide me with couple and family, you've been always afraid, that I'll repeat your poor fate... You all last time had been instructing – remember, Petya, the saddest thing is when you have no one to talk to, except of grave, this is most bitter, painful statement, most unbearable, hurting and dark. I so much clearly understand your words at now. At now I have no single one for to come for advice. November eighteenth is a bitter tragic date, dramatic, difficult in our hopeless shares. On eighteenth of November you has left this mad world, left forever, but I remember this dark day in tints of other colors too – that certain day Anatoly Efimovich had met me for first time. I know, I've broken him whole life. I was born fully useless, forgive me. Anatoly Efimovich... Bright, clean human you've been. Such ones are so much rare at today – as no times ever."- Pyotr Pavlovich has got completely silent.
"Let's believe into good, let's persistently try just to catch it... Let's seek for positive direction. We’re together right now. And I faith, that forever. Let's play act of the wedding next year at this dark awful date, having broken sad vector of being."
Pyotr Pavlovich has stayed directly wordless.
"For happiness we need just to believe, to gain true hope and to save its shy matter." - Svetlana Sergeevna has taken hero’s hand and looked in eyes: "Let's just believe - sincerely, wholeheartedly and saintly... Let's believe into soul."
The hero has looked up and slowly nodded.
Let's believe. Let it be.




The death of the Devil.

What is the devil in your mind? What does he mean? What a role does he play? Can you imagine him, pretend or unmistakably descibe? Have you seen his true face? I am the one, who really have...

I
Into dim, slowly darkening room is meekly staying total silence. Behind of faceless melancholic atmosphere is hanging mournful static longing. In languid deep apotheosis of faint twilight is waiting wearisome ensemble of rid of vigor tired things, unhappily encircled by inconspicuous and shameless naked walls, rather shabby and plain and completely detached from all splendor. In narrow space of window's frame is weakly flaming with soft coyness bleak silver-nacreous moonlight. In sleepy, idly melting air is offhandedly thickening evening depression. In the midst of such deserted chambers is quietly sitting with cursed self Stepan Denisovich, young poet and simultaneously sturdy faithful student at local aviation institute, from farest childhood person absolutely lost, rid of luck and of future and prospects. His discouraged and doleful mind is fluidly wandering along of joyless roads of gloomy, wreched and hurting thoughts, devoted to strong permanent despair.
"So it is, so it's going... The day has started own vain way, then it has senselessly got finished, providing coming of next night... For which of aims? For what of targets? What has it brought to my existance? Or not to my, okay, let's change. To whole humanity and nature. What has it given to them all? Just total emptiness in countless amount, losses, bitter futility, pain. To which of higher immense goals does this reality direct own current roads, where does it move across of time? How stupid, how awfully mindless is all, how fruitless and hurtingly vain – just from and to and here and there. Life doesn't bring us something new. What is more, all past hopes are so stubbornly dying and melting – even faster than snow: each snow needs at first to fall, to try to lie for some of days, and human hope, as practice shows, starts to die at the very creation. No single one of so much scarily excessive people's abyss will clearly answer why he lives. Having even ascended from now – as high as only it can be – to the frames of most global world's history, you'll never find with any of zeal's strength even shadow of firm sober reason. Time is passing away, days are steadily turning is nights, nights again into days, life does not try to get own ending, it's trying to last further with no finish, the only question – why, what for? Does someone contemplate this crazy play of fate? Does it have any kind of observer or author? Do all its passions have some common single sourse? This world, of course, so loves to be just random, but anyway it's not an argument for total global absence of the meaning. Any justice is fruit of pure utopianism, but is at here, at least, small modest drop of something, that causes feelings differ from disgust? Is, at least, any peice of true weightiness in endless centuries and years - at least for somebody, for one unknown person? Looking forward in life, I always see one hopelessness and vainness. And this is not a kind of formless thesis, but nothing else than real fact, so evidently proven by past practice."
The hero has indifferently sighed and stared back in window's darkness: "Eh, void, vacuum, as well as all my fate, in every day and any sphere, with sure absence of exceptions and no chances on escape. There is nobody at here you would like to devote your heart, such ones are out of existing. Both richly dressed and fully nude, greatly smart and unbearably stupid, incomprehensibly exalted and inacceptably notoriously low – all they are idiots: each face and every person. Motley canvas of new ideology is rid of any principles of greatness, of any perfectness and grace. There are no tools of improvement. Thoughts are windy and painfully hollow, rare feelings are faked. Daily abyss of being is too much poisonous and fatal. Everywhere is darkness and only, and all is given – just to fade... Or to burn, but it's always impossible. After all, it's still allowed to believe..."
When chances end, we start to cherish hopes, and when we stuck in vainness of interpersonal connection, we begin to write letters and messages. And just according to such fact, Stepan Denisovich, having sat at floor lamp, has taken out from of table some graish piece of greasy paper and begun to display plain and cautious symbols.
"Dear Irina Vladimirovna, my beloved and my priceless, all the time so much irreplaceable and so much endlessly significant and mighty, my highest best phenomenon, my lifetime angel and my God, once again I am clinging with all my sick heart to your selfless saint abode, and it's not possible to show and describe all my warmth and affection, all pristine sinless tenderness of inner gravitation to your person, so much pure, incorruptible, sweet and sincere. I can't explain, but some unknown power each second pulls me in your fiery, in your bottomless love, the only saving my lost soul from gloomy plague of this unbearable gray life. It’s hard for me to stay in current madness, it's too much hopeless and too vain. No personalities, no people, no heights – only limitless primitive crowd, where no damned one will understand, or frankly warm, or decorate with real inspiration. It's more appropriate to choose a noose at neck. All around are lost. Inhale their life, and you will suffocate at instant, not having finished your first breath. Among of darkness of this world, among of its unluckiness and evil, all I have to believe and rely are your faint tender outlines, your vague reciprocity and tempting sweet amusement of your nets, of priceless weightless trail of common selflessness and unity of hearts. That's why, I'm timidly appealing to strange optimism, fragile and baseless into essence. I want some meaningful direction, some strong plentiful purpose, I want salvation and want you... I want such cherished thing, which's humbly called by us as human happiness. I still believe in kind of higher power, connecting people and their fates. It's apparently mad, but I really believe... We can't enslave such thing as mind, as well as heart, as well as world around. Here my meek thoughts take own end, start to fade and get shallowed, I’ll add exclusively one thing – that I love, immeasurably love you and adore, and wait for quick reply and meeting."
The line has finished own shy length.
Stepan Denisovich has torn oneself from sheet of paper, turned off the light and then silently frozen at window.
And far in outside is so so dark, so much gloomy and sad. Just straight oblivion and only. The omnipresent one and omnipotent.
"It would be hopeful just to fall... Through of ground or deep into abyss. But much better, as usual – into bed and night dreamings – the sweetest shelter from this world."

II
As all we know, any life, which's not distinguished by own joys, has, as a rule, exclusively one sadness. Stepan Denisovich’s lost fate was in common completely the same. This dreary time, he was slowly following empty boulevard, thickly clouded by bottomless veil, in usual permanent and painful contemplation of dejectedly spreaded surroundings. The last ones were not shining with prosperity. Everywhere is strict lifeless coldness, the same type toneless haziness and darkness for long long period extended over sides. In sweet dense air, impenetrably gray and louringly downtrodden, is hanging spicy viscosity and depressive confused melancholy. Into empty and motionless sky, is pouring tired whitish bleakness with rare tattered and formless flocks of fog. On somber faceless joyless facades are defenseless small drops of past rain. Near of featureless frightened horizon are pale and carelessly sunk into sleepy and gloomy prostration, enshrouded by despondency dim outskirts. Among of numbly chilling abyss, are lying framed by mist landscapes. In courtyards are straying random shadows. Into distance are timidly waiting so much ineptly knitted long pathetic lines of unbounded vastness, richly flooded with utterly meager and almost indistinguishable views, submissively subordinate to predominant broad disappointment. Walk's term is average, but still quite straight and aimful. By very objective sad set of hopeless rueful circumstances, the path is going to Boris Andreevich, so awfully familiar old friend and completely like-minded close person, with whom the hero was related for last couple of torturing years. They have to talk about routine – about exitless existing, unrealizable desires and deep futility of all. Monotonous time is deliberately in no kind of hurry, atmosphere is patiently calm, filled with peaceful detachment, thoughts are free and oppressed, rid of any insights and impassively static. So much natural deep alienation is gradually involving in own nets of wistful selfless meditation, liquid kindness and silent weak somnolence. The hero is unhurried and idle and time to time is involuntarily sinking into thoughtfulness.
"What do we have in our petty century, what is inside of human abyss? Each one is either trying to get new, or longing to forget oneself, or looking for some thing or person – all are crazy, all are in equal stopless wheel. Be rapid, human, hurry, rush... As if next grave can run from you away. And last one's bonds are all that's given. So nasty piece of universal history and progress. Nothing good, nothing worthy and useful... At least, in one from countless crowd. Only cloyingly fierce harsh lawlessness - as the only sign of stability. What's imputed to all who are active? To trample tiresome earth’s flesh, to bark short time and to shut up, to imitate initiative and leave. To get forgotten, not even having got remembered. To burn out and fade. Sense is only a myth. A myth for morbid sake of which we pay with all own sinful being. And fatalism of modern sick traditions kills not worse than gun. It’s too sad... Such stupidity is hurting and dejecting. What is life – harmful poisonous swamp, rotten fruit, wrong formation..."
Old and lonely brick house has unexpectedly got drawn at the neighboring side of the street. Destination is finally found. Now to uprising shaky stairs and in door.
The room is typically filled with airless hot minimalism - things are worn, colors – wilted. All the picture of modest interior is surely impassive, weak and empty. In role of monument of nonexistent hope in the middle of gray naked walls is proudly standing oak desk. At space at window is a hanger nailed by nail and mummified herbarium tulip at shabby frame.
"Once again mindless fiction of days has calmly brought us with each other. Once again, we are here." - has extended Stepan Denisovich.
"The world has started games again."
"All is surely so."
"Sit body down, do not stand."
"Then drag the stools, where are they hidden at this time? On the balcony?"
"Just as always. I'll bring."
Have got a seat.
Boris Andreyevich was living very poor, even strictly ascetical, so he had no of furniture satiety, was sleeping onto overcoat, and from objects of luxury was inconspicuously possessing with the very same stools, that were traditionally serving for to meet rare guests and to spend endless moments of sad joyless involvement in thought.
"Let's start the plot of conversation." - Stepan Denisovich has waved his tired head: "We'll wash whole skeleton of world till every bone."
"Would be nice not to dirt ourselves in such process." - the interlocutor has smiled and measuredly sighed: "But time indeed is straightest rubbish."
"Which one - just ours or eternal?"
"Is any difference between of such two things?"
"Till harsh tart bitterness and pain unforgivably small. Time is far from all needful and right – from values, meaning, purity and love... But seriously, border is too cloudy. Murk has place everywhere — both in yours personal and also into global. The only question – where is darker..."
"You're really forward-looking in conclusions, you catch the very essence time by time."
"Such quality as superfuousness, believe me, is very very nasty thing. Not less than windiness or pettiness, not better."
"Last ones are basic features of each townee."
"Exactly so. If to be writing an essay of new of people."
"Very fatal sarcasm. The world inspires me on only two things – on suicide and getting drunk. And for some strange and vague reason, the first thing for my soul is much sweeter."
"Do not croak. You're not crow. Death is ticket with no return; you cannot go far with such direction."
"There is no of reasons to start. Fate's platform - road to futility and only."
"And where else would you so bravely like to go? To enlightenment and paradise? Such sweet locations don't exist. Tell these tales to your God, if you'll somehow find him."
"God is as future: such one at once exists and not."
"There is no future. But one time it will be. And will certainly be much much worse than present. All predictions have only two types: the first – desired, but unreal, the second – merciless and awful, but inescapable and firm."
"And after all, we call them ourselves."
"Not we, not so, such ones get given by the life. Having grown as a fool with the fools, you have no own fault."
"I agree with whole volume of heart. Most of people are stumps. Some just simple, some - burnt."
"Wait some more, and you'll also be burnt, right as they."
"I'm afraid not to meet waiting's finish."
"All'll be done, do not doubt."
"But for some reason world has been created... Why do they live? What for? Explain."
"For empty farce and making show. In logical and mindful motivation is important its goal, in crazy one – fulfillment's process. And the more clumsy and disgusting it will be, the more fun it will gift."
"Sure suffering. Torture."
"But who really cares... Devil’s friends are in joy. So be the same – just come and go. You have parted with someone, you are ready to climb into noose, your heart is absolutely broken. But people instantly will help – if your heart gives you pain, they will beat you in head – for priceless chance to get distracted. You love is dead, but that's not all – there are also poverty, hunger and wars. Do not suffer alone, do such matter with others – in cozy common shit."
"But is it really a life?"
"Strictly no. Life hasn't ripened yet to be named with such word. And it never will ripen. Its fruit is far not of high quality. It’s already entirely rotten - long hundred times and smells too bad. It will not grow anyway, that's fully clear."
"As I'm recalling, there was a habit - to believe in some God and consider that all is not vain."
"Even now it's okay to believe, it’s also not forbidden – as in past. And if you'll ask me to explain this kind of faith, I’ll describe it with simple example. Imagine rather usual situation, you give some money to the beggar, he insists that he lost his dear mother, that he is harmed and fully ill, you believe him and poke your last pennies, but he simply deceives you in all. His mother is alive, his health is greatly perfect. But you don’t know all this truths. And you will never know, it's a fact. That is why you believe. Now imagine at place of this beggar your God. This is whole explanation."
"Intelligibly, simply and concisely."
"And truthfully, the most important thing."
"No of pains can be changed."
"Right as well as destroyed! What is even more painful."
"I also am about that..."
"We've coincided into thoughts."
"Like damned ones."
"Just like that."
"Why do we live, if this world can't be changed?"
"The real purpose of each life is not to change this world or days, but to be somehow changed oneself. That's why you have to heed to haters."
"How could we find oneselves in world..."
"Each self-awareness is nothing more than a slice of the truth, that's cut off from the piece of world's lie. Teach oneself to deny. Have you got only evil? Then invent something good."
"Seek for help from the enemies only... If to rephrase your vague words."
"In whom else. Friends don't exist at here at all."
"Right as truth. All we have – only lie."
"Lie is more than a gift. But there’s one important thing: if you’re lying, please, do it completely. Lie, seasoned with a part of truth, doesn’t look so convincing."
"Priceless note. Eating lie, the main of things is not to choke with truth."
"After all, all is fiction, illusion. But people love if life's like that. They fight here not for freedom, but for more comfortable form of own submission."
"Does it have any sense to coexist with their mad motley crowd?"
"No trace of matter how much strange my words may look, but sometimes really have. Sick lost humanity still stubbornly persists in stably gradual surprising with own fruits, with new commitments and achievements, inventions, heights and graceful plots. Apparently, in unity of them is something inexplicable and secret. Having joint weak sand, you will get concrete stone."
"At now I even stronger want in noose."
"Be more patient, more firm. Each pessimism is child of mind's excess, the only fruit of knowledge is just grief, there's almost no other food for disappointment at all."
"That means today we're truly saved from hunger. But misconceptions are indeed a pit."
"This is utterly right. Delusions are quite similar to rulers – by some of reasons to elect them is much more easy than to overthrow."
"So, where to go, after all?"
"This world is made in such a manner, that everyone, who wants to walk, will never stay without kind of voyage. Look and seek. It, perhaps, will be rather helpful."
"Where does the happiness of me idly walk and come playful and frisky..."
"Life has exclusively two types of own fruits: just miracles and tragedies – that's all."
"We belong to the second."
"By the way, that's not new."
"We've got used to all dreary, I know."
"Then unlearn..."
"I would very like to, but this lost being's model is like kind of elastic material: if you get bored with its sad presence, you even cannot break it into parts. You just feel torments and keep waiting."
"But outcome each time is just the same. The end of any firewood is ashes."
"But it's an anthem of the apathy."
"Such thing is also positive and bright. You know, world is madly mindful, only here lack of rights can be completely compensated by lavish broad excess of duties. It’s so much glorious and pretty."
"All the meaning of life is hopelessly located in its meaninglessness, it's kind of curse for all alive..."
"Then let's go to some church – into pair with all other humanity."
"Yes, hopelessness is clearly unbearable, I know."
"Let's look at world in more smart way. The light at one of ends of tunnel is quite certainly present, the only question is at which - at one, that's only upcoming, or at one, that already is passed."
"It looks like rather easy way to grave."
"Every fool very perfectly knows, that physics is a science of the powers, and philosophy - science of powerlessness. Endure farther, that is all what is really given."
"People are rubbish."
"I agree. I completely agree. And all them are deep in sufferings at here. Both nits and geniuses stay in boundless grief. People basically are quite multifunctional, but each of them can act exclusively in one of three short roles - as rare phenomenon, as lost consumable material and as ideological minds' mentor. Look for yours of these states."
"I know people for so long, unlearn me please to have great hatred to each society's member of this world."
"This is incurable. Don't blame me."
"I'm informed. But how to understand and notice all of points of each human breed..."
"In strange question of kindness and evil, the only thing that brings true sense is who of them is just an implementer and who is real owner of performance."
"It's a matter of time."
"But, standing with no clocks and being blindfolded, how will you remark and decide?"
"Is my theory true or I'm stupid and only?"
"How can I solve such vague task... I also am just one of simple fools."
"But you're experienced in people's observation."
"Mindless people from ancient old times have been worshiping only three of being's things: first - fire, second – weapons, third – shamans. Three things, that were completely able to deprive them from home, life and mind... Build conclusions yourself."
"Each one of us who truly knows how to go will never stay without personal deadlock."
"Our life is like sea: it with same easiness unites souls both of sailors and of drowners. Keep own being afloat, do not look at the members of bottom, those ones who're in abyss can't act in role of helping source."
"Where else to take firm will and proper strengths..."
"Into tryings to eat with excess, the main of risks is to die in sharp hunger. So, do not overdo."
"I have no power in inside..."
"Believe, you will. Both for bad and for tricky of doings."
"I'm wholly sure, with poor me it will not work. I feel no drop of gravitation to achievements in frames of world, which all own time since start of self and till now from every single viewing point has look of mix between of mockery and curse. I will prefer to contemplate from side and only. And then I’ll stop myself as clocks. I do not want to show initiative or care, don't want to add participation in such life."
"The dinner was both nice and lucky, but, by some terrible mistake, the world has suddenly gone crazy and out any of excuses dropped into our poison food."
"So much alike with my opinion. As if you've taken this exactly from my tongue."
"All of minds have identical roots. All thoughts are plants of single field. Both in smart and in stupid we're partners. Don't hang your nose, I still believe, one distant day we will be saved."
"Consolations are nice, that is known. Nice, seducing and prettily warm, but where else to get filled with due strength and inflexible sure straightforwardness, where to find weighty reason for hopes, where to affirm oneself – in what?
"In own essence and depths of soul's inwardness. In own opinion and joy of understanding. As all, who're wise, most firmly know - chosen point of view is main source for next line of fate's course."
"My fate will never cope to move, it has got stuck right at own start and, as I'm guessing, it's forever."
"You're just believing in such statement. The one, which's not for to base at or to proclaim as guide for living. Follow mind, don't admit hesitations. Strive for meaning and goals. Such things will lead you to all true. To all what's actually needed for further properness and use. And do not miss from of mind's grasp - the broad between of thought and thinker is more than virtual and vague."
"Cutely said. Fine to hear. But anyway my poor thoughts are stably bad."
"Life is such kind and type of abyss where does not stumble only legless. Don't be sad or upset. All of us have mistakes. Some persons only a handful, and some – much more than immense tons."
"Mistakes have differences too, some of us will take prize with no risking, and some will even straightly die without any hint on medal."
"Be more brave and less timid. Life's benefits are matter of the takers, not of beggars or lovers to wait."
"There's nothing to take."
"The main thing, don't lose yours."
"But, tell me please to rest of notes - how all of this can be prevented..."
"You are right. No of ways, no of methods or tools. No shortest matter, how much talented is hammer, nail clipper will fulfill own cunning job. Fate each time will be stronger than human. But, of course, if it will truly want."
"No of changes will come, no of slightest ways out..."
"This is vain, this is case of frail look. Any systems exist and develop just till first coming of sufficient reformers."
"It can't be soon, can't be even at all, I am thinking. What a kind of damned life this hell gives – no of sense, no of pleasure or praise..."
"In last you're clearly insincere. We like to praise – just almost every slightly noticed sudden person, especially that one who now is dead: what a good priceless person he was, so nice, so opened, frank and honest, it's so fine, that his fate has got ended – just as we always have been wishing him whole life."
"All this is funny, but upsetting in inside..."
"All sadness come from happened failure. Each inability to build oneself from parts creates desire to be broken."
"Strange sick laws here we have. Strange and filthy."
"Don't dramatize, it's ordinary thing. Say what you want, but most assured and tart feeling of what indeed sea's abyss is begins at here from first acquaintance with storm's raging."
"It's nothing else than purest madness."
"And you still can’t get fully used to its broad path. So it is: spoiled hatred gets most often perceived as quite suitable love."
"Mindless paradox, illness!"
"Yes, it's paradox, right, I agree, who'll deny - all is dreadfully so. Nothing more, nothing less. Just one of many many others. The same feeling of guilt right as love to the motherland's width, which overtakes at first most distant immigrants, also falls in main turn on fully uninvolved and wholly sinless."
"Without reason we adore, with no of causes' drops we hate... We're skilled and mighty in such startings. I agree with your view."
"It is already more farsighted. We love to feel close fair presence of some justice, we love it madly, with all passion, with all volume of adoring heart. We have such strivings and intentions deep in blood: to enrich all already rich ones and to rob all entirely poor – how much close it's to nowaday humans. We love to be participants of justice. And this is strictly firm consistent valid thesis, not just some windy observational light fact. But if for you it’s not enough, I’ll shortly add, that global essence of new changes, as rule, comes down to the next ill flabby logic — we have some house, so let's burn it, then we will have to build new one, so maybe it will truly be much better. Such ideas hold minds. At least, in lost majority of people."
"We ourselves are cause of lack of rights. It is regrettable and sad."
"Don't worry, reason will be always. Remember, choice belongs to fate, it will never be yours, your role is only to accept."
"How to live with all this? And, what's more accurate, what for?"
"What a for... What does determine any fire – its brightness or next number of warmed ones? Please, answer frankly for yourself. Perhaps, then you'll refuse from desire to burn."
"Each single pessimist for sure soon self-hanging needs only second one in daily permanent addition."
"I've never been advising noose as exit."
"You'll, apparently, offer me gun..."
"Maybe, maybe. Let's wait."
"But anyway we stay alive. We meekly live and gain own problems, own disappointment in everything and all, especially in swamp of current people, enshrouding us in anguish and despair."
"Any human is made as a rose: he can become disclosed and understood exclusively with period of time. Don't admire with bud, if before you've not looked at each thorn."
"You can’t predict about presence of the last ones..."
"The thinner is the ice, the deeper is the river. Do not jump in quiet lake, and you'll stay with no wide loud losses."
"Where else at here to find some meaning and some aim... Both for luck and for stiffness to hardships."
"What a for do you need such a trifle? The presence of the best of guide-men can't replace painful absence of road."
"Inferiority of final can't be so freely reimbursed by excess of the endless foreplay, yes, I know, I know. But sometimes it's too hurting, too sharp."
"Not sometimes – every day and each second."
"There's nothing to cherish..."
"But what about own mind? Human consciousness works like a nail: shake the last one just once, and it'll never be able to fix something weighty."
"Do we have any need into mind?"
"For pure formality and only. Before of getting suffocated, it is traditionally popular to breathe – with all lungs and whole chest. Keep tranquility, try and compete. As you can see, it's not an easy task to be most full of idiots and morons."
"Filthy race, after all."
"But so much fashionable, frequent and so trendy. All are trying their best in obtaining with madness. Kettle-bell onto neck more often gets perceived as own precious swimming supporter."
"There is nowhere to sail..."
"To deadlock, as all others. The main thing, don't resist anyway. Attempts to fight world's stupidity with mind are close to trying to break a hammer with a cup. You will certainly lose. Remember, we were taught to breathe exclusively for chance to suffocate."
"This is absolute crisis. Total crisis of all – of sanity, of life and of right future."
"I will nod and agree. But any abyss has no hands, that's why we reach them ourselves. It is most awful."
"It oppresses and kills."
"But how else? Long lasting powerlessness, given with persistence, with way of days quite confidently turns in sense of guilt."
"By passing through of doubts any time."
"The worm of doubt lives not everywhere - in apple of fresh consciousness and only, that means you're far from mental wilting."
"But, tell, how else to get true use..."
"Don't worry, life do all itself. Please note that lack of awl's sharpness gets now freely compensated by lavishly excessive weakness of its bag."
"Even hopelessness has own control – bent a lot, dear human, but keep being alive."
"So it is, so it works. Both truth and lie exist in utter harmony, in balance. What's more, each mind is working so, that while we carefully break one mental wall, two other ones get hurriedly erected somewhere near. Don't forget, when you choose between two sure evils, the main thing - not to meet with third one."
"There's nothing to wait for at all."
"No expectations can be fruitful. Such thing is barren, wrong and vain. It's tightly rid of any prospects and results. Time's not a source of positive reforms, it's just an abyss of omissions."
"But if to look at world from side, it's not so difficult to notice, that lots of spheres constantly improve, update oneself and move to new achievements. It turns out such way, that at least into technical part, at least in visual performing of conditions, can be some kind of progress and development, of some affinity to purposeful directions."
"Don't look at outward prosperity and beauty. Of course, such qualities attract whole width of mind, capturing all infrequent thoughts and stealing sanity and use of having head, but just at here is shyly carefully hidden the biggest irony of life: each evolution of the cover is inexorably connected with even faster degradation of the content."
"What for to live? And which a way? What to cling for in nowaday abyss? Where to seek for support?"
"In interestedness, into next events. Refusal from self-killing is already strong step. Your curiosity is measure of life's love, of faith in own reality and future, in all unknown, new and strange."
"What is this world inside of own frames - nothing high, sins and stupidity, swamp, no of feelings, no of meanings or minds."
"In fact, all difference is tiny – both soulless lowness and heartful exaltation are exceedingly close. Some people have been punished by shameful bodily instincts, that's why they tirelessly run by night brothels and noisy drunk impudent taverns, some others have been similarly cursed, but already by moral intentions, that's why they all in own shy turn with identical ardor and passion rush up by churches and saint places and scribble endless loving recognitions."
"It turns out, we have here nobody who is really worthy of pity, nobody who deserves true frank compassion?"
"It's a sin to have pity. Never keep such a feeling to anyone – into any of cases and days. Any pity is moral subsidy: a person has not done you some good thing, but you already give him certain part of your sacred warm leniency. It's elementarily stupid."
"Can something be corrected, fixed or changed? At least in time of century or more."
"If I will live another fifty years and they will ask me what has changed, I'll answer into brief and meager manner: young ones have gradually managed to get old, old ones have died, fooled ones have surely remained same equal fools. This is classic of life."
"It looks like absolute despair, but you through pain restrain yourself and try to keep attempts to struggle, to overcome and crawl ahead, albeit all prospects and  all future come sadly down to one death."
"Among of those who've decided to get drowned, the main of things is not to find those nasty ones who are aware how to swim. This is basis of rules, of main meanings."
"It’s too rueful to know, that we push our lifes to deadlocks by free will. We reach each bottom ourselves. It turns out, we're once again lost, at this time just without of forest."
"All is really so, we ourselves are roots of each of own troubles. We indeed build own problems oneselves – as well as we believe to people... What's remarkably more we cannot even willfully force us to stop to continue supporting of maddest of ravings."
"But without of people it's hard. Anyway we depend from society."
"You can calmly increase such dependence in seconds. Get out of own route and way, get lost as traveler at winter, then find first people you will meet - with huge smoking and smelling bonfire, self-made hovel and hot boiling food. Don't hesitate, they'll gladly give you help – they will hurriedly warm all your frozen and trembling weak body and will equally promptly and dextrously cool your full similar shivering soul."
"But how to understand all kinds of people, how to get learned to such ability and talent."
"Save oneself from such merciless madness. Never try to disclose person's mask: in new realities, such ones get shown in many dozens. And never turn attached or tied by soul, there is no faith to own feelings. As well as no reason in their presence. Both logical and sensitive perceptions are awfully inconstant and fragile: take an ant, put it right on your palm, then pay attention and own glance: it’s enormously tiny, clear nothing at all, but put a can of water next to last one – just directly in front, and your ant will effortlessly turn into ant of king size, in volume equal to large weighty piece of sugar, but remove modest can and all previous magic will be instantly promptly dissolved, all puffed faked globalism will scatter. With problems all is just the same – as well as with soul's essence and ideals. All that you're able to believe in, all you currently cherish and save – all these vague and breakable matters can rather easily most promptly disappear, burn out, die and got transformed in barren dust, any greatness and grace in every single of intangible time's points can turn resultless, miserable and empty, light can be nullified by murk, sinless goodness by bonds with abysses of evil. Whole life is artificial and hollow, all is painted and only, that's so. There are no objective qualities. All your thoughts and all feelings and plans are not more than small toys of your being. And, believe me, in time of big chaos, sabotaging of them will be the easiest of deals for your hazed fate. The level of most clear understanding is determined by single degree of left unrecognizable deception – for most mindless of us life has scammers, for slightly less connected with mind illness life has politicians and government’s low games, for quite trivial fools - religion or some cultural events, and for absolute skeptics and sages all that rests - only love, as undoubted leader of most cunning and graceful deception."
"Where to seek for own mind, where to grab it, to gain."
"But what for do you need such a useless and comical trifle? The highest level and degree of any obviousness, given for perception, is pure invisibility at all. Most insidious, merciless lie always constantly keeps on the surface, getting met every day and so much regularly catching our eyes, but reliably remaining unnoticed. That's why all waitings and experiences are vain and pointless already in the very own essence. Time never sends us executions; all it does - just fulfills them at practice."
"So, maybe, it has sense to learn oneself?"
"It depends on your vector of view and of angle of its application. Remember, any of defeats is either too self-confident persistence - at the winning and getting the prize, or on the contrary too strong and mighty fear of to lose. So, be careful always and constantly."
"Any caution is prudent and good, I don't argue at all. It works like kind of self-hypnosis. But recognition of own weaknesses is not equivalent to gaining of some strength."
"The winner gets distinguished from the loser by one degree of love to war."
"It's too sad. You spend yourself, you burn inside, but at the end you clearly see, that your comrades and friends and your enemies are entirely equal and close."
"Any aimlessness differs from others. Any purposeless worry and fright is an example of pure trifle, any purposeless work is already a kind of nightmare, any purposeless feeling and hope is already a teagedy's grower, and any purposeless life's time is indeed real grief and damnation. The most expensive of all things is your chance on first step by right road."
"There's no person for to go with..."
"Leave such vain sentences to kids. You need to learn to act alone. There is no aim into presence of company: each one, who lives, for fate is just a puppet, a temporary purposeless performer. And main grief is that people are terrible actors – if they are understanding own role, they do not want to play at all, and if they are not understanding, they vice versa start to overplay. What a for do you need such a crowd? They will stoplessly spoil and fail all the play."
"But what weighty can be into there - in this play... They die like flies, hate and suffer, get sick, rot and perish in immense amounts. Fates and fates go to grave. Fates and fates disappear in abyss. All are weak and short-living. And vain."
"Look more prudent, more deep and absorbing, each fate's collapse is quite specific and surely not equal to all rest: it is one thing to rot as vegetable mass at some unused abandoned warehouse, and completely and sharply another – at huge and life-supporting one. It’s quite appropriate to add, that each one singly taken person is more unique than whole humanity teamwise: in you alone can be effortlessly collected all of best inner qualities, features and treasures, and in humanity all qualities are mixed – of course, with large predominance of dirt, of low cynicism and inward moral shit."
"It's disgusting to think of all this. Void, emptiness, longing and torments – all myself in inside."
"Even sadness is also specific. To remain with no air onto sinking wrecked boat and on save and just floating up is not equal. The question is, what awaits after passing of emptiness? An emptiness at start and an emptiness just before dying are different as earth and heaven's dome."
"How to put all of things onto right and appropriate shelves..."
"Don’t even try. It could have sense, but not today, our current lost exitless lawlessness has begun to be so much strong, that every poison tastes like food, and any lie and mean deception gets impeccably deftly adapted in proclaimed inner content to so helpful and precious form of accepted for clearest truth. Any mind's analytical strength at now is simply vain and useless: you'll never sort one lie from others. And what's more - it's entirely purposeless too. Granite of world is greatly harder than mind's flesh."
"Where to take source of hope?"
"In yourself, in inside. In own faded and sorrowful person. Anyway, our life is a kind of such marvelous movie, where each actor can get effortlessly transformed into own independent producer."
"Such a right, as it seems, not for all..."
"Worldwide is only right on death."
"By the way, most expensive and valuable one. Especially in current devastation, in external and inward destruction and all-consuming, merciless despair."
"At here I clearly agree. It's truth indeed, that people are united exclusively by frames of space and time. Not by one of ideas or meanings and not by one of deep, flawless suggestions. But it's not even barely a problem, no one of ideas and spheres had united lost barren humanity, but with such task has greatly coped distress and global ruination."
"Ah, greedy agony of life... Its deadlock is so horribly near."
"But any agony is stretchable and stubborn, sometimes from starting of the dying till the death can be successfully located all the life."
"It’s appallingly scary and hurting. How to gain inner personal use in such abyss, how to find and to save own indistinct direction to better..."
"Each human in this world in own pitiful role is just a kind of heavy kettlebell: all its possible meaning and usefulness as well as all its relevance of presence, all essence and appropriateness too are abruptly determined by life's circumstances, by point of entrusted application - put the same kettlebell at own entrance, and it will quite submissively fix your street door, humbly helping to drag any cumbersome rubbish or furniture, rags and bags, large vain boxes and rolls. But tie the body of such kettlebell to drowning human's feet, and it will promptly drag him to the bottom. We're the same. All rich prosperity of being, as well as all its features and details, all pluses and all flaws are solely determined by surrounding and factors, by roles intended for your fate, main of things don't depend on your person, on your behavior or set of mental patterns, they also don't depend on strength of your desire for new changes, or on passion of boundless ambitions. Even idiots also are different: ones of them, having firmly inspired oneself by some famous adventures, climb to high clouded mountains, falling down and losing own lifes, and other ones fall similarly down, but already at flat harmless place. Each of us has belonging to path, to its frames and imputed conditions."
"But which of theories can justify such madness?"
"No ones. Take both most popular of such ones or most infrequent and forgotten. Each harsh and confident materialist as well as any rough churchman will similarly justify this life with kind of higher bottomless idea, with eternal broad meaning and aim, but it’s even completely unclear where and how it exactly exists, no damned one of poor them tries to look just directly at person – just pretend, no one! They don't think of investing in life, don't look at person as at source of sense - just fool your trustful mind and only."
"And such freaks are so tenderly cherished and so richly worshiped!"
"It's kind of collective disease – the one, that is worldwide accepted and transformed into stable tradition. Each company is poison for its persons – take any salad and its products: each of them, separated from others, is entirely tasty and nice, but if such ones are joint with together into wrong, inappropriate way, then their final result can be fully disgusting and even totally uneatable at all. With close consolidation with society all is working the same: if you have got united with humanity, then heed, that volume of the slops, which will be poured into you, will be limited only by width of your throat. The only thing you can really get here from people is just contempt, that, by the way, can be freely replaced on pure hatred."
"Strong clear words - about similarity with salad. How painfully wrong is the fact, that all praised and supported by crowd so mindlessly prevails here over useful."
"In such lost case freed legitimacy gets acting. It not only masks sick living concepts and veil their perishness and flaws, but also hurriedly unties your rampant hands – believe to me, all this is always tempting. Legalized imbecility is called as comedy and humor, legalized and allowed abuse is called as teasing and flirtation, and legalized and fashionable satanism is called as saint and glorious religion. And even paradise is really nothing more than the highest degree of profoundly modified hell. All is utterly simple."
"It seems to me, that happiness inside is such a magical soul's house, where it's given to stay and successfully dwell exclusively to architect and only."
"So it is, you are right, any purposeful sense as well as any promising beginning grows solely on soil of your views, on basis of your personal perception, of your personal logic and visions. Moreover, no of being's facts can serve as evidence of meaning: any fact is a nail and not more – the one, which into absence of own prospects gets hammered directly into void."
"But how to adapt and to survive?"
"Destroy and kill your former self, realize that you are not a mainland, that you are not a continent at all, but only a banal little island, having drowed which one's land, you'll firmly start to move ahead to the best of existing locations. But remember please else, that wisdom is a kind of gift, that comes exclusively by chance. Any meaning is small tiny seed, which can be sown alone and only, not in surrounding of crowd. It occupies not all the immense globe, but only shyest point on its surface. And life experience is sort of cunning capital, that will be spent right till own end not by each one."
"Such constancy is also sadly static."
"So it is. Pay, at least, the most modest shy part of attention and diligently heed, that into poisoned killing dish, can get spoiled entirely all, except of aforementioned poison. That shows all hell of voices' polyphony: in such one, as you also should know, all is already said for you."
"All is strange and perplexingly stunning..."
"All is so - right exactly as always. More big than number of events is only number of perceptions. There are only two of life's ways: to fly up and to fall back to ground – and not softly, not smoothly at all."
"But with faint help of simple sober glance, you'll never cope to change or stop such process."
"It’s sadly true, that by add of unreal advantages you'll never take existing flaws away - no matter at all, how much nice you are praising own life, it will not ever cope to come by such aimless words' mass either better or somehow brighter."
"Not evil to destroy, not goodness to create."
"It's true, all creativity is weak, appallingly unviable and short: even twice realized and persistently strong deep desire to be exclusively in time, firmly fixed by three times clearly felt endless fear of own vain being late, can be easily crossed and erased by the only one frail vague chance not to go at all. And meanwhile, losers' purposeless victories aren't interesting even for themselves. Mortal ashes of perfect rich wood and the same useless ashes of sawdust are totally identical and equal, any previous greatness or glory and each past filthy shame after full final death will become in own sorrowful look completely and entirely the same. So, try to go and to hurry. To soonest hospitable grave, for most likely and frequent example."
"It's enormously sad. You always stick to some abstraction, to one's kindness or sweet lavish image, and then get into exitless slavery."
"This world is painfully sardonic and ironical. External prettiness and visual perfection serve here, as rule, as deft and cunning indulgence of hidden under them internal flaws. Love more frequent and deep. Love the same hollow beauty. Remember distinctly and firmly, that beauty is a kind of wild stray dog: it gets used by each one, who aren't lazy – from most frank and magnificent geniuses till most cruel and merciless tyrants."
"And sometimes so forceful and heavy delusions from beauty, so much sharply illusory states into head. As if your brain was fully amputated."
"Not brain itself, but right and sober glance. But, stay in calmness, this is temporary only. At these dark moments, the main thing is to keep stable firmness. Don't be afraid - your inner mental eyes have not fallen away from own placing as well as have not got turned off or spoiled: some fog has come – and that is all what has really happened."
"And what's more – that the deeper is shrouding haze, the wider are its killing evil nets."
"Human feelings, as fact, are marvelously similar with paint: the more ugly is tone of its color, the higher durability it has."
"Annoying, horrible disaster..."
"But don't despair in any case. After all, our mind was created such way, that the closer we are to the exit, the more often we think, that it's reliably not in there. And remember some more from my words, each mind in global inner essence is kind of prisoner who're able to exist exclusively in solitary jail. Being forcibly settled for long into any of possible companies – with faith, morality or pity, it will right instantly get lost – very promptly and straightly forever. Adore here only yourself, do self-development and treatment, but at the same exalted time stay aware, that this is alike with preparing rich boundless table for non-existent friends and guests. You'll, of course, come much better, but all world will remain fully bad, no one will appreciate you, no one will indeed understand, no one will give give hand and become dedicated close person. You will be genius, it's fact. But all you'll meet - just grave and only. Bad empty prospect, after all. And the only one, that is real."
Both have got silent at this phrase.
Boris Andreevich has timidly turned out and, after lazy moving back, rather languidly sighed: "What's at now, by the way, with your personal life? Without changes once again?"
"Without any of their number..."
"And with mine all the same – as in past. Immense trouble, I know."

III
The day is getting built without ardor, with no of zeal and no of cheerful shades. Time is sluggishly stucking in fuss, passers-by are quite lazily trampling long sidewalks, fearful wind is unhurriedly driving away old wet foliage, offhandedly combined with slushy dirt, and turbid thickening dense air is sleepily dissolving in own space relentlessly increased discordant odors. Incinerated pallid charm of abundant in past finished heat is removing and melting with summer, sadly stayed far away and replaced by ripe merciless coldness of autumn, fully rid of mild tender prosperity and enveloped with breakably short and sadly tearful farewell, not persistently calling away from vain perishing present. Faded featureless town is waiting, meekly burning itself and uniting with bottomless apathy. Disconnected from land pale horizon, forlorn and lost in faceless haze, is getting timidly diluted with large clouds. All world is suffering and wilting. Humans hopelessly too. One of them in this context is clearly known, none other else than Stepan Denisovich, humbly going through everyday grayness into local poetic alliance, outrageously aimless and vain, ideologically alien, but still most firmly stably serving as the only accessible place for a role of an opened speeches' platform. The mood is giving one despair, the head is empty – right as thoughts, and mind is zealously devoted to tart pessimism, boldly seasoned with absolute minor. Another district, by the way, has gifted cherished destination. And now - routine and only. Rejoicing with futility as always. And don't get used to something else.
The hall inside is rather empty, at old and closed with shabby tissue chairs are sitting several of simply dressed pale people. At low stage is standing bald and faceless man with quite formal accounting documents, and next to waiting for new speech small hollow tribune is dusting little clumsy lamp with long yellowed porcelain shade. Deep longing straightly into all.
The meeting has begun itself.
"Well, let's announce all, who're ready."
Soon several of hands have hurriedly and skillfully reached out, one of their greedy fervent bunch was modestly belonging to constantly distressed and eternally seeking Denis Stepanovich.
"Mr. Arbuzov, you are, as always, with own scribbles." - has derisively sneered grinning master of process and begun to write down all ones of activists in list. After finish of this, the evening has received own birth. All brave participants have started to use stage, in pastly chosen standard order coming upwards, as ghosts, appearing one by one. Weak performance has moved in ahead, Arbuzov has ascended there the last.
"Defecate." - has quite contemptuously pointed the presenter, dissolving into endless jesting smile, voluptuously intoxicated by self-power.
Stepan Denisovich has sluggishly got up, turned firmly covered with absolute displeasure and, having briskly overcome this fear, promptly climbed onto stage, rather steadily settling at center and meaningfully taking and unfolding shameful couple of sheets, crossed with handwritten abrupt lines.

Don't crush bird nests, don't spoil love
Do not condemn the lovers
Don't spend vain tears and don't leave
All ones, who're truly loving

All ones, who're catching each your word
And wait each day and night
All ones, for whom you are their world
For whom you are their flight

For whom you are more huge than life
And sweeter than existence
For whom you're needed all the time
From very first acquaintance

The hall has gradually started to disperse.
"Wrap up your vain and empty fuss. People are bored. Such graphomania is quite in bulk on any fences." - the entertainer has disturbed the hero: "Every time all the same. We are tired already. You have to start to be concise, we do not have so much free time for to waste it on such tasteless rubbish."
Denis Stepanovich has folded all his papers, not having managed to receive own recognition, and begun to go back.
"You're a fool." - has greeted him bony figure of Georg Romanovich, a local critic, who has never been writing himself, but has always been utterly interested with every single work of others: "You push your nonsense once again, it’s over-nauseous to listen. Admit, that even for yourself all this shit is completely disgusting. What are you trying to achieve?"
"I do exclusively those things, which I consider right and needful, which seem to me important, actual and aimful." - has muttered dumbfounded Denis Stepanovich and then nervously tried to leave out, but the road was stubbornly blocked.
"Don't run away, just wait a moment. Let's go aside, we have to talk. I will explain you some of things."
"Of what we really can talk? My own opinion is guided by ideas, by deep conclusions, aims and inspirations, by inner personal beliefs and prudent judgments. And it's not in my accepted principles to sell my heart and refuse from telling truth, I'll never start denying of myself, of my frank soulful essence."
"Stop your baloney, moron, I've stopped you not for this, don't urinate in my exhausted ears."
"I don't intend to talk with you."
"Don't bark, shut up." - Georg Romanovich has pulled Stepan Denisovich by collar: "You had bad explanations? You cannot understand in peaceful way, I will explain a little bit another."
"What do you want from me this time?"
"Don't pour your water anymore, don't bring your rotten soulfulness to people, for whom you're trying to be ardent? Do you really want to succeed?"
"I expound my views, my ideals and senses, my life's basics."
"The world is built on something else - on strength and merciless persistence, on social integrity and frames, only wars give us heroes, true human should be ruled by valor, by thirst for victories and prospects. And you willfully submit to woman's essence, to ones, who were created for abuse and who serve as a source of betrayal and grief. You're brainless coward, completely stupefied with previous impunity, you are only a rag, only hollow and aimless ensemble of most primitive pubertal dreams, you've never seen true face of life, as well as never have got normal beatings. But I will break your childish peace."
"I act and strive here as I feel. I share my essence, my best values, confirmed by many times of sufferings and pain."
"Do you sincerely believe to women breed?"
"Yes, I do."
"You're a ram. No offense. I wish you no evil, after all. I don't want you to live as an idiot. Any woman is leniently given for to be f*cked and constantly deceived. And you live in a kind of pink fairy tale and inspire yourself with these snots, exposing your own weakness for high feelings. Give up such poetry, don't spoil tons of paper, be normal, go for something sober, become at least a human for beginning. Don't be stupid again."
"Enough. Make fun at others, I'm not a dog to wait for stick with neck."
"I've not finished. Are you going to spoil my mood? Someone else will stay silent, but I'll kick you away. Such freaks live painfully and short. Look better at yourself - creepy sight. You are equal to shit. Do you have even anything healthy? You are mindless and vain."
"Shut up!" - has interrupted Denis Stepanovich in fervent trying to get free.
"You tremble, stumble. You are a slug, you're not a man. I've warned you - you'll regret a lot."
"F"ck you..."
"You'll be f*cked much more hard, you even will forget how it's to walk."
"Get off!" - Denis Stepanovich, having sharply escaped, has howled and hurriedly begun to run away, having luckily hidden in gateway and changed path on more complex and long: "What a monster he is! Herod, devil. Real devil in all. Just the best illustration of the theistically shown, appalling demon. Disgusting, petty, soulless scum. Unprincipled, two-faced and wholly putrid. Dirty creature. It's hard for our poor earth – it meekly carries on own surface even him, even such awful nit. He is devil, that's fact. The most real and low. The most powerful, fallen and dangerous. The worst of all. Of all now alive. It's definitely so. Without doubts, thoughts and hesitations. The worst of everyone and all."

IV
The boulevard is crowded with people. Motley public is fussily scurrying, deftly dashing ahead, pushing passers-by's hindering shoulders and powerfully boiling with whole mass. The wind is pestering to weighty clumpy clouds. Slim naked trees are skimpily exposing calm laconic striptease of soon autumn. Monotonous pale paving stones are staying boring, wet and gray. At tall sad lampposts are lonely wandering unhappy skinny shadows. Voluptuously bitter static air is freely thickening around. The street is slowly exuding and abounding with weak herbarium of pain and faded foliage, of upcoming unlucky oblivion, replacing everything and all. Dumb dreary disappointment, completed with long gloomy dim sun-rays, is quite indifferently hanging over places in mix of stupor, fright and doom. Gently tender pernicious mist, united skillfully in flocks, is cautiously melting in disorder, staying totally pensive and rueful. Opaque emptied horizon is fragily and bashfully getting more dark. Languid, piercingly painful sharp hopelessness is timidly increasing in amount, faintly huddling in generous seeking in ominously tragic endless murk.
Two passers-by, Boris Andreyevich and Natalnaya Vasilievna, his only acquaintance and ideological companion, who was modestly sharing his life, are motionlessly sitting on peeled bench, fully shabby and tortured by slush.
"I'm thinking once again about being... After all, it's believed by some minds, that into fate all things are only for reason, what means, that even most wrong steps, most stupid and disastrous for their maker, most humiliating, vain and hollow must have some logical direction, some strict predetermination from above, we have no of mistakes, so I think. In any case, if you, at least, at once will truly try to understand most sacred essence of reality, you'll be of similar ideas. I with whole sternness want to know what all the grief was added for, what is the meaning of this drama. I want to have most clear explanations both for flight and for fall, I want to know the controller of this play, want to know its author..."
"Again you tell me useless rubbish. Vain and empty at all into any of words." - Natalya Vasilievna has sighed: "You are looking for heaven, but you're sitting in swamp. No single penny into pocket, no of things are achieved. Who would support you from the crowd walking near? Each one has aim and current duty, they have found themselves, have found purpose and vocation, but you yourself stay lost in aimless dreams. It's similar with calling Moon from sky – it will never roll down in hands. You can equally twaddle for long, what would really happen if we've decided to sell Earth – no matter at all, how unthinkably much it will cost, who will buy it with all human problems... Think better where to take some money for to provide two our lifes, we're sitting not in cinema or theater, but in the middle of cold alley on freezing, clothed in snow bench. And you again keep talks of ephemeral... Who else from people walking here will honestly support you in such dreamings? Who else think so – as think you..."
"They do not think at all at poor practice, they do not know how to do it, they don’t get puzzled, living here, don’t get involved in such a process. They do not gravitate to thinking or prediction. As well as never strive ahead with fervent selflessness and passion, never build global history. Just weakly contemplate and only."
"It's so much hard to be with you. Madly hard. As in genuine hell." - Natalya Vasilievna has sadly taken deep long breath and asked without any ardor: "Do you still draw? Has it any success?"
This question was quite relevant and sharp, because of fact, that all support of hero's life and modest everyday existence was totally depending on the money from short and meager artist's craft, day and night filled with flaming creation of pictures, the ones, which with entire passion were getting sold at local streets.
"Nothing worthy and great, but some progress has come." - Boris Andreevich has hopelessly responded after pause: "The process now is more easy, but all is staying complicated as before. But it's more profitable now. Now I stand really longer and bolder, I draw more rare than in past – sell already created. I have to be more active and persistent. To be more confident and brave. Then we will live completely nice."
"We will live, yes, of course... If we'll not die from constant hunger. From melancholy and despair. And you again gain praises to world's globalism..."
"We have no globalism at all. We have this world, have its hollow and mindless humanity, so simply packed in vain civilization. What else indeed do all we have in current time? Only huge populated earth-ball, aimless point in absolute abyss, short trifling moment at eternity of days. We have just immense endless bunch of small particularities and fusses. And no of globalism or greatness. No of intended to gift sense."
"In dreams are mountains of gold, and in reality one failures. All transformations and all plans so stubbornly remain just verbal rubbish. And life moves forward as before - with no useless looking back and no worrying of stuck laggards. Waste your life as in past, if you're silly, I will not stop you or correct, will not disturb your foolish everlasting childhood."
"After all, life is short. And its abyss of dead empty vanity is irreversible and sadly all-consuming. There is no shelter, no treatment from such lost captivity. People live for to trample earth's ground, to lose dreams and to die. And I want to have meaning, to have justification and bright aims. I express my small world into art, embodying hurted soul in unforgettable, in unshakable, great and eternal. And money... Money will appear. I am not in distress from their absence. If you have light inside, night is brighter than day."
"You are stupid... Okay, it's time to go back, my coat already brings no warm. Too chilly for to talk at ease."
"Let's go..." - the hero has got up and trudged with his companion in distance: "Is your daughter still visiting you?"
"Oh, no. She's not so stupid for to come into local lost wilderness."
It's nice to clarify, that aforementioned Natalya Vasilievna has stably been in state of widow for more than dozen of last years and had grown-up and independent daughter, who was living in neighboring province.
"The devil, probably, is also quite afraid to visit our gray locations. Eh, melancholy, melancholy... But pain is cure from any lies, with last one it's more calm and more reliable." - Boris Andreevich has rummaged in his pocket and taken out few chewed bills: "At least some help. Not enough for too long, I'm aware, but it's the last."
"Not a lot..." - Natalya Vasilievna has slowly taken little papers, grasped in hand and carefully put inside of pocket: "Thank your soul for compassion. Quite enough for short future. Not for your globalism, excuse."
Have lovely smiled, then stood a little, gone apart.

V
Among of lonely bottomless sky's firmament, enveloped into canopy of sadness, is carelessly swirling and extending lifeless grayish cold mist of pre-dawn. Beyond of cloudy horizon, are reluctantly seeping through murk first timid rays of pale and drowsy sun. Cutting bleak tearful curtain of heights, are slowly creeping shyly strengthening bright shades. Behind of skew oblique window's shutters, is meekly wandering exhausted tired wind. In the middle of faceless and dark, downpour-flooded small yard, are gradually melting in deep sorrow gloomy viscous somnolent shadows. Here and there, single rare pedestrians are suddenly appearing from nowhere, at ease successfully replacing onto paths same in all features former walkers by, also being entirely ready to be furtherly likely updated by more fresh figures, most identical to selves. First flakes of wet and liquid snow, mixed with merciless rain, are with dispassion flying down on all unoccupied of spots from mournful cumbersome sky's abyss.
Denis Stepanovich, habitually motionless and usually depressed, is standing silently at window, unluckily beholding daily agony and building ramblingness of thoughts.
"Deep emptiness... Deep emptiness in all. Not only outside, if outside it's normal, but in inside all fallen content is the same. Whole heart is dead – no of hopes, no of joys, only darkness. And fate is getting stricter, prompter - more and more with each day, and more scanty, more broken, more hollow, deals also are not angelic and holy. Time is bored from itself, time is tired, long billions of years of universal transformations, of evolutionary sacrifice and fuss have turned out in absolute hopelessness with no kind of majesty and no most doubtful hazed shadow of perfection. And even if whole current lost civilization will just perish, no one will cry or will be noticeably sad. All known productivity and all historically given creativity comes down only to one wars, to endless violence and sins, to stubbornly supporting timeless enmity – to all and everyone without of exceptions. What's the source of this hell? What fills this agony with such a durability? What keeps to hold this world alive? So much pernicious and ugly form of being... And we even admire sometimes – with its matters, events and commitments, bending helplessly down in front of face of fatal common madness. But what is life inside of daily racing – under false cunning cover of heights, what does it mean in global sense, what does it have in final essence? We have totally boundless universe, have its strict and indifferent powers, have distinct, rigorous forbiddings and useless breakable encouragements with similar inactive inspirations, we also confidently have so much surely firm separation on winners and on losers of main play, we have long mighty line between of all material and sacred, between of possible and real, we have just one predestination – harsh and strong, dark and utterly painful. We have fate and its laws. Have determinism. Where is life in its frames? One existence and only. Under leading of nits, each drop of peace is pure collapse, they need fire and pain - betrayals, hatred, treachery and wars. There is no suitable mirror, even taken from biggest of telescopes, for to reflect all current killing hopelessness and horror. How stupid are all of regrets, how amazingly vain and irrational, how wrong is this feeling itself – at least, in lost surrounding around. It's like with each captured little animal: it gets in trap and instantly begins to shake and rush, to tremble and torn out with all power, then it suddenly shrinks and entirely fades, falls in absolute agony, by the reason of his last life's hour, but if this aforesaid mortal trap would had been by some wonderful of reasons very luckily missed, would the fate of such beast have some different plot? It would be quite emotionlessly eaten in literally few upcoming days – just by the first of countless predators, which are lavishly teeming in forests, would it really have long, firm and fruitful existence? Hardly so. We are also the same: we tearfully and worryingly regret of any losses and mistakes, of all in temporary current, where if to be completely honest we have no significant chances, no tangible and weighty opportunities and prospects. We grasp here only for emptiness, for fuss, for accessible fiction and vanity, for short and aimless self-deception, fully barren, unreal and stupid. All life, all hopes, all deeds, all thoughts and aspirations are just rubbish. All this world truly do – just sow shit into innocent souls and only. And then ardently raise it and cherish. You look at this lost, poisoned hell and discover yourself in deep abyss, in grave of greatness and humanity. Look around at here - what hide reality's conditions, what guides worldwide eternal path, by whom and how gets supported the carnival of sick rotten era, so faithfully devoted to extinction, what a for does it live, for which of strange and blurred aims? Oppressed and fully scattered being, where, against of dark doleful burden of encircling us permanent hopelessness, all-embracing and scarily deep, each step in any of directions only surely carries you more into hugs of wide baleful abyss, turning distant mistakes and omissions in their current upsetting results and tormentingly grievous prospects and burning fate and all its facts till lifeless ashes and cold coals, what it really is? Is this lost horridness a world? Is this a proper cradle for achievements, for frank saint feelings and improvement, is it a source for valuable rich fruits? Does such terrible place have some chances on confident goodness, on its growing and stable preserving, on increasing in purposeful essence and on linking with wealth and prosperity, on straight reliable recognition of better ideals and aims. This world, where runners dream of stumbling, this world, where any kind of hopes one a day gets crashed by dreary factuality, where omnipresents stubborn need for vague, clouded salvation, from someone clearly unknown, this world, where the only possible type of completeness implies through coming into grave, the world, where whole progressive line of long and tiresome existence comes down only just to gradual extinction, it was surely dead from the very first day... Tell me please, tell me straightly right now - as to most aimless person from all rest - does this world has some reason or sense? At least, most scanty, miserable and faint... Tell me. Answer. Explain. I want to know, want indeed. I have to know it completely. I have to know all this rave. Yes, I have. Yes, I ought."

VI
Somber house is quiet, easy presence of two pensive persons does not change usual peace. Denis Stepanovich is sitting on one stool, Boris Andreevich is sitting on another.
"Sometimes I look at our world, embracing it with modest mental width, and it drives me in bottomless apathy, in endless hopelessness, despondency and pain. No unity, no meaning, no weight... People live for pure rave! For killing agony and void! It's sure horror and not less. Why it's so? " - Denis Stepanovich has sighed.
"Remember the sectarians and madmen, they've been killing themselves for sick myths, and you are wondering - why people live for raving, what, tell me, else are all they able to live for?"
"This is pointless, wrong. Unforgivable, hurting."
"That's why, let me remind to you – not to admire with the people: in any case and any situation, the best they can is to survive - in terms of greatness, action not impressive. You can't help fools, they come to wisdom's pouring with a sieve. But after all, we're logical, smart creatures, and you certainly cannot deny our mind: all day we calmly sit at home and questioningly look at shining sun - look and wait, but as soon as it sets, we insistently rush to sunbathe."
"How to finish this madness, to stop?"
"For to stop to perceive any nonsense for logic, first of all stop to take real logic for rave, do it, try. Otherwise, all will shyly remain – just to choose aimless nonsense and wait: into absence of powerful values, we admire with scales of strong flaws."
"Where are the roots of this sharp trouble?"
"Deep in depths. Each death gets start from day of birth. Each sad awful collapse of life's line and any tragic painful brokenness of final gets always prudently prepared from beginning."
"And what's indeed the strangest from all things is the fact, that this purposeless, profitless word time from time has some strict certain harmony, some blurred usefulness and meaning..."
"In new society of full madmen, any mutual steadied hatred, nicely equaled and tart, is called today as true and decent love. Therefore, if to rise talks about aims, set that ones, which in essence and content are most far from all popular here, follow path, which is solely yours, and also steadily and soberly remember of fact, that aim determines future route: between of going one and his direction, as all of us detaily know, gets firmly formed some intimate connection, effortlessly embodied by the gait, which one entirely controls whole soul's comfort, whole inner peace and every next achievement."
"But how to predict and to foresee all slippery and nimbly shaky plot of strange and cunning living drama?"
"But what for do you really need this? It kills the very essence of reality. Your mad attempt to set by hand all unknown required numbers discredits any sense of equation."
"But, trudging such a way in random manner, you collect only losses and pains..."
"Your losses move you into wisdom, in soon improvement of past views: if ground leaves away your feet – it happens only for better: if you are walking out of the land, it calmly means, that you are flying. Throw your previous wandering fate, throw aside – as a vain, barren garbage, don't try to save its hollow plot, your mind requires something sharp – losses, hardships and pains. Don't hesitate and don't ignore its searchings..."
"Why human stupidity is so harshly popular? Why it's so strongly in demand? Is everyone indeed so firmly foolish?"
"Any abstract and cognitive theories, as well as all theistic ones, get proved as usual not by practice, but by number of trusting adherents. This world prefers already done. Its crowd also gravitates to simple, mad and harmful, by the way. Truly happy and really mindful will never be completely understood, will never be supported by depressed, by taken into grief and married with disaster. It was always like that. And, believe me, it's far from saving being ever stopped. Thick neck feels glad with all of nooses. You have to know it quite well."
"The world is totally distorted, it's poisoned, spoiled and infected – by fatal terminal disease of mass souls' shallowing and dying."
"The world is clearly satirical and crooked, the most popular form of true honesty is fear to get choked with stolen piece. We don't try to solve our problems, we just try to accept them and only, try to discuss their presence one more time. We have appalling forceful cult - to make sins and repent. And if you have no sins at all - then you start to be worst of all evils, because of fact - you don't repent, don't suffer into torments of remorse. This world can't be explained by healthy reason. The principle of global utter justice, the one which is so actual and trendy, does not carry you anything good: into circle of ugly and sick in the role of wrong one will be right healthy person. So, currently it's fully how we live: the main part of reproachs, condemnations and blamings concerns at first most frank and happy ones. All unlucky and pitiable humans assuredly and openly consider, that this abruptly limited group is the most influential cause of any of past troubles and omissions. As if each loss of someone's leg has the only purpose and aim – to make all other gaits more stable. It can't be be soberly accepted or corrected... Life is fatal and crushed, in has been hurted right in essence, in all of basics of own sense. The same experience or mind are wholly accessorial and weightless. The happiness, which has happened at here by pure random, has no depending on your brain: each walk by thin and brittle ice is not a fruit of skill, but a result of simple lucky accident and only. And what's most terrible and sad, the more abundant are the chances, which are entrusted you for use, the more wrong and more empty is being: any freedom of tools brings broad duality of goals – that goals, which one a day transform in nothing."
"The world is now a kind of hellish circus: no seriousness here, no sure weightness, only fear and cult of wide stupidity."
"And so it is, this world is just a comedy. Tragic, sorrowful one, but anyway, of course, just comedy and only. And clowns also are at every corner - on posters, in politics, into clergy, and those of their mass, who wear carnival masks, are not the funniest at all."
"Who is guilty in all?"
"Being's system. Nothing spoils your soul so much as unity with principles of world. The beggars here are not so seriously worried of their lack of own money, they are much more concerned and puzzled of the money excess into pockets of others. It's difficult at now to grow up not as a soulless sick monster. Both doubts and convictions in such frames are berries of the same unlucky field. As well as black and white are one strange color. So, don't be glad in any case, if even something goes well it's just an error. An error or beginning of sad plot: the most popular preludes of grief have own start from most flawless prosperity."
"How not to lose, not to crash own weak mind?"
"At here we all keep talks of mind and prospects: each one persistently considers, that it's aptly his personal duty to mention an undoubted importance of having aim and distinct future road, but for some reason all of them so unforgivably forget to add small, unremarkable comment of their own lack of any goal. Stay away from suggested as meaning. From religion or soul adherence. Religion is a factory of weakness. It's type of ideology and thinking, which most effortlessly allows you to be sure, that any adept, rid of someone's help, will never try to gain this help himself, it forces sick and hurted ones to love diseases, forces ones, who has fallen in losses, to desire to grow their scales. Religion is not only a poison, but also its direct and free absorption. And, of course, if to be frank and honest, religion has exactly nothing common with true faith."
"Why happiness today is so sinful?"
"Becoming absolutely happy, you oppose all yourself to whole world, creating sharp and timeless confrontation: the world itself has no one day been happy. Since the inception of humans, there were only wars and diseases, disagreements, betrayals and pains, exploitation, deceit and vast violence, humiliations and pitiless sneerings. By becoming entirely happy, you break with very principles of people - to suffer, to endure and to hate."
"Who has invented all this shit?"
"The unfortunate ones have invented. And as you maybe also know, there is no more terrible tyranny than the authority of slaves. But still remember of the fact, that not only each mind is determined by deeds of environment, but also any model of environment is surely determined by the mind: transforming and reshaping in conditions, they are accordingly adapting to each other, correspondingly seeking for optimum of common mutual conjoint correlation. It concerns also frameworks of being and depths and boundaries of life, concerns its actual dimensions and the biggest accessible height of expressions' completeness. The world, which's taken out of the people, is truly limitless and meaningfully fruitful, and it's decidedly a pity, that only one degree of personal access to surrounding wealth in each case is completely exclusive. And if to say of ourselves, of inwardly located, hidden qualities, all is predictably uninterestingly trifling: we, as always, so eagerly rush to surrender to all hollow and stupid convictions, to shaky promises and slippery suggestions, if such ones can reliably provide with some faith – fully false, vain and empty, of course, but still able to bring little warming before of soon expected disappointment. Nowadays role of prophet is easy: tell me an object of your real admiration and complete, ended spectrum of fears, and I will accurately answer who you are. So, look at the roots and don't listen to people – it is impossible to sow sparks of sense with stone of their lie and boring twaddle."
"What a trouble with sense do we have?"
"Any sense is deplorably modest. That is why it belongs to few ones, all the time shyly hiding from viewing and only rarely exposing own quiet presence to stably narrow cohort of seers and sages. So, look more long. And always be afraid of perished spheres: ruins are able only to bury."
"What to do in this pit of extremes?"
"What to do... Just to rush as in previous times – from one of madnesses to others. Any love and affection to hammer is limited exclusively by one – by sweetness of betrayal with its anvil. Don't think, that sense and stupid matters can coexist in mutual conditions. So choose all stupidities randomly and only. Remember one – the rule of mad begins from partnership with normal."
"Much more than trouble, after all. All is mortified, poisoned – both world and people are just frozen corpses. All degree of uniqueness today is determined by firmness and depth of your mind's alienation from others... That's really regrettable and dreary."
"It turns all search of any weighty sense in endless tragedy, which's rid of even shade or trace of prospects: each sense, that has been grown on senseless soil will not ever get rid of own perishing spoiled genesis."
"Any life works as long equation: you fully understand, that you are wrong, but get first proofs of such a fact exclusively before of solving's end."
"Life does not know oneself completely, but anyway in spite of all this nonsense it is assuredly engaged in own bold teaching, into time of which one paths of its fortuneless new-comers get filled with earlier unknown and with enchantedness evolving in own route, not even guessing at beginning of the last one of how in vain it will be cutted."
"Let's criticize past course of evolution?"
"We will, we definitely will, and not only so trendy at now its useless biological applying, but whole phenomenon as kind of leading process. All evolution in inside is just a sadness' generator. Any ones of its final results, having followed by path of painstaking extended improvement, close to the ending of such questionable voyage in each of cases are identically doomed just to turn dead at last of days and to dissolve in common abyss of nowhere, to touch sweet limits and tart frames of better opportunities of being and then to melt, to fall apart and to get nullified and timelessly erased. True ideal is always unattainable, long and narrow road to its bewitching tempting borders is entirely meaningless, stupid, all of countless risks, all luckily achieved and done committings, all experienced hardships and griefs, all overcome adversities and problems are nothing more than mortified gray dust, hollow farce. Any meaning is scarily short. It's only temporary flag, passing purposeless guide: all will be sharply interrupted, turned in ash and replaced. Evolution is path to extinction, extinction in the most offensive way - through of going through highest of maximums and swift next dropping into fading, in decaying on vain crippled wrecks. And even personal development is so. The more smart you become, the more beautiful look you obtain with and the more tender you can sing - the more downtrodden you will die. Evolution is craft of the devil. And you are also in its cage. And me too."
"To run from death ahead to its main cradle is, probably, the funniest of funs. It's a shame to live now."
"Life's game is freed from satiety in tragic, in painful, violent and low. True happiness is such a kind of mountain, where the number of ones, who have climbed, is much less than of ones, who have crashed. Alas, darkness of triumphant madness works here much more effectively and amply than same lantern of buried reason. And what's of the returning to reality, I'll say, that, contemplating modern world and modern human, I can see only two pastly killed, and who from them is murderer, who's victim, is all the time entirely unknown. That's why, each presence of some power, of serious authority and strength in existing wrong model of being is simply inappropriate and useless: if you're becoming for the people not a friend, but a strict sure leader, you are simply transforming from satanist in directly pure Satan, that's all."
"It's frightening. Till shivering and horror."
"That's rather natural for humans. Fear is a stuntman from the feelings, it comes here to replace last ones when they already do not cope. But it's also important to see true applying of torturing fear: if you're a hare and you're running from a wolf in a fear of being just eaten, be afraid first of all not of wolf and his teeth, but of own sluggishness and weakness. Moreover, fear doesn't guarantee safety. Any risk is indeed justified exclusively by role of final winner. Chances' coin can't fall on the edge. All or nothing, that's so. Defeated trickery and cunning turn in soil for smartness and wisdom, and won ones into source of delusion."
"I confirm, no of tiniest doubts, all indeed is most certainly so, in rid of future current days in this rubbishy ugly society we have no shade of understanding, of aimful correctness and pureness."
"Smart ones inside surrounding of fools are similar with rowers on the land: are suitable exclusively for laughing. Wide mind at here, to worst of griefs, is more offensive, than effective. Any dullness is absence of plate in simultaneous excess of dainty food, and mind is lack of any food in richest presence of whole section of free plates."
"Our prospects are short - just to keep getting inly wrecked and to bend further under weight of mental burdens, turning scantier, worse and weaker."
"True in all. Be most straightforwardly and confidently sure, that human's nature, just as waters of river in sea, can't fall in madness right at once – from the very beginning of life, although starts to research such direction concretely almost from the moment of creation."
"And after all, in no one of all scales, you can find any pointed vector, any truly essential route, at once both aimful, safe and free. And even whole eternity is meager."
"No sorts of globalism can act as human mentor, the world was ripened not by God, but by the hand of pure scholasticism. There are no of questions to people, exclusively to current world itself. The most awful of beasts is director of zoo."
"The only thing from all huge being, which's really capable to show self-improvement is our stupidness and weakness."
"I agree with each word."
"All of tricks, all of tries and attempts by some of curses go till tragedy in vain. Having smashed whole own past, you'll never build good type of future."
"If you dream of a race, first of all buy a horse. We are of those ones, who have never been even proceeding to what gets vainly called as lIfe."
"All this is certainly for better."
"Undeniably so."
"Why demands of the nowadays crowd are so much purposeless and petty? Why their requests are so appallingly perverted? How to fix such exactingness' absence?"
"Demands and offers work quite simple. The price of water in this world is made exclusively by thirst. They don't want to get smart, do not try."
"They only hate, they humiliate and mock, denying and devaluing all proper. And the higher is any of feelings, the more defamed it is in frames of current world, the more deep and more cruel cynicism and betrayal are implied in inside of its sphere. Any unity, friendship or care are dead. What to say of such saint peerless object as love."
"Any love is exchange of the dishes, you pour your pure sincerity in someone else's cup, and if the last one is with gap, then all your richly gifted warmth and all affection, all tenderness are going into abyss."
"We do not differ true from false."
"We're unable to look at things' essence. Among of fruits and rustling leaves, remember first of all of roots – not so serious matter at all, which hand provides you with some help, important mainly from whose shoulder does it grow. And any lie is only bad plagiarism of truth. As rule, not functional at all. And chances rarely come twice. Life's river, just as any other, is rid of giving plural human entrances, it is not possible to reach past heights once more."
"We have just hopelessness and only."
"And loneliness as best of forms of being. In love you get united with your partner, in changeless loneliness – with God, and if you're lonely and besides you're firmly atheistic in addition – you unite with yourself, what can be also rather pleasant."
"This world is rid of any heights, of pleasures, smartness and true values."
"And also always keep in mind, that as soon as you'll stop being fool, they will instantly start to declaim that you have vice versa turned in madman. Human smartness in obvious essence is tightly similar with sexual experience - the more enjoyable of truths you boldly dare to discover, the more perverted you'll be named."
"We have just to endure all the time. To endure and bath into pleasures. But anyway it's hard here not to stumble, not to fall in nowhere."
"Do not give up. Remember the defective pistol's feat - they were forcefully trying to make him a murderer, but he has timidly refused to shoot at all."
"The only possible salvation from life's troubles is their natural completion in the ending."
"There is nothing to add. All keys from any being's cages are constantly in our weakened hands."
"The more attentively you look at living road, the more assuredly you find yourself at side."
"So it is. The more long you connect here with people, the more explicitly you risk to part with knowledge of which way to be a human. After all, human face is just form: one day you sillily allow to yourself some sharply wrong communication with hard freak, and in a moment turn own soul in rubbish, getting inwardly angular, crooked."
"Where to find that saint object for trusting – in which of world's manifestations, of its countless views and immeasurable feelings?"
"Sad to report, but in no one from such a list. Human feelings are far from some nobleness, they have exclusively one way of application - for vain and wrong. And do not seek for any exit - both light and darkness are the same. Shy away of their greedy deception. Life's path is sadly narrow, hazed and slippy, and sides are bordered with death. One sudden step, and you're a corpse. And defeat comes to turn in your lord. The more essential are taken heights of life, the more small will be splinters of past after falling from previous heaven. Do not look at reality's boiling: to choose the world of constantly led ones for sacred role of personal fate's leader is sure evidence of headlessness and rave."
"So much easy today to get lost... So much awfully simple..."
"If you stop to be useful, you become to be needless, excessive. Remember one – if life has obstinately planned to write your poor person off, then expect soon invitement from death. So, always hurry to be useful, to be most justified in fact of daily presence. Be glad with having every meaning, respect each weightness and importance. Strive here exclusively for graceful and majestic. And don't complain of ugly waste conditions, life's goal determines not one length road, but also its accessible free width: choose right waymarks, and no constraint will ever happen. And always eagerly proceed to self-researching. This is utterly powerful thing. Both every feeling of true happiness, as well as any self-identification in so unbearably disgusting petty role of complete helpless idiot is wholly personal tight matter. Don't be discouraged by life's troubles, we always have most lavish plenty of such ones, their presence works as circuses' migration: if one nomadic circus leaves your city, then rather hurriedly and promptly its ramps and colored wide tents get replaced by completely identical ones newly settled. Ignore all kinds of facts and things except of individual ideas. Live just with last ones and exclusively with them – for holy priceless sake of their next growth and of further shine, bloom and prosperity. And, after all, if this world speaks with you as with idiot - just stay steadfastly silent in response."
"What's wrong with people at this planet? What serves as source of their pettiness? After all, each of them could be aimful."
"Very alas, but no. With a small tiny mouth, you will never be glad with large pieces. Each limitedness, so it was invented, is sure property of person, but not of his environment and being."
"This is regrettable and wrong. Today's world's way is clearly deplorable. Such sick cursed one, so by unknown morbid will this has been let, was grown on wars and epidemics, it's just fact."
"Do not remember where you've come from, think of where you will fall. This truth is greatly more important. And always keep yourself restrained - you can't illuminate murked cradle of own mind with useless blaze of tart emotions."
"The world is pure delirium, pure rave..."
"Fully right, I agree. Nightmare differs from reality exclusively by single trifling thing – by possibility of sudden nice awakening."
"So it is, I confirm, but outwardly world looks rather decent. And this duplicity, this low deceptive harmony is simply poisonous and killing."
"Fair statement. Completely fallen rotten people don't look most lost and most disgusting: wholly putrefied corpse likewise gets rid of former stenching. But the funniest thing hides in fact, that smart ones, no matter how smart all they are, much more wrong play in fools than true fools in the very smart ones. And all blame for this murk lies on essence of our lost natures. And this is even not surprising. Imagine flimsy helpless boat and sternly storming ocean around. Who will be guilty in such case, if this boat will get ruefully perished – weak boat itself or strong and rough waves of depths? In formal frames, the fault is common. We all quite clearly understand on whom depends the situation, we calmly know its sad specification. The world is really too huge. And your personal mind's independence against involvement in some team is that small rightless boat onto heavy long liner, which gets remembered only in time when main ship irrevocably sinks."
"Given being is endless, I know, life's scales are boundlessly vast, it's unattainable to light all immense limits, all spaces and all corners of world's cradle, no matter how much brightly you will shine with your flame, brightness' measure is caused not by power of lamp, but also by the size of room around. With inner light all works the same, you cannot save all crippled fallen souls, cannot change."
"It's not required at all. Our personal role is quite modest. We mistakenly think, that we're masters of own blurred fates and destinies, we consider we know this world, know essence of life, we consider all matters and ways are completely controlled and examined, but your body was made not by you, your volume of accessible emotions and essence of surrounding environment are selected and formed once again not by you, you even do not know the amount of sharp electrical potential, which arises at tip of your tongue during hot oral contact, what to say of confusing profundities of universal thin organization..."
"Who've given birth to so much helpless us?"
"Who've given birth, I do not know, I only know who pumps us with all content - we ourselves and nobody else. Lots of us wrongly think, indeed sincerely believing, that human was created by God's hand, but this is surely not so, our God has created the world, and every human in its frames is a fruit of consistent self-building."
"Any fate is a kind of huge market, where you exchange your luck on something else."
"This is also full truth. Also wholly unshakable one. And we do it most often in vain. With happiness we have to do three things: haphazardly create, inadvertently kill and then regret all the rest future fate. And this is not a human curse, this is sad human flaw. And people keep such one themselves. That's why, don't sympathize with any of their number, especially with those cunning ones, who have already been quite lavishly compassioned by wide hundreds of the other insistent well-wishers. But world will always force to share soul, to gift support and bring frank sinless unity. This is road to death. Compassion is a sort of mental weakness, and sick ability of absolute forgiveness is at all iron proof of brain's dullness. Memorize all above. Preferably for confidently long."
"I agree, that we have sure gap between of current lost society and anything exalted, right and true. And to study this life by its people today is the same as to study past models from pictures by the very old achromic pictures: not even partially reliable, but quite popular."
"It is misfortune to be human. To see this world and whole scale of its sorrow and crisis. It's much more poisonous than any pure arsenic."
"We can't feel happiness or breathe with whole free chest: you can't become a mouse into absence of cat. Life is unusable, defective. I have no doubt, we are dead, time's river on its current interspace is simply inappropriate for swimming."
"The birth itself is kind of curse. We have to delve in being's rubbish, in its futility and murk. But ignorance of life, by the way, is more hurting and painful, it's very similar with drunkenness in effect: all troubles really become less harsh and sharp, but increase in amount of consequences. And each meaning itself is a form of life compass, of some guide or instruction for moving. It's map, which saves from going to nowhere. But sometimes all the best is just there."
"Sometimes it really comes true, but anyway such luck is always useless, we never spend it prudently and smartly. And the bigger is daily experience, the more thin and fragile is its breakable matter. Indeed voluminous wide consciousness is frighteningly shaky and unstable: all previously gathered information is collected in bulk – one little moving in wrong way and all will crumble in few seconds, having got fully rid of past harmony. That's why ideas' viability is most often short-living utopia – defenseless, purposeless and empty."
"Anyway climb and strive, rise up without hesitation. You can survive exclusively at peak. Rush to last one, attain. Cling for chances, for hopes."
"But what they are, these blurred chances.... Total vacuum, fake. Any mineral rock starts to be truly useful exclusively from time, when it was mined, no one of hazed abstract abilities can be initially actual and precious, no one of notorious chances can persuasively serve as salvation, such filled with fiction suppositions are made of emptiness and lie. They are hollow, dead."
"Yes, it's honestly so, but you forgivelessly forget, that meaning's use has limitless amount of dimensions: one single model, as you know, can serve as source for thousands of pictures."
"For ugly ones, as sure rule. Despair – evidence of living."
"The main thing – not to fade, not to give tryings up. The path to abyss, save in mind, is staircase of only one stair."
"At now abyss is the only free abode. All is leading in there. People - world - own omissions. Mortal cycle, damnation."
"The very people aren't a coffin, they are only its nails. And the world, no matter at all how longly it dies, is still alive in global meaning. Sinking ship, while it sinks, can be many times sold. Main matter – not to rampage with pained mind. Foolish thoughts, as rough robbers, first of all hit most bright and most luxurious heads. And also do not be inspired, do not believe in something saint. Life gives you immortality for moment, world's history - for minute or the same. All will pass as short rain. As vain rubbish of similar universe. And if to say of giving of advices... Do not communicate with people. With old ones or with young, no matter. Be more sober, more prudent. Do not ride to the center of city. But this, of course, only if you yourself aren't there. Don't read newspapers or walls' notes. It's enough to fall down one wrong glance at wraped up in a piece of such ones sinless fish for getting totally informed of political collapse of country. But politics is far from all decent. So let's cancel such talks."
"I support."
Have unhurriedly parted.

VII
Into dim static darkness and sadness of small and timid street cafe, in monotonous and sorrowful oblivion of reflectively lifeless, calm indolence, is staying sure absence of emotions. Faint mood is quite predictably extinguished, liquid time is pacificly sluggish. Walls are bleak, rid of joy and remarkable features, gray pale ceiling is served with dull golden-like ornament, rather tasteless and plain and a little bit shabby. Heavy tables are decently tired, thick outlines are meager and uneven. Whole charm is artificial and false. All leads to one distressful melancholy - even strained inappropriate positive thoughts. In peaceful drowsiness is hanging bored gloom. Next to slightly half-curtained large window, vast and blurred by murk, are sitting two meek silhouettes of lovers, Boris Andreevich and Natalya Vasilievna, firmly delved into mutual sadness.
"Once again, I am torn off from world-wide deathless problems and totally connected to your soul, politely building and developing in measure both weak vain body of warm thoughts and common docking by relations. Life is motley and short, free for horror and pain, greatly fast and so utterly shallow. Bright miracle at here is not a guest."
"You will never be changed. You even are not getting old... Thoughts and motives are strong. Immense plenty of dreams and identical absence of actions. Sure hero, not less. What a useless and nauseous fuss. Both highly sugary and utterly disgusting. As if you're made of cotton candy."
"It's what makes you a person – your soul sublimity, mind's wishes and directions, not a rare bright gift of right holding of mallet or a straight skillful cutting of skins. True person is determined by one meaning. By depth of thoughts and volume of self-contents, of mental and sensational fulfillment. And nothing else conditions us as humans. Please, remember one obstinate truth, that immortality of soul begins from elementary its presence. All other things are secondary, aimless – all artificial excess of daily boredness and duties."
"Will at least tiny part of your thoughts cope indeed to come luckily true... I am in deeply endless doubts. So much stupid you are, so much vain. It’s naive to rely only onto one bare chances, such ones aren't omnipotent, aren't salvatory. Denying weakness of oneself, you will ever become neither better, nor stronger. You don’t perceive your daily being as a gift, do not appreciate its essence, don’t understand, that you can happily exist with simple ordinary life - develop housework, do all best at your job and raise up dear children, you do not understand at all, that you can live without love, without sick exalted habits, just sincerely loving your routine, loving rare short weekends, small labor money and infrequent, but ravishing chances to cheat on flabby husband or fat wife with a partner, entrusted at work, and next for such a sinful case you, by the way, can eagerly repent at free late evening into local small church. There is no other kind of life except of one, that you yourself have painted, I maybe even will agree, but world is different. And world is still alive."
"Each defectiveness captivates, ties. It discourages, breaks. You also have been taken in this claws, have been pulled into barren dense swamp of own torturing uselessness, have been wrapped in thick shawl of soul's lack, your inner hunger has been weakened by mushy crumb of aimlessness and lie. You surrender to crap of reality, surrender to the thing, that should just pass, just turn in zero and simply disappear - without trace or memory of presence. Each human in your crippled harmful vision is a kind of machine or, what's more accurate, of valueless addition to the last one – do work, come to home, eat some food, fall at bed. All sex – just tool of reproduction. Instead of feelings - frames of marriage. Instead of happiness - connection with society. For each penny at here you have not smaller than to die. You have also to give hollow birth to moronic vain children, to interwave these children into couple with entirely similar neighboring ones and to make them to give nasty birth to equally unbearable and worthless and, apparently, even more brainless, rid of prospects and essence grandchildren. And then, according to cold call of indifferent greedy authorities, obidiently and selflessly provide them for new war, then to get torn remains in zinc coffin. You need dominant presence of rules and identical absence of head. Submit and don't proceed to thinking, eat uneatable, break in free doors. It's not a life, not even slightest copy. Even occultism's reckless fanatics, profoundly accustomed to be suffering, would never wish such kind of fate. You've sold your brain to devil of modernity. And you've sold just your brain, not your soul, what, by the way, is much more tragic. You do not know how to believe, do not know how to live. Both miracles and happiness are near, you have just to approach them, to attain, to squeeze through wall of mindlessness to meaning. For you immortal influence of problems is indelible and fully omnipotent, you do not see this world without troubles, you consider, that duty of sacrifice at here is wholly inevitable, you indisputably admit, that viability of ones can stay successfully supported exclusively by dying of the others, you do not see the purity of meaning, don't see predominance of thought, do not see selfless joy of unbreakably stable prosperity. You acknowledge inherence of evil. And you quite stubbornly maintain its justifying. Such type of faith in God is called as Satanism."
"You strive to ideals of sick immagination. Your truth is actual and weighty exclusively in frames of your vain words. It's highly difficult and hard to look at you in serious straight manner. You're guided by one aim, by mad obsession. It is more frightening than full of inspiration."
"Aim draws appropriate for cozy going route. It gives both firm justification and inward harmony of way, gives sure confidence in deeds and next beginnings, fills with rightness and tools. Chosen aim brings completeness. It opens possibilities and meanings, shows paths to suitable conditions and strengths for overcoming any hardships. I frankly ardently believe in broad supremacy of goal. And my friend from far youth - Denis Stepanovich, is also of identical worldview. We're accurately similar in all – as two boots of one pair. In any aspects of perception. We even live in similar apartments: my flat has number 87, and his one - number 78. In different of houses, of course, but still some mystical conjunction. I believe into aim, I believe into magic of concept, believe with all my poor soul. I believe and I will do it further."
"You evoke only average pity. No matter at all, how high are you goals, you can't get warmed without fire, just as can't feed yourself without food, and all your ravings of aim's power are nothing more than useless nonsense. Any aim can be truly appropriate exclusively in presence of free fools, in presence of clear chances on embodiment. The choice between of practical and tempting should be done for the sake of mind's sanity. Single waiting for better events is not a key to their implementation. You tell just words, but want firm strength and doubtless completeness. You wish all and at once. Where to look for your joys, for long-awaited cloudlessness. So what's about selling of your pictures?"
"Pictures keep own slow moving, but happiness still hesitates in steps. We should be mutual, be closer. Gain understanding, love and hope."
"It's hard with you, it's greatly hard... As with iron on neck."
Have similarly fallen fully silent.

VIII
In toxical and merciless sobriety of strictly contrasting and deadly meager features of far and sadly blackened roofs, worn by age, was obscuredly huddling in depression deeply bottomless sorrowful sky with colorless and densely accreted with lands' grayness, wholly spiritless fog and whitish, smoothly shapeless flocks of weightless clouds, torn haphazardly off from all earthly and boring beginnings, quietly hopeless and meek and so perfectly rid of all optimism, of cozy friendliness or any bright warm feeling. Above of soulless expanses, rather lavishly sunk in wet sleepiness, were vanishingly floating through of gloom few vertically falling rare shadows. The world was surely not here, it was today somewhere else, was somewhere not near, at here were only its numb echoes, faint and seasoned with tiresome drowsiness, with daily bustle and oppression and indistinguishable images of life, calmly framed into weakly formed apathy, hardly fettering desolate heart. All was causing exclusively one – inconsolability of many types and tastes. Indifferent and hollow palette of habitual rambling sensations was also purified of passionate abundance – all-consumingly forceful detachment, sharp disgust to all doing around and broad indifference to own piteous person. That's whole set of provided emotions. Humbly faded in pensive despair, timid shallow thought was weakly flickering in fatal atmosphere of tragic aimlessness and gradual extinction, intensified by burden of vast losses, of total separation with past luck and of painful and morbid fragility, unhinderedly dominant perplexity and unbearably hurting heart's torments, firmly hanging with doleful cover over any of states and experiences. Long time entirely distorted and irreversibly destroyed vague model of shadowy world was serving as a cradle of upsetness, than as at least the smallest source of rejoicing. All was plunged into pain, into mourning prostration and inward darkness of lost soul – the one, which is more thick than any others. As we certainly know, greatest dreariness' depth at one of moments gets just instantly - in seconds, that's why, according to this statement, Denis Stepanovich's lost mood, which have not found caressing encouragement, with quite identical mad speed has got finally fallen in grief, in killing bitterness and sorrow's cold pit.
"Again I bathe my soul in desolation..." - the hero has sighed: "Once again, one tart sadness in me - as the only filler of human. Once again one damned sadness into role of the only of friends. Neither leave nor move back. And into future even worse. You cannot warm oneself with self-conviction. Strong mind is ineffective at today – into frames of vain breathless reality. And passive contemplation – all what's given. And no evident escape. Having got truly rid of mind's webs, you find yourself in many other ones – in social, in factual and jointed with problems and life's circumstances. And sometimes you so want to relax, to surrender and fall in forgetment. We are just fruits of evolution – the process of escape from some disasters and dominant continuous survival. We are beasts. And society is kind of mad zoo. All existence is only a pit, an entire and merciless abyss. And constancy in rueful, aimless form is not identical to purposeful stability. World's stage is simply hopeless at today. And each single of souls in its walls is also totally defenseless. We cannot rise to stars, cannot try to recover, can't get saved."
Denis Stepanovich has sighed, then had descended down to the entrance, slowly checked small mail box – yes, a letter! Climbed again, started reading.
"I warmly greet my dear precious boy! With genuine and endless satisfaction and incredibly hugest affection I've read your long-awaited message, so clearly and distinctly feeling all unshakably bottomless love. So much pleasant, I feel, so good, that I can't even think from such bliss. I would so much like to take in - all your kindness and care, to taste all joy and tenderness at once. I can't even believe, that happiness has come really true, that it's so much close, so opened. Please, be sure, that in mind I'm entirely yours, inseparably soldered with you. So much wonderful is this harmony, so calm it's for me, so easy. As in paradise given from heaven. Only you fill my mind, as if all other has been evaporated. At now I want just to dissolve, to get stirred in this holily sweet reciprocity, to disappear in its cradle. So much sinlessly saint is this tart lovely constancy, so boundlessly bright. I find myself so greatly happy. But at the same imputed time, I understand that life moves usually another, not always following for dreams as well as not each time embodying expectations. Not always everything is fully as you want. And I am utterly afraid to be a cause of your next disappointment. I'm far from being writer of love plot. I do not want to gift false dreams. After all, life is not in my power... I have only one chances – as you. Not for everyone happiness is, it's quite sad. But it's extremely pleasant to be loved, as well as nice to love myself. And I can’t live without you. You are utterly good. Very good. Very very, be sure. No doubts, you're good. Good and mine."
At this point, the letter to dolor was with fright getting hopelessly ended, most meekly ceasing and dissolving, having left involuntary sadness.
Denis Stepanovich has sighed, reread message one more time and perplexedly rushed to write answer:
"My precious, sweetest and most saint Irina Vladimirovna! It's so pleasant for me to be again in our joyful unity, at least in modest writing form. So much nice for two wandering souls to be near, so sharply important. My zeal for life is made exclusively by you. So much warm it's in bundle with you – in enchanting ravishing idyll, as at highest of skys, as if I'm filled with miracles and bliss, with abundantly marveling openings, already luckily upcoming. I so immensely love and so firmly believe. Exorbitantly, ardently and hotly. You are my everything and all. All I cherish and only I wish."
Then were added few shy little quatrains:

No matter, it's winter or summer
No matter, what time on my clocks
I think of you, bilieve, desire
And dream without any stop

I still hope for to reach you, my dear
To catch glance and to touch you with lips
I still faith, that all plans will come real
And I will fully blossom and live

You are my world, you are my sense
My infinity, given by heaven
Your look is surely the best
The best and sweetest ever

You are my miracle, my God
My light, most bright and faithful
You are my road and my sign
My path in joy and better

Together nice is any hell
But apart even sky is not pretty
I wish to be with you all way
All way, where you are leading

Each life is short and ours too
So was all time, all being
True paths are narrow and rude
And murky, harmful, killing

You are my star, my rescuing tool
My bliss and my enjoyment
You are so nice, you are so good
You are my healing poison

I live for you, I think of you
I write of you and only
You're so tempting, so cute
From now and for always

At this, the hero has folded tiny paper, stepped back from writing and got frozen. Saint happiness is here – right in hand...
And then again to local post.

IX
Again bleak, sadly static unity has timidly united souls and minds of Denis Stepanovich and Boris Andreevich, with power of connective conversation, so peacefully cojointed by calm talking.
"Here again, having freely escaped from the routine, we see each other face to face, getting joint by rarest miracle of scaringly exceptional like-mindedness. And pushing from this luckiest nice fact, I propose to have speech of most cherished and valuable thing - to touch saint theme of how to be happy."
"I agree, weighty topic, you've so aptly suggested such choice - to dishevel flabby chaff of deep yearnings of spirit. For people happiness is myth, entirely imaginary concept, determined by one miserable retreat from eternally dominant losses, not by inner request for prosperity. Any average person knows not more of obtaining with happiness than any ordinary baker knows of new technological process of industrial rubber production. True happiness is fruit of blurred dream - unrealizable and useless."
"You can't fight with this truth, I confirm. But exchanging of dreams on days' routine is similar to action of replacing of heart's flesh on stone. Do not do it at least voluntarily."
"All is globally so. Each dream is great protector from reality. Any grief was created at first for those ones who've considered happiness' sacrament for non-viable empty utopia."
"The worst thing that it's choice of majority. People justify flaws, admit own ugliness and hollow world around, they even try to give it some support. Such life should be perceived as pure disease."
"The world itself is kind of cup - past meaning was completely evaporated, free space was occupied by slops. Switch off mind's light, today it's useless. No sun can rise above of every head. There are no of idols for all."
"Albeit the world was done for gradual creation, but everything one day gets broken down, meetings turn into goodbyes, friendship turns into enmity, strength turns in powerless impotence, love – in hatred and cold separation, weakened body grows old, soul shallows, wilts and transforms into purposeless ashes, mind loses sharpness, activeness and strength. We change one poison on same other, we try to find some ideal, some reason, to rely, to gain trust... To gain trust and get harshly deceived. It's just regular average practice, all fate is trip to next graveyard, all fate is journey through of murk, where all charm of accessible luck comes down to success with fellow travelers, as all around painfully short-term and wholly temporary, fleeting and inconstant. It would be nice to think and say, that this life also beats all the others, but, as you're probably informed, sinking ship doesn't fear of storm: most of nowadays people are primarily rubbishy and useless, fully lost and entirely rid of all prospects, their enveloped with aimlessness shares are permanently pointless and wrong. They are totally rotten and filthy, they have nothing to waste or to risk with. Modern life is a bottomless abyss, among which one there are only seeking for rescue and no one who've been really saved. Human mass stays at step to extinction, our desperate flight has to be one a day broken off, has to exhaust all previous resources and to disturb entrusted time, to benumb into spiritless breathlessness and at last get remainlessly drowned in forlornly upcoming oblivion. It's all what's given. Gloomy share."
"So it is, but don't bend anyway, don't surrender to perishing essence. Put own will high above over anyone else's, do not look at all other life's actors - God, devil or humanity, no matter. Don't succumb to the tricks of society, all its vast and innumerous volume is filled most frequently by freaks. Remember, social acceptances and fetters are not more lenient or peaceful to your person than entirely similar ones from dogmatic religious practices: admitted social foundations and class rules, their narrow frames and tedious traditions serve here as kind of aptly aimed conspiracy - sad snide conspiracy of freaks against perfection, the same conspiracy of fools against smart ones, low vile conspiracy of mean and worthless ones against all purposeful and honest, offensive torturing conspiracy of hopeless against of promising and hopeful, distasteful horrible conspiracy of dying against of barely begun to be alive. Shy away from them all. From all and everyone of people."
"You have no chance to run away – to get escape from each of troubles..."
"You have no need in such a run. Don't look at any of life's troubles, of endless pains and hollow facts, but listen thoroughly to reasons. Build stable sequences, grow up. If you're sitting in cage, be afraid not of rods, but of tamer: not harmful episodes of fate are so terrible, but paths and frames, which lead to their upcoming."
"We're plunged in weakness, in detachment. All this stubbornly frames our mind in entire dependence, in sick subservience and languor. In sad conviction in defeat."
"Conviction serves in our fate not only as retarding stumbling block, but also as uplifting springboard – be ready to be armed with counterweight, drive away all who've driven your person, burn each one who burns others. Don't look at people and their life."
"New life is not for observation – one sudden glance, and joy is far away. What's bright in life except of lanterns? Both you yourself go always empty-handed and everyone you meet brings air in handfuls. One purified annoyance in each moment."
"But each annoyance is specific. One thing, when it belongs to someone else, and completely and wholly another, when the last one is clearly yours. Any alien loss or defeat gets tranquilly perceived as something teaching, as some experience, as lesson, and not as true misfortune or sad oppressive pain, not as obvious trouble and guilt, and only personal omissions get perceived as undoubted tragedies."
"Therefore, it's usually more easy to help to others, than to save own fate. A star from alien far galaxy looks more appropriate, more meaningful and distinct, than your own shining sun, dazzling suffered eyes."
"It shows whole agony of logic."
"But sometimes logic's presence is useless."
"No one of all possible logics will assuredly eat all world's meaninglessness, but here more actual and needful for each mind is to attempt not to be eaten in response. The main of things is not to fade - not to fade first of all with own brain, not to fall into mental eclipse. The world has nothing special inside: while any trivial sandbox stays not fully explored, it seems entire universe, not smaller. Life is skillfully made of deception. Of unviable shaky illusion, next smooth and natural regression of which one gets so much frequently exposed as some development. All around at all is mainly only just a fiction, just a kind of strange huge cunning matrix, where all you meet is just plain fake. Any roots of each grief grow from soil of mind. Every cognitive door to the outside fears gets opened only by one thing – by some dwelling inside tiny doubt."
"Thought serves to matter, I agree. But it's rarely going harmoniously."
"Be more strong. Strong with mind. Don't believe in delusions. Don't be afraid to be twice beaten, be afraid to be single time broken."
"What for, who'll answer, do we keep own lifes alive..."
"If you want to see absolute future, look in absolute past. Human world builds own wandering trace by boring path of sure repetitions, retransmitting in further development both former feats and previous mistakes, both old fashion and nullified rituals – of course, without copying of events, but with constantly stable adhering to historical regular routes, to global tendencies and methods. And even roots of any innovations have basis of pure archaism, of pastness."
"But are some patterns, some clear laws?"
"Each chaos works by principle of mutual attraction, all identical things get slowly reciprocally united, being put by some force into heaps and divisions."
"And human here is just a pawn."
"But whom else can we modestly be... It's irreversible and changeless. We do not choose own role, we only work at acting skills. You should not even try to guess the genre: all is strongly two-faced and deceptive, all is flooded with fakes, black is tightly engaged in self-whitening, white – in permanent fighting with blackening."
"After all, even precious experience cannot save you or fix as well as can't be suitably applied: sometimes it is more difficult and puzzling to keep obtaining of you've got than to get it at all in beginning."
"That's why, warm up indifference and only. In saving last one you don't have to think at all, at least about aimless others. As well as equally don't need to take in use or to admit wrong results and mistaken conclusions of any alien of thoughts. In loneliness you're acting as pedestrian, and in togetherness – as passenger and watcher: events are flying much more fast, but you have less of own control. So, be alone. And be afraid of doubtful beginnings. Each equilibrium – forerunner of imbalance: if person hastens to gift love, he can equally rush to seed hatred."
"It's greatly hard to meet some truth, everywhere is pit of deception."
"World's pier is huge, pure meaning stays to be exception. Each single giant is not more than just a platform for some dwarf."
"What a vile, rotten world – one empty vanity in all. It seems that even all above costs also less than copper penny."
"At today all imputed assurance comes down to one measure of despair. Current world is ambivalent, marshy. That's why, most true and correct sentences of God can be probably heard right at bottom of hell."
"Our God is a kind of such character, who has somehow managed to lose in own personal casino."
"I agree with this torturing sadness, world has really turned at today in one abysmal globally settled hell's pot. Only darkness has prevalence here, light stays lazy. But if you'll take a closer look, you'll understand that God is rather good – for example, as flawless satirist: he had created here three billions of women, but didn't give you even single one. And world is also equal with creator. The aim at here is not to get survival, but just to elongate the state of dying. One bare skills don't serve as rescuing beginning: not mad tenacity allows to be a climber, but modest presence of rock's surface. Outside of due tools and conditions, outside of appropriate facts and accessible chances, all your zealous willful efforts will be simply ridiculous. But main thing is to learn, to persist in beliefs and adjust their scope. All is simple. Just believe and keep flame. Keep flame in spite of hardships' murk. Life's statistics gets fed with fresh flesh of dead hopes. And chance on happiness is less than chance on hitting – small needle's eye with huge basketball ball. No one of finders was a seeker. All good gets birth by pure ocasion. But biggest trouble hides not here: the more significant you are, the higher things you have to risk with: the peasant risks here with own stomach, his king – already with own head. Worst thing for guilty people is starvation, worst thing for guilty ruler – guillotine. Freak and genius die here unequally. Each life is different than any single other."
"It hits my weak perception like a stick."
"Just get used to be glad with sick forehead. At least, you never will regret. The best of spices is your hunger. If you want to be happy, you will. At life or only posthumously, no matter."
"As I see, all we do here - just suffer. Then fall in grave and get forgotten. After all, we are people and only: no matter how impartial you are, but, neatly working as a headsman, you never will cut off own head..."
"As well as you will never sew it back. Even being three times aesculapius."
"Trouble. Tragedy..."
"Life."

X
Sharp indifferent January wind, with prompt deftness of lynx has boldly bared icy street, detached and deserted by winter, fully flooded with twilight and bitterness, which have pensively bordered strict stingy features by gloomy roughness of coldness, of daily bottomless oppression and fussy grayness of pale views. All around contains melancholy. Lonely mourning blizzard, stormed all previous night, sadly sings dreary-sonorous song to reality, without shame, assuredly extended with peaceful asceticism of desolate surroundings.
Two lost wandering figures are effortlessly crawling ahead by slippy spacious embankment - Boris Andreevich and Natalya Vasilievna. Both are calmly enjoying with walk. Are unhurriedly talking.
"Once again our modest escape from day's boredom has enveloped both us with own generous unity, meekly hidden in bonds of community." - Boris Andreevich has quietly stretched out and then humbly continued: "One time all dreams will surely come true, all luck most often waits in hands – it grows, as fact, from bare expectations, from thoughts of bright and aimful reasons, of prudent ways and better future prospects."
"You are too far from human things." - has sighed in disappointment Natalya Vasilievna: "Once again will we talk of your dreams? Of most useless and pointless ones. Life doesn't go on inside your head, it storms exclusively around."
"Okay, let's talk of daily life. Sometimes it also turns to be important, to be essential and deep. But thoughts are much more valuable, of course."
"Come on, perform your hollow bustle."
"Let's talk this time of our fates. Mad life has made us quite related. And it's right moment for such friendship to become something notably more - more weighty, intimate and deep, to become what calls shyly as happiness, with all it lavishly includes - with warmth of nights, with tart boundless sweetness of meetings, with recklessness of hot and sinful thoughts, with riot of bold and lustful dreams and with squall of
odest desires and fantasies, with keen intensity of graceful intercourses, with all making us pleased and alive and all restlessly ripening deep into souls from the earliest instinctive childhood."
"Enough this heresy for my tormented ears. Don't even start your sexual delirium, don't even try to feed me with such dish. It's definitely loathsome and inept. The biggest thing, I will ever be eager to gift you, is a short meager glance and not more. Nothing else – no plans, no sick fantasies. No! I've been always aware, that you're an idiot and only, but was never thinking of you so much bad. And stop looking at me as at freely accessible woman. I will never agree to be sharing my bed with so silly and valueless oaf. No pain and no torture will enforce me to do this disgusting and nauseous act. You must be absolutely thankful for the very impossible fact, that I've been talking with so lost and useless you. But you've preferred to stay in role moron."
Boris Andreevich has sharply stepped aback: "I've believed, I've so frankly believed you and trusted..."
"Brainless variant, garbage! Tell me also with cries, you have been sorely deceived. Enough such spiritual shit. I do not need your money since this time. From now - no activity from you. Do not write me or visit. I'm rid of mad necessity in fools."
Natalya Vasilyevna has abruptly and hastily turned out and then hurriedly stomped far away: "And do not try to find me once again! I'll bring you rare scales of harm, if you'll still dare. Have you heeded me, dullard?"
Boris Andreevich has stayed completely silent. Yes, has heeded.


XI
Not more than modest week ago, on fully peaceful January street, had been calmly and tranquilly keeping quite mild and tolerable weather, as well as had been no dreary thoughts, but fate has an ability to change: fickle and mutable weather has got hurriedly spoiled, shaky mood has been taken away, even promptly discolored former landscape has turned filled with pale bottomless grayness. No warmth, no salvation. And only sadness in all things. Denis Stepanovich has measuredly sighed and unwittingly drowsily shivered. Sluggish indolent path was leading not in miracles or heaven, but in ill-fated, practically damned, plunged in hatred poetical alliance, disgusting, vile, but stably irreplaceable. And that is accurately why, having firmly decided to go, our hero is forced to step on, albeit ahead at gloomy stage once again should be met nothing decent.
"The only thing I have to do at now – just to hide my habitual shyness, to overcome familiar confusion, to crush fear and calmly survive. To cope most mainly with myself – not to stuck, not to fade in inside, not to get weak and numb. You can't think as smart one - with tormented sick head. It's a rule."
But the way has already been started.
Into gloomy indifferent room - sluggish temperate murk. Light is timidly dimmed, shades are hazed, pale and shapeless. In bleak and heavily depleted, strict, impassive interior, all as always is dreary and lifeless, indistinct, monotonous and boring. All is deadly and ruefully stable. Framed from sides by renewed splendid curtain, lots of times sternly trampled by shoes tortured stage is predictably silent and small. On familiar featureless wall, going back, is meekly hanging dolorous and faceless, rid of lavishness regular carpet, thickly filled with some simple abstractions and geometric stenciled patterns, quite laconical, smooth and attractive, neatly suiting to other environment, also weakened, depressed and lethargic.
Meanwhile the meeting, right as always, has overstepped own tiresome beginning. After typical routine checking has expectedly come long indifferent passionless reading – wholly flameless and raw and appallingly, horribly far – from any depth and any hidden greatness. And again text by text in such manner. Just until modest fortuneless turn of our seeking, lost Denis Stepanovich. The hero has obediently got up, then rather bashfully and shyly made a pause and with restrained and pensive look addressed to hall with ardent recitation:

Don't be enchanted by own joy
And don't be sad from frifles
Don't try to save what is destroyed
And keep own soul peaceful

Don't think, that farness is so far
That closeness is so close
Hard road is in hundred times
More filled with use than cozy

Don't think that nothing will come back
But do not wait, when mindless
Don't say, that world is fully vain
Even if it's entirely right here

Don't be afraid, but keep self-care
Don't trust, but stay with opened soul
Do not admit that something is unable
And do not argue with life's points

Keep that is yours, not steal that's others
Collect all good, erase all bad
Be kind with all, who're cherishing and loving
And don't be patient to all mad

Don't cry at nights, don't waste own days
Do not forget of greatness
Don't stick to purposeless and gray
And faith all time in better

Breath calmly, easily, with peace
Don't think of wrong and empty
And don't get rid of any bliss
Such ones are always aimful

And what's of people - they'll not change
Will firmly stay abusing
All grief is not in fools or heads
All grief in our choosing

"Do you indeed reliably think, that your vain wordy garbage will ever serve as masterpiece or feat? You was reading your lines in such manner as if they break all history of world. Come on, rise down, let's move to questions and discussion." - has interrupted him the entertainer.
Denis Stepanovich, dejected and upset, has quite submissively returned to sitting place, and, having willfully decided not to wait, got assuredly up and offhandedly moved to the exit, where as soon as his feet have reached surface of street, he was severely called out.
"Well, our idiot, hello. Did I indistinctly explain you my position? Then I'll explain more clearly, more straightly. Come up! Step forward to own problems." - at here Georg Romanovich, who has insistently and briskly moved ahead, has sharply pulled the hero by his shoulder: "Stay and listen."
"I do not care of your strikes. Do not circle around. I am indifferent to shaming. Grin your teeth with forbearing others."
"Heed directly in ears, keep in mind, I've got really tired. At now I'll talk in more straightforward language – are you indeed so brainless ram or truly wrong with mind or what?"
"I am, maybe, a ram, how to look, but not in such amount and degree for to choose you as personal herder. Leave me now alone."
"Don't be heroic. You are trying to argue. It will not be like that."
"Get off!" - Denis Stepanovich has rushed with trembling frenzy.
"What an oak you are? Your hollow head is definitely mindless. Return at earth. Who think you're genius, except of you yourself?"
"How long will you mock? Stop to spit in my heart."
"You have some heart? You're a quarter of human. Jerk and loser in all."
"Move away."
"You think I cannot handle with a madman?" - Georg Romanovich has swung and hit Denis Stepanovich in temple: "Life is so powerless in teaching freaks as you. Well, I'll do it myself. And don't complain, don't groan in future."
The action was successfully completed with few else painful cuffs, after which Denis Stepanovich has found oneself at ground.
"You'll loose whole health, if you'll return." - Georg Romanovich has wiped his boots of opponent and added: "Kill yourself, otherwise you will never be cured. See you next into coffin."

XII
In flatly smooth, transparent sky, neatly lined by unbounded hopelessness, is lonely hiding in perplexing white cold flocks of unwittingly thinning pale clouds. Into window's frame is staying noisy avenue – vast, fussy, are floating long tram bodies, huge and sluggish, with silver of abundant gleaming frost. The world is tiresome and bored, plunged in waiting for spring, relied on temperature relief and timidly forgotten in thick thoughtfulness. In the middle of sad, gloomy room - Denis Stepanovich, depressed and tied with bitterness - looks out of the window and misses.
"Throw a look at mad nowadays crowd, it's like a heap of rotating snowflakes, they scurry, rush and move ahead, get replaced with some fresh whitish particles, snow granules fly off, revolve, descend and soar, each time entirely renewing – just completely as people - at square, market or train station. They also huddle, push, make noise, and time from time get similarly changed, but sometimes you put glance at snowflake, sticked to glass, and, what is strange, it doesn't melt, does not deflate, with human mass all is the same – some person sinks inside of soul and gets identically sticked, and you'll never delete his faint presence, as well as never will forget, will never throw away from heart, and you're ready to run for whole century for just to see, to touch and catch, you are ready to beg, to take risks, change locations, there is a lot of other snow – whole snowdrifts, but that is surely not yours, not what really tempts and allures, you have need in this one tiny flake, not in others, it can't be faked, replaced or compensated..."
The hero has with weariness sighed, and then silently stretched: "For whose obscurate will is this life? Will it ever be known..."
Denis Stepanovich has stared to the glass, then got hurriedly up and meekly trudged to check mailbox.
And not in vain. One letter in.
Has proceeded to reading.
"Hello, my boy, I have been missing. I had no opportunity to write. You have once more to understand – things are fatal. I've read your lines and strongly cried. You feel so much to me, you love me so fully and so warmly, you are so pure. It's so nice. So nice and exciting. After all, life moves not always as we want. It's not obedient, not tender. I want to hug you, to stay near. I feel so good, when I'm with you. And that's why I'm incredibly scaried. I'm scaried to offend you or to lose. Thank for love. You're the best. Don't be sad. I am near."
Here it's worth to describe all the tragedy. Irina Vladimirovna has been seen by Denis Stepanovich just once, having suddenly met him by will of unpredictable stray fate and at the same haphazard time having easily fallen in bed to her newly acquainted companion. And then exchanging of addresses. The lady has been living in next town, not distant, but completely inaccessible by great number of reasons. The first of them was the fact that she ruefully had two young children, born by chance and with no attention of father. The second argument was hidden into fear, the main source of which one was the fact, that this fortuneless union had to be surely condemned by rude society, which never hurry to encourage morbid alliance of two of decades older lady and dreaming student, filled up with inner weakness. That's why no things were going on. Only letters and hopes.
Denis Stepanovich has slowly stretched out and bent over at answer:

I am speaking with you with these lines
No matter, that we're not together
That at now you are so much far
And I'm totally given to sadness

The ash of life is rid of warmth
Past dreams will never hug and cherish
You were my world, my endless sky
And now I am left to perish

All better lost, all chances burned
My soul has let away all lighting
It's so much painful with no goal
And minutes are so slow in lasting

My flat is cold, my mind is empty
My glance is cradle for sad tears
I live with your, with past pure saintness
Of our hearts and common bliss

Deep sorrow turnes in my new partner
It's friend for memory and fate
I'm lost, I'm rid of any calmness
I can't admit you are away

I am tormented, torn and broken
I need in you, that's all I know
You are my only of life points
My cage, capturing from all low

And at now, in coldness of winter
I have no way and no escape
No joy in all my hopeless being
So much short and so helplessly vain

And at doleful now to post.

XIII
An indifferent, wearisome boulevard, fully visible out of window, which has removed remains of frost, is sadly deserted and lonely. In height are weakly huddling in oppression homeless acidly ominous clouds. Enslaved, enfeebled world is silent. Time's river is unhurried in moving. Mood is shallowed and faint.
Boris Andreevich is sitting onto stool, slowly sinking in thoughts and dense apathy.
"I definitely cannot understand how many and many of people still manage to believe to God, to ideology or even to each other. How, it, in principle, is possible and real to trust to somebody except of you yourself, to rely onto something from outside, on something differs from your person. We so much stupidly have one appalling feature to gravitate to something hiding higher – to creator, to tight close alliance with neighbor, to involvement in anything more. But which way can you trust to them all? I know, for example, that I love. Love hotly, ardently, with shiver. But am I loved in shy response? What do I have in confirmation – only actions and words. But in fact... Directly me was never loved, and this is purely for better. But if to talk of someone else. His partner says, that truly loves, but maybe love is wholly false. But how to guess and to expose... Religion's case is clearly the same. Is it better for God from our endless thoughts about him? If people are unhappy, then their God is just disabled. I do not trust to any object. It seems to me, that world is useless bunch of ones who're totally unable to be happy, of ones whose only aim and purpose is to make me and others unhappy – to cheat, to hurt and to deceive, to promise all, but not to give. I can be sure just in me myself and only. And, perhaps, when I fall asleep, God leads my enemies to bed and calmly, tenderly repeats: "At tomorrow, mock at him better. I support such an act. One a day we'll still punish this idiot." What if it's so? How can I proof the opposite position... All essence of reality is bubble, soap bubble and only, not more. In order to destroy this world, just look at last one's roots and inner basics: for two millennia we didn't reach full idyll, did not receive that precious flawless sense, which will be able to exist for many trillions of years, did not find global harmony, only technical useless excesses and packs of scientific typography. World's success is illusion, hollow pointless fiction, vain plot. Our world is straight swamp. It's entirely sick. If somebody will lavishly suggest to my modest and meaningless person to become in one day the only president of world, I will frankly refuse. I do not want to head the world of freaks, for this it has own foolish mad creator. Life has taste of waste water. It's lost."
The hero has forlornly sighed, sadly spreaded his coat by floor and laid down.
Nothing else has appeared in thoughts for all rest of remained pensive evening.

XIV
Lonely lifeless, dispirited day, sadly keeping deep genuine grayness, was walking mournfully and quietly, breathing only with obvious bitterness and with gloomy and doleful stillness. Heavy piteous clouds were smoothly crawling into distance, freely dropping long featureless shadows, quickly melting in hazy surroundings. Pale and wholly impassable curtain of faint, hopeless sky veil was hanging movelessly above of static city. Languid, boring environment, thickly filled with bleak bottomless apathy, was staying measuredly lost into permanent watery tent of perceptibly ponderous fog. Vastly opened for wanders of gaze, completely deserted landscapes were meekly faded, tired and exhausted, shyly added with soft dreary light and unbearably tragic oblivion. Denis Stepanovich again was on his feet – in gatherings for way to poets' alliance. Of course, in no kind of hurry. And with no special desire to take route. That's why, the path was keeping gap with promptness. In meantime, few of blocks were exchanged, having showed needed house itself.
Into hall all is looking as usual. The same dead gloominess, despondency and sorrow.
The meeting gets surprisingly delayed. Something strange...
Soon behind of the stage has appeared habitual chairman, unexpectedly vivid and bright and remarkably joyful.
"Let's start agenda with most vital. I think each one of sitting here has been repeatedly confused by Arbuzov's behavior, embarrassed by his conceit and manner of declaiming and hotly wants to rid him of the membership. Who agrees - raise your hand."
Tiny minute of fuss and all hands are assuredly raised.
"What we have, 29 for, and 0 against. Quite right. Denis Stepanovich, I ask you to leave out, today's session, you have to admit, will take own place without of your presence."
Dumbfounded Denis Stepanovich has stood indifferently up and limply backed away to exit.
"You have lost." - George Romanovich has satisfactedly stretched out: "Know own place."
Denis Stepanovich's wretched spirit has defenselessly fallen in tragedy. "This is endless and absolute failure. What a rotten and torturing rubbish..."

XV
The day is following like smoke. Above of faded pale expanses is motionlessly hanging sad sky's dome, dispassionate and covered with wetness. Into distance, are angular silhouettes of many-sided lonely buildings, submissively belonging to chilled city, modestly meekly hidden in featureless shadows. Above of rare, faintly shining spiers, are wandering bleak contours of gray clouds, dissolved in thin and faceless veil. All is murky and damp. Dense tight air is notably thick, deadly lifeless and hopelessly motionless. Life is tragic and surely alien. Thoughts are dark.
Denis Stepanovich is walking by old boulevard, also tightly embraced by depression, is looking far and floating into thoughts.
"At now, is century of wholly mighty weakness. Most strange of variants of moral revolution. No really fervent and bright revolutionists, and, what's more no of morals at all. Only emptiness. Dirt and deception. In any sphere and transformation. We have nothing to show or look at, everyone is in absolute hurry, everyone is in deals. No pure intentions, no ideas. I want at now to get locked and never see, as well as never meet, any face of these purposeless people."
The hero has sighed and then started way back. On the way nothing new. But this is only on the way. And in mailbox – an unread precious letter!
Denis Stepanovich has opened little envelope and then instantly hungrily clung to the lines:
"Thank you frankly for verse. Very tender and awesomely keen. I'm madly satisfied and happy. I don't need something else. You are so unique. So sincere and true. Thank you frankly once more. Thank you deeply for love."
And once again meek time of answer.
"Irina Vladimirovna, my sweetness, my most precious and valuable charm, my miracle and rescuing salvation, you are so tremblingly and endlessly desired, so much needful and darling. I so much strongly want in this tart tempting openness. In your nets, in your gentle captivity. I want in happiness. In heaven. Want with all my hot heart. Take me please, do not let me to fade, do not throw me in abyss of life. I adore your look, your faint presence, your cradle. Adore immensely, with flame. I cannot live without you. Take me please, this is main of requests. Take and save."
And once again to killing expectation.

XVI
Into room there are only two - Denis Stepanovich and Boris Andreevich. Are discussing own fates.
"Something wrong turns with life, something dark. Dark and bad. No splendor, no joy." - Denis Stepanovich has ruefully lamented: "Such a pain. Such a torment."
"You are also in troubles?" - Boris Andreevich has got most instantly surprised: "Me too. Me too."
"It kills, it hurts and turns in dust. We are only vain pawns – lost and will-less. Each path exclusively oppresses and disgusts, harms and deftly upsets."
"They again don't respond to you with frankness?"
"They don't give unity, one hatred and ignorance."
"My chosen one has sent me far away..."
"Where exactly?"
"Quite far."
"Very sad."
"As whole life."
"Get consoled by yourself... No one else will bring help..."
"Consolation is vain."
"Trouble... Grief."
"All help is hidden in inside. Any genuine God hides in will. Into power and strongness of spirit. Obedience is worst of any sins. Passive cowardice kills. Be calmly ready to resist."
"What's wrong with me and you – explain... Why they all hate us? Maybe, lack of big money."
"With money all would be the same. Money – meaningless trash, bridge between of the devil and God: you can get rich on someone's grief and donate all your profit to charity, or, on the contrary, enrich oneself on good and fall in revelry and rampage. All others also aren't too wealthy. Not lack of cash brings most of griefs, but extra superfluousness of soul. But don't succumb, don't bend own neck. Be yourself even rotting."
"And we already abundantly rot..."
"Others too. Others too."
"So endless emptiness inside."
"Modern case..."
"Misfortune..."

XVII
Into middle of bleak lifeless room, is staying similarly gloomy Denis Stepanovich. Not with no work - reads fresh sensual letter, this time unusually postponed and reluctant. But loving words, as all we know, not always try to hurry and rejoice.
"Forgive me here, my boy. I don't want to deceive you again, don't want to give you empty hope. I'm not ready at now, I cannot. I am pleased with your love and affection. But understand me and forgive... I elementarily cannot... I've cried so many many nights... I feel your pain, I feel it too. Forgive me, please. You are so much good. So pure. Please, forgive."
"All mutuality has melted." - the hero sorrowfully sighed and proceeded to answering's writing:

If you are similarly sad
Then what is stopping your returning
You know, I'll give you all the best
And will let any types of enjoying

I'm as always - both tender and native
And attached to the stories of past
Do a step - sure step into better
Be alone - it's unbearably hard

It's so simple to come to my cradle
Do not live with vain hollow life
Just be main all the time and be happy
Gift both soul and body at once

Time not heals, it's just making you older
There're no reasons to wait
You are mine, I am yours - so was always
All I'm begging - just do tiny step

Be, as usual, desired and faithful
And so bottomless, mellow and hot
Just allow to submit mind to passion
Do a step and be ready for road

Take me back in your nets and your cages
Stay with me, I am asking once more
You at now are so much ready
To repeat all past madness and hopes

All past sins and all misteries also
Do not search for some moment or reason
All will be as in previous chapter
As in that full of careses season

Melt iside, come to me - freely, boldly
You yourself feel so painful and lonely
Be polite, be more humble and opened
Don't transform all my being in torment

Do not perish my heart and my frankness
It will never forget your allurments
And will never get rid of so selfless
Dedication to our unit.
Has successfully sent.

XVIII
Boris Andreevich, unfixably upset, is sadly dragging far away through of pensive and colorless boulevard. Day is dreary and seasoned with emptiness. Heavy deserted firmament is forlornly and marblely static, vainly bloodless and gloomily gray. Pale outlines are washy and indistinct. People are alien, average, hazed. Thoughts are plain.
"People are trash, useless garbage." - the hero has emotionlessly sighed: "All of their joys look more as curse - to deceive their neighbor, to snatch the last and to get drunk - till the point of absolute madness. Updated variant of monkey was called as human too much early. But the opinion of people of each other is most unique and interesting thing: they notice everything defective - almost instantly, aptly and promptly, but also never see all good, don't even want to see and to admit. What's more, invent some imaginary qualities and features. But we also are perfect investors, and this great quality is surely not coming, but truly permanent and constant: we are so ready to endure, to go through sufferings and pains, but all of this exclusively in case, if next will wait some benefits and profits, then we agree on anything and all – for at least slightest glimpse of soon victory. We are fools, but fools not trivial, not simple. But, nevertheless, the most clearly we're fools. Anyone is like that. Even me."

XIX
Room is hot. Air is warm, pleasant, crazy. Atmosphere is loyally mutual. Denis Stepanovich and Irina Vladimirovna, right amid of sweet kisses and smells, are sitting onto cozy and spacious bed, profusely covered with silks. All disposes to something immodest. To alluringly tart.
"Oh, my precious and measureless treasure. I feel so good with you, so nice. My dear angel, my salvation. My outlandish paradise at life. My fairy tale."
"Yes, my baby, just fondle, just satisfy your fairy tale, as best as only you can."
The hero has dived in tight embraces and then tenderly descended down. The lady has voluptuously grabbed him with her hips and intensively quickened own breathing: "Yes, like that – with your lips. Do not stop. More and more. Yes, like that..."
"What a miracle are you..."
"And you! Go on, I beg you, go on! Take me whole. Everywhere! Right now."
"I am taking... I am."
And after barely begun mad squall of bodies, dead boring cage of lonely empty room has painfully and abruptly, as thunder, overtaken downtrodden cracked mind.
"So keen and plausible delusion. As in sure and proper reality. Damn awakening. Curse!" - Denis Stepanovich has opened tired eyes, looked at watch and unhurriedly stepped to wash face.
The day, which had been luckily begun with tricks of fortune, has stretched quite smooth and close to dinner even given in addition one more of extra little joys, this time indeed materialistic: a new letter.
"My dear boy, forgive my soul. Just forgive – if it's real. From now I cannot write to you. Something global has changed. I think, that you yourself have understood this. Forgive me, please. In my mind, I'm with you. You are saint. Forgive me, I am stupid fool. Now goodbye."
Denis Stepanovich has unbearably gritted his teeth and then angrily sighed: "What A kind of life's bottom! Earth floats in abyss from my feet, all past hopes have dissolved. What do I have at poor now? Only emptiness, void... Who I am? Useless pawn."
The hero has got up and frozen: "Or maybe, all is just for better... If world itself has untied my weak hands. Then now I'll show true innocence of soul."
Denis Stepanovich has promptly moved to kitchen and started rummaging in sizeable cupboard.
"To sharpen it. I need at first to sharpen. What a day is today? Will any meeting take own place? So, let's look... Well, it's Thursday. Yes, it's Thursday. That's nice. I should wait for the evening. Just wait."
And then have come long hours of reflections.
And, after all, so long-awaited evening.
Denis Stepanovich has put his jacket on and flicked the key. "Now let's go! Into hall, be it wrong."
Poetic alliance is absolutely usual. The door is partially ajar, the meeting is already into process, someone reads boring text. The hero has looked more close and unmistakably remarked thin bony figure: "I have to hit him from the back, the scoundrels should be killed by their methods." Denis Stepanovich has coldly held his breath and calmly walked inside of hall, having deftly approached the required chair. And now the goal is right in front.
"Arbuzov, you? What have you mindlessly forgotten?" - Georg Romanovich, dumbfounded and shocked, has unexpectedly turned out.
"To kill you, fallen rotten bitch." - Denis Stepanovich has powerfully swung and stabbed the blade in hated throat: "Rest in peace, nasty shit."
"Catch him! Catch!" - other ones have disorderly howled.
"Catch me, catch..." - Denis Stepanovich has pulled away the handle: "Who else desires to taste metal? 29 are agree. Who'll be next?"
The hall has frozen.
"You are cowards inside..." - the hero has infirmly turned around and gone out, having hurriedly melted in darkness. The further path was driven to Boris Andreevich, to whose door soon the hero has knocked.
"Good evening, friend."
"Not good. I've killed a man. Not a man, just a scum, finished shit, but it's not so important. They'll quite recently find me. I will not even somehow hide. Take the keys from my daily apartment - from now it will be wholly yours, I'll return there not soon. There is no reason to explain. I faith, you'll understand without words, we're alike. Now goodbye."
Denis Stepanovich has firmly hugged his comrade and looked directly into eyes: "Don't obey to the life."
Then he has sharply waved his hand and promptly destined downstairs.
Boris Andreevich has fearfully cried, squeezed the keys and slid down.

XX
What is the devil in your mind? What does he mean? What a role does he play? Can you imagine him, pretend or unmistakably descibe? Have you seen his true face? I am the one, who really have... In my personal modest worldview, the devil is the highest of the evils, the worst thing, which concerns every life. So each one has own personal devil. Right as well as own personal God. Into role of my God had been acting Irina Vladimirovna. But of her will be later. One day this god has suddenly renounced. Has renounced from me, having left my lost fate with no meaning, with no logic, no sense and with no desire to be here careful or to show some endurance. There are such of moments in this life, when you have to commit a strong act. Such a moment has come for me too. And I did. I just did what I had to. World is huge. There are lots of bad rotten people. But each of them has points of application, has some environment and chain of own atrocities. And if you are the only who has power to interrupt this ring of someones' sufferings, you cannot stay aside and show passivity. You have clear duty of hard choice. And you cannot ignore this sharp challenge, can't remain in weak will. No one will reproach, all will stay into frameworks of mind, but in reality it's greatly more exhausting. That's why, as soon as need of care of myself has abruptly and fully disappeared, I've done the only correct act, predetermined by honour itself. Do I feel like a murderer? No. How do I feel? As wholly holy person. I've killed the devil, don't forget... And now I have a lot of time and paper. Still not tired of prisoner's chronicles? For a dozen and half of long years we will talk with excess. I also need to send a letter to Boris Andreyevich. Don't know of him? I will profoundly describe. Flawless Human from capital letter..."


AFTERWORD:
On snow-covered vast street, constrained by merciless harsh blizzard, is staying vanity and fuss. Lively boiling thick crowd, quite densely surrounded with self one of corners of local post office, has tightly circled lifeless man. The poor fellow is thin, eyes, as befits to decent corpse, are closed, sheepskin coat is worn. Have called a policeman, proceeded to reviewing. From personal belongings only clothes, no watches, into pocket - two keys, what's symbolic – from 87th and 78th apartments. In bosom - freshly written letter with strange nonresident address and neat female handwriting:
"My dear, Denis Stepanovich, my miracle entrusted me by heaven. Forgive me tenderly for all, forgive most surely and truly. I've written you last time 12 years ago, a lot of time was sadly wasted, it's a pity. I have nobody else for to devote my sinful soul. I'll tell you everything and all. Like at highest confession. If to be honest, I still don't know what is love, but when you've suddenly appeared, it has been really kind of insane morbid passion. Apparently the one, which's called as love... But next... In nets of separation, in endless series of problems... All has melted and cooled, disappeared. I had to raise my little children. I have given myself to another. Even older than me. As much as I am in comparison with you. We've lived together for six years, then he predictably has died. It have been distant cold relations, but he has helped me with the money. I had no power for to write. My shame has been more strong than me. And now... Now I am able. My children are in neighboring small province, my life itself is lost behind, so I am totally alone. In all large world I have one you and paper. Forgive me, please. Forgive for no love. You've been endlessly dear, desired physically, needful... You are the closest here I had. But any chances are in past. Plans, ambitions and boiling intentions - all has entirely dissolved as shapeless smoke. As if just yesterday, I've been completely young, been trampling grass with childish feet. And now... Vacuum, diseases. Deep boundless hopelessness and pain. And death, which's practically coming. It's time for earth to say to me goodbye. I ask of only only thing – forgive me, please, before of my soon burying, I am most guilty of you - know. I do not want to leave like that. You are the dearest, the best. Do not blame me - lost woman. I've been trying to love. To be happy. And, as it clearly turns out, did not cope. Forgive me, please - entirely and frankly. You are the best I had in life. I am not worthy of your presence. You are my miracle. Forgive me..."
Eh, Boris Andreevich, such a letter and has not delivered...





Not experienced memory.

I
Into wastefully spacious bedroom, filled with temperate window light, has awakened by first shining rays full of bliss Margarita Yegorovna, sweet shy lady, invariably lonely and almost not familiar with optimism by the reason of fortuneless fate, coldly meager on promising share. Her day, disjointed with clearness and straightness, has got lazily indolent start in habitual loafing manner - with deplorable thoughts and self-addressed reflective talkings.
"I've been lived almost half of my life, but all stays routinely useless, stays unfixably vain, daily being is bleak, hollow, breathless, all I have – just one permanent waiting, one long boundless pause. What a for do I live, does it have any sense, any tangible meaning... I wait for all main answers and directions, for pure fidelity and mutual relations. I'm even wondered and puzzled – where did my fate this time get found, where did it target own small route, with whom I'll evidently be after everyday tiresome abyss, after following roads and paths. I know the only tiny truth – after every of purposeless mornings will be similar purposeless day. Fate is motley, but anyway gray, and not for us it's to decide – what to choose, to invent and commit. I know, each one is surely unique, but not for everyone to be here right and weighty. And no one will explain or releasingly solve this unbearable piteous tragedy. World's frames envelope every hovering existence in entirely different measure: some of them are exclusively happy, some are hurted and harmed, ones eat bread with no salt, others - salt with no bread. And paths are far... Far, but limited, alas. All ends one day - all joys, all ways. And not each time with fruitful lucky plot. You always simply need to hope, but in fact you so frequently cannot."
The lady has got gradually up and, having louringly cringed from painstakingly tearing feelings, with doom approached nude mirror's surface: "It firmly seems as wholly everything is beautiful in me, even sweet and so properly pleasant." - Margarita Yegorovna has moved her hand by mellow hips: "But, after all, I am alone... Like a wanderer lost into desert. Or a bird, who has splitted from flock. Or hopeless outcast, rejected by society. Sad to heed, earthly presence is worthless, dark and vain, deadly shallowed and gray. Like in dungeon all life, all reality. And no outlet, no rescue."
She has got cautiously dressed. Slowly brewed morning coffee. Then meaningfully gazed in square window, sadly thoughtfully paused. Time to go to the life.
Outside is immovably boring. Summer's heat calmly dries vain surroundings. Rare, constantly tired pedestrians are meekly moving with no purpose. All is written in silence itself: the clearest classicism of season at highest apogee of sharpness - air is thick, houses' contours are peacefully smoothed by light feathery haze, melting features are wearily blurred, paints are sugary, tart and seductive. All the city is quiet. Walk is surely usual. Direction is quite customary too – to local bakery and back. That's all we need sometimes for brief warm feeling. After all, being's beauty is near... But in heart is still stubbornly joyless.
Has returned back to home. Has proceeded to food. And again sure dominant beauty. At least, for half an hour for sure.
And then again in usual sadness...

II
Onto bench at old featureless entrance, into torturing boredom's languor, is calmly having idle rest rather meek and observably shy, full of coyness Savely Semyonovich, quiet and fully devoted to silence, pensive, doleful young man, who, by the way, is sitting not in vain, but for certain and evident purpose - is waiting with all patience for one person, his truly wonderful and longly known friend - Alexei Borisovich, who also is completely dedicated to stubborn thoughtfulness and endless wistful yearning. In around is smooth peaceful summer – humbly warm and sincerely playful. Into bottomless colorless sky, are slowly creeping multi-shaped, slightly watery clouds. In unattainably far distance, are cautiously humming rare beetles. From opened window is blowing with fresh lovely apple smell. Peace and rapture. At least from outside, from sight. One moment more and Alexei Borisovich has come – as always prompt and nimble-minded and richly generous on passionate reflections.
"Best of greetings." - Saveliy Semyonovich has held his modest hand.
"The same for you. How you are at today?"
"At peak of usual daily vainness. All as always before."
"Stability. The sister of stagnation."
"And of life..."
"Not life of everyone is so."
"Two ours ones are surely like that."
"And this is clearly expected, do not suffer too much – if we'll die, nobody will notice. Let's go in abyss of discussion, it's more appropriate in there. Which way at this unlucky time you've been tormenting your lost soul?"
"All as years before – with long tireless thoughts: of fate and world – the main of being's tools."
"All other is unnatural and boring."
"I agree with this sad painful statement. I think again, and think quite keenly, of most right and most ideal time - which of them fairly claims to be so?"
"If to delve, any one is just rubbish. No suitable rational period. Antiquity bows head in front of spirits, dark Middle Ages builds bloodthirsty religions, hollow motley modernity, in principle, denies all kinds of God, and vague futurism in poor inner essence does not even believe in anything and even in oneself. Each one is running from some problems, each one is striving to some end. In any time and any of locations."
"Where then to look for happiness at here? If only hopelessness is given."
"True hopelessness is talisman of freedom: the fact of equal wrongness of all actions gifts firmly independent from your will full impossibility of correctness and rightness, what automatically means strict inability of not to be mistaken and at the same haphazard time detaches your tired seeking soul from any variant or kind of past responsibility for choice, as well as for its fruits and future effects."
"Anyway such of thoughts do not warm."
"Mind's tricks don't serve as tool for world's reflection. Any thoughts are not more than a run: with its relevant use you can calmly escape from some danger, with wrong one – can get hastily lost. Every thinking's result is always unpredictable and vague. You cannot dream too nice in bad reality."
"I do not dream at all, even faultily, vainly."
"It depends on the world. World is also a tool, which like a sharpened iron cutter, correcting silhouette of form, adjusts the essence of your mind. Sometimes it sadly overdoes and leaves from person only shavings, and sometimes even shies of slight touch."
"Not easy to be loved by life."
"The taste of life is understandable in full palette and only, full and wholly complete. It's like an eating of huge cake: eat only cream, and your opinion of product will be false."
"Some unlucky of us have no piece of this excellent "cake", no one crumb."
"Don't think of them. Each compassion for saddest of losers is always balanced by great hatred for best ones of superior winners."
"So much sad to be found as looser."
"Sad for you, not for others."
"It's even sadder from this fact. Feels as torturing funeral ceremony – of you yourself."
"One long way or another – all we will be in grave. Any life is just keen expectation - for best of thoughts and for sweet tender warmth. We do not need in presence of true light, we have a need in chance to buy a lantern, we need to hope."
"You keep walking like that, but then get only own death."
"It shows the irony of being. The dress of losers, by the way, gets put on bodies of the winners."
"It's regrettable, painful and wrecking."
"For us and only, not for world. World's aim comes down to performance, which never has some weightful intermissions, as well as never cares of the number of own endless and motley spectators."
"It's so easy to fall from an optimist to most hopeless and gloomy tragedian. From blooming body to numb corpse. Line is rarely smooth."
"And it really happens like that: if some limit is reached, boiling point is passed, then you no longer will remain to be a liquid, you'll turn in vapor. Or in ice."
"It's completely oppressive."
"As a fact, no matter at all, how much bright are your mixed fervent thoughts, the city gets remarkable by station, and life by presence of pure values. The world, which's rid of ideals and chances, is nothing else than just an average straight hell."
"Ours one?"
"Whose one else? Or you've been dragged in some of others? This damned poor world indeed is clearest hell, at least within of frames of sober understanding. If yours is different, it's trouble."
"Sad realm, no anguish – no life..."
"It concerns not one fate. Please note, that sudden people's lifes get crossed and joint in together not by one single simple fact of banal presence of umbrella, free to unite by timid act of next own peaceful common sharing, but by its lucky combination with unescapable hard rain, which in addition to main role of constant serving as disturbing plans disaster, in such a case in spite of thousands of rest gifts priceless help by building up umbrella's relevance and use and by endowing of the very last one's taking with most profound sense and prudence. Any meaning and probable weight depends, at first, on universe's laws, of thin features of being around. Each our path if to look in is just a kind of special mirror, which one according to world's picture, seems more distorted and uneven or more appropriate and smooth."
"I am still worried of people, not of them in straight sense, but of fact of connection with such ones... It is believed that all communications just enrich you, but is it evidently so? After all, if to part with mind's habit of being counting pains, losses and regrets, it rather likely can be fair, but sometimes such vain deal is so low, so disgusting."
"Here I have to correct your position, not the contacting process itself makes you better, but your future conclusions. People themselves, like their thoughts, are just rubbish. As well as temporal modernity's vain frames. Choose most stable of truths, catch not branches, but trunk: people are not a shepherd, they're sheeps."
"Into powerless terms of modernity, at here I'll instantly agree. People's presence is simply unbearable."
"It's pointed by uselessness of last ones. We have morons and freaks, no geniuses, no valuable examples."
"So it is..."
"So it is... The most valuable thing, that they have at today is their bodies: you look at bodies and get bliss, you want at least to f*ck their flesh, to gift them pleasure, tenderness and love, but they say you few words, and you immediately start to rush away – as from powerful fresh radiation."
"It makes you time from time so much deceived, so much fooled."
"All deception at here - child of trust. Be more sober and strict - not without some rescuing skepticism. Sometimes it's measurelessly useful. And don't be guided by surrounding. All is only relative, all is fruit of some fake. Any heights, which are taken from bottom, never serve as reliable Olympus."
"Into abyss of lie, real truth can't be even imagined... As well as usefulness or love..."
"But you can try. After all, looking only at ovals, it is still possible to fancy perfect circle. But, alas, lie is everywhere. Any average local politician lies much more than the last mad sectarian. That's why between of truth and lies is step, and between of true world and of thought – sure abyss."
"What for to be? What to search and to wish?"
"What are we truly waiting for? We yearn for only one point – the one of total no return. We yearn for chance to save achieved. What's given, by the way, too rare."
"No path, no escape."
"At here, I can't console your soul. In current world all paths are sickly wrong. Especially for ones, who aren't too lucky. Apparently, we need some kind of personal enchantment for success, some inner magnetism of last one. Without bait your fishing rod is similarly useless both in a sea, and in a puddle – you will not catch significantly much."
"Why do we look for some new searchings, gain endless thirst for impractical doubtful strivings and always rush from place to place? We also permanently ask for constant help. It's too much out of some healthy explanation."
"It's greatly customary here among of people: it is believed, that thorns of misbeliefs should be setted by suitable specialis. That's why we seek for skillful priests, psychologists, sectarians and others, we ardently desire to repent. Because of out of repenting you cannot sin as fully as before. And this is really huge problem."
"After all, once again no ideals."
"Each ideal is kind of rueful key - to non-existent painful lock. Such ones are not in sphere of demand. We need something more cheep and more simple. Just like birds: all they want – just some food from their pointed beak and warmth from their colorful feathers, other trades do not count."
"World is surely wretched..."
"This world is miserable, we know, but don't judge tools, just criticize their goals. And such ones are entirely blurred. Don't rely onto people, trust here exclusively to senses and ideas, each of us will one day disappear, as well as any fruits of life, but ideas will stay, will survive. Even world will assuredly perish, but it will not be overly difficult to reproduce such one more time – again with similar achievements and mistakes. And, no doubts, with similar people."
"How to live in such frames?"
"Live just smartly and no way else: for sweet of drinks – you have a mouth, for bitter ones – a garbage bucket, all is scarily simple. And remember one thing, sky doesn't send short routes for true far-walkers."
"Why we have been created here at all... Why does reality have need in our presence..."
"Just think too longer, if can't guess... Ursa Major, as fact, has also kind of stars-made ladle, why does it need this vain acquirement? We have own life, one day it has been given – what for, nobody has informed."
"Where to find that sole path to the better? How to pass with its marvelous track? What does it need?"
"Exaggerate your personal demands. Having bought only weak tiny raft, you'll never rush in real abyss; as well as, having bought long large frigate, you'll never go to little river."
"All my demands are absolutely equal to ones, which have a legless man, who has come in shoe store..."
"This is terribly bad. Even scarily close to true tragedy."
"I'm frankly doing all my best for to hammer all useful in head. Maybe, life is indeed slightly deeper."
"People shove tensored pieces of flesh in each other and call this act as passion and high ecstasy, and you're still having any doubts in hard simplicity of world, just like an idiot, not less... Excuse, if sounds too much rude."
"Apparently, I really am stupid. I'll even tranquilly agree."
"Mind is useless today, hidden, vague. Each fool is fool in everywhere, but each of smart is smart one just in company, in tight surrounding of ones, who have admitted him as smart. Gain conclusions yourself."
"Anyway time is passing... Slowly going away..."
"Time is only a source, the one, which fills your mind with inner essence. And its precious and limited volume is also fruit of single bare luck."
"What's most valuable here? In this painful and mad temporality."
"Reason's presence. It's not easy to catch it and keep. And mind itself, as fact, is kind of currency, with which one you can freely acquire just anything: faked vain friendship, or hollow respect, soulless sex or false hurting devotion – choose and taste, any poisons are opened. Just don't forget to pay with mind, the rest is not essential at now."
"What an aim has this boundless world? Does it keep some assignment?"
"I have a sensual perception of the universe: any life boils at here just for feelings – for to experience you're loved, to get involved in pride and hatred, to come filled with true pleasure and pain, this is all..."
"But why each memory collects most wrong and nasty? From all diverse and bright expressions."
"Each memory is similar to wall: it holds all rusty nails as well as normal. And normal "nails" at here are much more rare..."
"In my soul, storm and calm are in pair – at first, my boats don't want to sail, then damned such ones get tormentingly found at bottom."
"You can't roll up from obliquely placed lower surface, I completely agree. But you shouldn’t lose strength of your hope. Believe in correctness, in power of right actions. Any thought, having come in appropriate head, can effortlessly change all world's history, give it only a chance. Deadly terrible thing, by the way. Just as time."
"Breath blows dust, wind blows small broken branches, decent hurricane - logs, and time blows centuries and nations."
"Total truth. So it is, I agree. Angry fate, as a rule, never flattens own person with ground: it makes a pit and then smashes him with last one's bottom."
"Scary thing. Where to run in this merciless givenness..."
"Warm yourself with all reachable fires. Be in sweet tender terms both with life and with death at one time."
"All brings one darkness and confusion. Probabilities theory hurts..."
"Come on, there is no kind of such theories, there is only visible being, strange reality's frames, past and future, which, by the way, both have identically happened, only one hasn’t reached you at now, and other one, in own swift term, has already passed by and dissolved. And if to say about present, such a time is not more than a pure mental fiction at all. All had been properly accepted long ago – of course, without of your will, it was incredibly before – before of first appearance of matter, before of forming of surrounding us space and of beginning of time's going. If you will seriously think, it will be funny: the fate of universe is scheduled for all times, for many trillions of years, each day you peacefully get up and meekly go in local stop or on trams' station, trudging regular path under gray, rain-filled sky or white sun, slowly delving in average waiting and not paying some extra attention. But even long and long before of lost in abysses of time, since starting point most entirely torn off from any logically based of explanations, till mindblowingness shockingly odd and not less prominently useless, made to surprise with scale of pointlessness act of soonly speedily again rejected back, right since barely outlined start left wholly out of obtaining with some hopes on further viable continuing creation of first workable dinosaurs' drafts, it was clearly planned, which of routes should come up to appear, what of accessible free places you should get, which ones of passengers around and with which motley countless fates should be there with you, and even how many scratches should shyly shine at one or other windows' widths. And each of them had to exist from farest lived of own ancestors exactly certainly with route, that he has spent, had to go through all wars, epidemics and etc, had to have just exactly those terms and acquaintances, just those of marriages, that really were made... After all, the same trams had to be, at least, simply invented. What was the probability in hazed Paleolithic era, that you will heed at shaky now to my words? Just right now, straight at this modest moment of life. Every breath, every yours inhalation, every sound and minute are programmed, are completely predestined, written - in most accurate given of ways. It's predetermined by the very being's essence, by invisible body of reason, which at exclusively great ease substantiates all kinds of properties of matter, all inner principles of feelings, mind and thought, and all results of any purposes and actions. And you say rambling words of some theories... "
"I know, that any being's evil into absence of kindness will blossom, will get brightened and smooth, get whitewashed, but will not kindness fade in evil's absence?"
"This question has been often asked to people - for example, by devil. Now also by you."
"Oh, my life..."
"Life's not a waltz: at first you spin, then fall in friendship - it doesn’t work in such a way. For everything and all you have to pay. At first you dance, then sadly fix your broken sole."
"There are two of glasses: in one is life, in other one – worst slops, the glasses are quite different, but essence is the same."
"Well said, no of words for to add."
"How to find here own personal happiness? Once again nobody will answer..."
"It's not so difficult to find it, but much more difficult to gain and to preserve. Soul's happiness is surely not foliage: it will not get renewed with every season. But indeed how to meet it at first..."
"It wrecks all inwardness of heart."
"Such position is average foolishness. Just total foolishness and sin. Don't succumb to life's horrors and troubles. Remember one – when you're surrendering, you former weapons get lied down among with your honor. Be more strong, more resistant."
"No resistance, one sadness. All is distant and constantly blurred. And both no joys and no values."
"All we have – just one role, so temporary, breakable and short. I've also been in any of conditions, the one I'll say – don't try the clothes of God, such ones will always stay too big – will slide away one day and you'll get naked."
"I agree, we are pawns. And main madness of this is the fact, that we, so pointless and weak, so sharply miserable and helpless, so much harshly depend on each other's opinions, that we indeed rely on someone's tellings – on tellings of identically vain, vain and surely hollow people, hotly looking for lavish approval and greatly shying to get negative recall. It's so much boundlessly mindless, wrong and hurting."
"If you really want to reduce your silly fear of condemnation, first of all do the same with the similar loving of praise. Step away from opinion's factor. Raise your personal viewing position and neatly follow for its only rightful path."
"It's not so easy to adhere this..."
"I agree. Onto dark black background you will not write with innocent white paint. But don't give up. At least, by weight of fuss."
"I will honestly try..."
"We were planning to go to some place – to dining house, I remember. Just for to drink some fresh tart kvass, as befits to well spending of summer. Is it time for to move?"
"Come on. It's really best moment."
Have unhurriedly gone.

III
At deceptively friendly wide window, is carelessly staying into silence calmly wistful and meekly serene Margarita Yegorovna, habitually bored and expectedly sad – collects vain thoughts and shyly builds coy frail conclusions.
"One new morning again. And again so much endlessly empty. Motley tireless city and persistently permanent loneliness. But wished is totally another – directly tangible and firm justification, full bunch of purposes and values, clear, bold and absolutely opened. I want true happiness, true heaven. Not ephemeral, not amorphous, but wholly real and accessible, the one as I remember from my childhood, the one as then in dear native village, and even now at this time it's so alive in memory and feelings. I accept only such keen fulfillment of what we call as happiness of soul. The most complete, immortal, pure and tender, unbounded and bottomlessly deep, hotly trembling and ardently tart, majestic, precious, blessed and holy. So much bright, so distinct are those recollections. Till most small of details."
Here it has sure sense to report, that depicted above flawless case had been sacredly taking own place far in past - long ago into hazed early childhood - at summer rest in peaceful hospitable lands of little native parents' village. The very shy heart-warming one, where in the last of edging dwellings, as if by something inexpressible in words with no of doubts naming solely as magic, had been quite tranquilly and calmly situated glued to young memory's imprintings saint blameless alliance of two devoted souls - Fyodor Mikhailovich and Maria Stepanovna, who were a local loving couple, that time already surely not young and by dark will of bitter living stigmas sadly childless. They've met each other rather late and almost never were in parting. For blurred cloudy collection of impressions of Margarita Yegorovna, this greatly close inseparable union of hearts has turned out to be an indelible example of true fidelity and highest human pureness.
"I remember those days as if last ones are going right now." - has quietly sighed Margarita Yegorovna: "Both their old porch with monotonous green paint above of logs and inspiredly careless faces, and filled with inner depths incomparably bottomless eyes, and excitedly tender embraces, and permeating in any of gestures devotion, keenly sodden with endless affection, and frank, captivatingly sweet warmth. Nothing else stays here so much close to true miracle, nothing else brings so genuine harmony, wholly selfless and saint, mildly tart and entirely flawless. And I don't want for me myself any other tie-ups and relations. I only honestly believe in holy chance to get most fully dedicated to my partner – completely, ardently and freely, giving all of myself till last drop to reciprocal priceless feeling of enormously measureless unity, where you have only one mutuality with no of edge between of loving souls. I want clear happiness and peace, blissful flowering trust and tranquility, firm understanding and broad balance - both in spirit's and body's requests, into all. I want pure paradise, not less. And not in empty sky, but in arms of one loves you. I want this limit of connection. Till sure ecstasy, till falling into abyss. In modest happiness – the best of all locations."
The lady, tired and oppressed, has calmly lowered her gaze and then thoughtfully sighed: "Will I ever be living like this, will it really work..."
Margarita Yegorovna has slowly got up and looked at graphical wall clocks: "Yes, besides it's my time to get ready..."
Has begun to get dressed.
Planned path was absolutely simple and full of useless triviality - to her old friend, Elvira Antonovna, firmly constant for many of years, brave, bright and briskly vivid lady, initiative and restlessly insistent.
Margarita Yegorovna has calmly clicked with key, gently pulled own closed door and then actively stepped down the stairs.
In outside is staying peaceful calmness. Summer's heat is welcomingly temperate. Hazed outlines are lazily chaotic. Weary world is assuredly quiet, unnaturally waxy and insipid, surrounded by sleepy washy haze of nondescript thick whitish fog. Wide distances are colorless and wistful. Mellow trees are submissively teeming with foliage. Sky is lonely and sad. Pedestrians are absolutely rare. Mood is faint and oppressed, slightly brightened by stable indifference. One gray couple of blocks, and at following next wide crossroad, right in front of the nearest one of four traffic light's pillar, has quite predictably got reachable for view swift, nimble figure of eccentric brazen lady, calmly stomping at occupied place and attentively waiting for someone.
"You have finally come!" - she has turned to approached Margarita Yegorovna, who has cheerfully greeted her friend: "Why again so much late?"
"I do not hurry anywhere..."
"Very vain. So, let's go to cafe, we'll at least have some rest for a little."
"Yes, let's move."
Promptly chosen cafe is pleasantly not crowded and free, atmosphere is teasingly sweet and seductively charming, lovely seasoned with caressing drowsiness and alluringly playful delight. Lonely tables are heaped into center. Glad and motionless faces of visitors are uniformly featureless and steady, fresh and lavishly filled with serenity. Air is thick.
"Well, tell me, how are you living?" - Elvira Antonovna has started: "I'm waiting for some tearful loving story."
"Nothing new... I still wait. Wait and hope. And get will-lessly used to habitual emptiness."
"You are hopelessly stupid. You could many of times very easily find someone temporary. Could use some person for own profit. Lots of men are forgivelessly free."
"All this is tasteless, hollow and shameful. I want attachment, depth and mutuality, thin graceful unity and harmony of hearts, but not one ordinary smiling dummy mask."
"And what does all your sacred essence bring? Which ones of immense benefits and pleasures? Equal emptiness, packed in nice cover. No offense, you are awfully stupid. There is no reciprocity here, except of useless barren one you have yourself imprudently imagined. You are not of this world, if you're so eager to believe in fairy tales. I feel really scary for you. I elementarily beg, don't live so fruitlessly and vainly. You have to change all kinds of things, to choose more profitful of matters. To have own man is utterly important. With his reliable constant presence it's more convenient to flirt and sin with others."
"You cannot breathe with vacuum for long, there's no truer truth. I don't plan to play role of small coin, don't want to get devalued with own soul. Broken heart, after all, is too far from being ever wrapped in blooming and nextly savingly supported, healed and fixed."
"What's wrong with you... I cannot guess. Human heart – is it really a treasure? Such hearts are shown in millions of copies. We even transplant this vain rubbish to each other. You act as if you live here for first day: no bold inventiveness, no actual dexterity. You need to be more serious, more active. You cannot heed one simple thing – not even seeking, you'll not find."
"All depends on what for you are seeking, I already am sated with vanity. It's certainly a choice, which's not for me."
"And what is surely not vanity in world? High words, moonlit of loving nights and common walks in hugs of flaming feelings? All this will fade, will one a day come down to nothing and worn out. You have to be more sober and far-sighted, be more brainy and smart and not to keep your silly following for call of childish dreams. Shy away of such purposeless matters."
"Is modest wish of happiness a whim?"
"Again your happiness. But what it really is? Are you acquainted with its presence?"
"I truly faith, that I'm acquainted."
"You will again retell your childhood's stories? It's simply funny to perceive them."
"But anyway for all my life I've never seen some frankly deeper ones."
"If you'll not try, you'll remain till own death with one emptiness. How many times did I call you to go to some disco or to visit flight school for guys' picking... And you refuse from all of my proposals."
"It's against of my will."
"Drop your baloney, beg you, you're not a queen of moral power. Don't try to look so much sophisticated and do not bend your hollow reckless line."
"I am fruit of my soul..."
"Stop it, kill. We will go for a walk at this weekends. And don't deny. Don't even dare. So, have you understood this time?"
The lady has got sunk in hesitations.
"I do not hear your sure answer."
"Okay, let's try your blurred offer."
"Really so? Did it really happen? You've stopped your previous behavior? You are no more a mindless child?"
"Sometimes I need to be again a child. At least, for not to feel life's hopelessness and troubles."
"What a kind of a personal curse? Stop being weird! You're frighteningly strange, Margot. Very strange, after all, very very."
"I'm wholly ordinary, simple..."
"Then give up with unhealthy beginnings. Is it clear to you?"
"Clear, clear it's... But..."
"No but. I forbid."
"I will try..."
Meanwhile the order has been given. The ladies have proceeded to its eating.
Margarita Yegorovna has dejectedly frozen and unhappily sighed: "What for all startings and adventures... Why do I need this empty fuss... I'm not accustomed to such living, why they can't understand... They force to act, to move and seek. This is bottomless immense nightmare. Just pure nightmare and not less. What kind of world do we exist in... It seems to be so huge and complex, but at the same deceptive time so hardly primitive and useless. And no of choice except of pain."

IV
Into small cozy room are huddling two its temperate inhabitants – one firmly permanent, Savely Semyonovich, and second one - his visitor and fellow, Alexey Borisovich. Calm plain interior is passionless and simple, things and furniture – shamelessly modest, but dialogue rather vivid and intensive.
"How are you breathing with your being?" - Alexey Borisovich has ardently encouraged sleepy friend: "How is your inner mental abyss?"
"It lives quite suitable and peaceful – in short frameworks of daily fuss, but soul again is far from grace. I look at world and what I see – one problems, losses and destruction. My heart gets hurted each life's second, my mind is worn, exhausted, crashed, lost in heavy deep hopelessness, mortified."
"There's no other way. Relax is given here exclusively for body. For soul and spirit life assigns us pains and worries."
"All happiness is only a ghost, you'll never finish roads to such a treasure." - Saveliy Semyonovich has slowly continued: "I sincerely try not to fall into sadness, to believe in all good and to trust to humanity, to rely on few ones of its members."
"It's entirely vain. Most of people today are just broken. You have to drive their breed away. Drive or beat. The more skillful and deft you're in low and cunning, the more worthless and false you're in frankness. And narrow way of compromises is at all choice of headless, remember. Mind's eclipse is such show, that kills. Pain is greedy for soul, mistakes – for thinking and decisions. Wrong step can happen only once: it's truly possible to make successful jump over hurriedly widening abyss, but in forward and only direction - with no provided road back."
"It drives in weakness and distress, in sadness, torturings and thoughts, deep undeniable despair and oppression, regrets, despondence, doubts and desolation. And no of persons is a helper, no single human from whole world."
"Each human serves as kind of some container, which gets filled first of all with thick dirt."
"Sometimes I try to live and dream, to stay calm, nicely cheerful and aimed, but it lasts sadly short. All current goals come down to simple finish, to prompt quiet end and lucky peaceful death."
"Here being burned before of coming fire is rare happiness, I know."
"It's too sad... Life is bright, full of ways and seductive ideas, even honestly lavish and hopeful, but all chances are far, are not yours..."
"In row of beads most valuable is thread: no matter, how much gifted is your fate, indeed important is its outcome and only. Each way can lots of times get lost, get simply interrupted and destroyed. For every smart all given is just dust, for mad – great luck and immense treasure. Don't rush to thank your blooming share, its awards can effortlessly turn into curse. It's just being, not more."
"How to be calm?"
"I justify my path by heavy role – I think I'm center of this universe. All human history is done for sake of me, of my priceless and excellent life. And if whole world had been waiting for time of my birth, then I'll also agree to stay glad and alive and to wait."
"How dashing you are... My mind is not enough for such conclusions."
"Cute praise. Sometimes I'm looking at my head, and so huge it's, so great, I even shy to stay without crown."
"Firm conceit is the best of salvations. But around again total chaos, dullness, haste and oppression. All is utterly vain."
"All anger of each cinema director comes here from modest actor's lips. God does not talk with people face to face. He do it by the voices of life's people, by fate's events and share's route."
"We need to have some kind of balance - between of opened facts and tools and given people, contacts and relations - for to be correctly perceived and understood, to get located at right place, to stay preserved and calmly saved, developed and endowed with sure use."
"So it is, you can live good smart life as a fool, as well as can complete vain stupid share in smart manner. Most of us take here emptiness, rubbish, it's hurting, sad, it leaves whole mind upset."
"It's choice of person, not of rightness, not of proper world's plot. This life was made for being happy, for mutuality and love. But in practice... Damnation."
"Sadly true, they do not even look for frank love, don't even try to find its presence, initially seeking for those ones who'll simply hate them not so hard than most of others. They are hopeless and dead."
"They even boast of their patience, of firm forgivingness of countless betrayals and of masking own obvious hatred. What's wrong with most of modern people?"
"New society is crooked. Crooked and spoiled. It deserves only one - enforced and broad extermination. As well as harmful dangerous insects. I frankly hate and fervently deny our modern request for sick humanism, it's so impractical and mindless, so much stupid and vain. Don't gain compassion or weak pity, such way was made for bringing pain, not for anything else. People are pests for each other, it's evident. If you know some unbearable person, total traitor and scum, low betrayer and nit, why not to kill him, not to smash? It's sad, that we've refused from past aggression... I'm most pacific and peace-loving, so heed my words as huge grotesque, but time from time I seriously fall in pure surprise, why don't we use smart violence as tool."
"People are rubbish today, I agree. I want to come to hospital's threshold and imploringly beggingly say: <My friends, please, amputate my head, it greatly interferes to live in world of mindless, I'll even generously pay with all my purse.> I only am afraid, that they'll refuse."
"If they'll agree, invite me too. And now I've suddenly remembered, that I've been planning path to local tavern. It's already a kind of my daily tradition, the one, which not so easy to give up..."

V
In bewitched by calm morning vast room, pretty, free and devoid of routine, has serenely and sweetly awakened detached from fuss and peacefully relaxed Margarita Yegorovna, who has slowly got up and sat down on bed, shyly drooping her meek sleepy gaze and dissolving in doleful thoughts.
"It's funny for majority of people, that I'm honestly waiting for happiness, for full and clear understanding and sincerely coveted love, that I believe that every human union should be just mutual and only, that I don't know what it means to stay glad through own lie, to call alien muzzle beloved, that I can't be indifferent, cold or unfaithful. But people... They deny such kind of feelings, they deny any kindness and ardor and always mock at pure and high. They don't admit fidelity and frankness, do not appreciate affection, don't wait for infinite togetherness of hearts, don't think, that keen responsiveness for partner is strict necessity for everyone and all. Their souls don't need in soul in pair, they need in doll, in pretty, inly hollow ghost. And in right volume of green bills into role of successful addition. What do I do among of them in this endless and bottomless emptiness... What a joy can it bring? What will work as my next guiding star? Who will answer... Life moves on, gives new days, but not for prospects, not for good. World is dark. Bitter, painful. No bright fate, no hope. Only waiting and changeless oblivion. Why I live... No one knows. One deathless sorrow is my friend, one hurting silence in response from being's abyss."
The lady has got up and then obediently frozen at room's window, tightly filled with pale thickening fog. Behind familiar old frame, in hugs of pensiveness and haze, are staying sleepy faceless town's expanses. Above of grayness of terrain, are humbly huddling in forlornness slow disconnected static clouds, calmly scattered up by wide boundless heaven, neatly wrapped into veil of shy mist. Into distance are waiting for better weightless contours of vague landscapes, smoothed and seasoned by river of silence, of languid bottomless oblivion and fright. World is careless, faithful to fatigue, habitually dispassionate and drowsy. Usual morning, not more.
Margarita Yegorovna has sweetly yawned and imposingly moved to the mirror:
"Again I contemplate my look... Again I gift whole charm to one myself, as if I am here only one at all the planet. I have no single native soul for to share my world and affection... All is vain, no sure weight, no fair usefulness, no greatness. World is seemingly bottomless, bulky, highly various, mighty and rich, but I'm alone, I'm stably totally forgotten. I ask for happiness, for love, but, as before, hear one unendingly long silence. As if they all themselves don't have that cherished key - from only worthy and essential of treasures. They say that I am waiting here for miracle, but tell - what else me to await for... If you don't wait, if you don't try, then your fate has no sense, one dead abyss. Yes, all hopes are just dust. But if you'll have no hope at all, then nothing will preserve your perished share. Without hope – one longing, death. Not nice with no of light, not sweet. So bitter from reality inside. You look at people, and it's scary - to become one of them, to get mixed with sick crowd, having lost former self in their soulless horde, into cynical, dreary deception. Rafting through by the river of hopelessness, you cannot meet bright tender glow. In emptiness, you have one pain and sorrow. Whole tragedy of being lies on surface. It's so much torturing to think, what will await. What will come from appointed future, pain and horror, I guess. And into barren frames of now - one unfixable permanent vacuum, darkness, sad constancy of static killing doom. Life's voyage moves exclusively to bottom. And this burden of being is endless. Mind is useless today, spirit too. What's around, I ask? What is given? Amid delirium of heads and in the middle of their madness. We do not want to build own heaven, we only optimize past hell, converting it in tolerable form. Our world is entirely lost. And me too. Opened voids are stronger. I'll never find myself in good. All my fate is one timeless disaster. Grief and pain. And impassable bottomless longing. "
Margarita Yegorovna has quite indifferently stepped aside and sadly looked around bedroom: "Just me and walls. No of prospects at all. Life-affirming conditions, supporting. I'm so glad, so decisively cheerful... I'm happy only when I sleep."

VI
At enveloped by thin faceless haze, foggy window are quietly sitting two of people – already known for us Savely Semyonovich and his permanent changeless companion, Alexei Borisovich. As usual, talk concerns their shares.
"Why this world is so terribly vain? Where to look here for shadow of logic?" - Saveliy Semyonovich has with meek sluggishness proceeded to the discourse.
"Any logic itself works as abruptly limited blanket: it cannot cover all the being, can't show assured omnipresence. Its shy existence is quite modest. Such bliss is opened just for few."
"What's the role of the world? If it's rubbish and wastes in all spheres."
"To decompose oneself on flock of tiny parts and to get helplessly transformed into dust and vain set of sad memories. It's the most evident of versions."
"Where is happiness here, where it hides? Is it utopia, dead fiction?"
"In fact, we all are moving to its cradle, to purest happiness and only, but some of us by leading forward line, and some by sad oncoming one."
"This is strictly unbearable, awful. It's some straight hell, not more appealing, some kind of scary creepy prison, stiff, wrecking, merciless and rid of any end."
"But so it's only for you, for other ones it's paradise and pleasure. They are not worried at all, that ship of life is swiftly sinking, they're much more heavily concerned, that at this priceless noble time doesn't play some appropriate music. And you can't even guess and pretend, how rare today is mind's clearness. Such a truth puts in pain. And, after all, it's not entirely a madness to say, that black in fact is white, true madness is to heed to these weird words and to be eager to agree with last ones' sayer."
"Vain present, what's indeed most sad, is a fruit of dissolved stupid past. If you both fall asleep and wake up only during of day, you will surely think, that there is no of night at whole planet. Humanity today is simply rid - of any right on possible normality, all stage of universe was built in total horror, in marshy swamp of filth and dirt, that's truly killing - till morbid agony in howls."
"And sick soceity vice versa gets utter pleasure from such state. Till endless shivering and bliss. Crooked mirror is salvation for all freaks. Each one of rotten poor worlds gives to own lost and worthless members most rich of prospects on salvatory sweet chance to become stably equal with normal. And, what's more painful and disgusting, to get not rarely more lucky and successful. Moral rubbish is free, it's broadly ready for new wars, for harmful and pernicious beginnings, for nasty ways through others' pain, vile inferior ventures and tricks and unfair indecent enrichment. Wet floor is fried for slipy shoes. Go and try and you'll surely perish."
"It's too easy to die, to give up and fall down in omissions, in deep pit of hard grief and despair. Even being most right and the smartest."
"Defeat concerns not meaning or idea, not truth itself, but only changable obtainer, only passing and movable holder, whose share never was important."
"What will save us from murk, from thick boundless wrongness and losses. From time of barely done birth till the purposeless point of coffin, we're plunged in hopelessness and darkness, in stupid sufferings and painful decomposing, that's all what's generously given, all what's gifted from fate."
"Head's flaws get healed by gun and only. All truly possible salvation and whole help can come today from only you yourself. You have to seek for chances in own depths, in personal abilities and features. In long efforts and aimed beginnings. In inner force and perceived past experience. It's not an anchor drowns your boat, but attached to its board fixing cable. You can survive in everywhere, the only thing to want and try."
"How to learn to such luck... On flat road, any pits seem impossible, on bumpy one - smooth flawless canvas seems as myth. We have no of encouraging tools in whole present. Being living like others, you'll die, you'll simply rot and mix with fuss. How else can you accomplish your existing, if your deeds and supporting behavior come down to commonly admitted narrow patterns, if thoughts are evidently barren, cheep and meager inside, plain, defective, with no of exit, no of weight..."
"You can't be God, it's sure fact, as well as can't be Caesar or Salieri, but you can easily fulfill his modest role, can solve his tasks and do his functions. Believe in usefulness of head. In decent mission and wide route. Sternly move to appointed goals and appreciate abyss of prospects. Be more sharp in new wishings and strivings. Spirit's volume is bottomless, great, its vital strength is limitless and fairy, indeed immortal, saint and omnipotent. Keep sober role, protect last vanishing remains of priceless warming faith in better. Each sinless breeze can unexpectedly transform in fatal hurricane, in most cruel of possible winds. Each thought, with proper application, is capable to knock aside whole world, whole course and line of century and time. It's far above of any of beginnings. That's why, in pair with idea, you'll never die with faded eyes."
"You've said a lot and done it well. So, I have to support every phrase. But not a person was created for a thought, but thoughts' variety was invented to serve persons. It endows both with aim and direction, corrects life's path and leads to new intentions. And what's shockingly more, we never generate own thoughts, we only scoop them from around, from very essence of this world, absorbing and embodying being's patterns. We are transmitters of eternity and heaven – fate by fate, way by way. From hazed earliest one till invisible latest."
"That's whole pain of this life. Of purpose, soldered to person, of hurting thinking and wrong will, of all given and vexingly stolen."
"And nothing equal for each share."
"All rules get usually divided in two types: for smart of persons and for fools. Such ones have different of paths... Smart ones keep seeking for attainments, and fools refuse from treasures, laid in hands."
"It's oppressively true... After all, fools are worse than plague. Whole world is made of their damned breed. Such fact perplexes and kicks out, bends down by heaviness of doom. They admire with shit, with disgustness. As last of stumps, with no of head at all."
"It shows whole essence of fools' minds: they collect others' stupid ideas and then perform them as own wisdom. Nothing shocking or new."
"And they also, as we, strive for ideals..."
"They search most lost of their doomed tribe. Just remember and add to beliefs, a lot of sages get considered as idiots, a lot, but not each one of them, but almost every noticeable moron gets assuredly mentioned as sage."
"And what's more terrible and tragic, indeed smart people in this being, as practice helps to turn unshakably convinced, are to oppression not much more than just a food - for pain, oblivion and inner decomposing, it's tormentingly sad."
"So it is, too much winged reachless people, who have luckily learned how to fly, will be surely sorely blamed in scary inability to crawl. It's new reality of humans, all traditions are made of pure madness."
"There is nothing to build or to cherish..."
"You can't transform own hopelessness in hope, it's just infeasible, unreal. If you are building anything from trouble, you'll get exclusively new trouble as result. All outlets and rescues are in person: in surrounding grief and stagnation, in devastation and distress the only possible salvation hides inside, in you yourself, in thinking's pit and abyss of reflections. And, what's nice, it makes sense: the course of life, as all we know, repeats the outlines of chosen up worldview."
"At here I cannot disagree. But mind's presence is sad: self-consciousness behaves as heavy anchor – while of flawless protection from madness, it totally deprives of glad emotions."
"Such ones are inappropriate, excessive. And, by the way, it's certainly for better: getting freed from all vain, from superfluous and redundant, you're automatically getting what you need. Having come truly smart, you'll abolish all hopes and whole optimism, having canceled past pointless intentions and having left one faith in blurred fortune, much more accessible then simplest of shy dreams. Do not deny or plunge in doubts, each one is equaled with a match: one will luckily lit tiny cigar, and other one with similar success will calmly organize huge town's fire. And this timid and miserable choice has been never depending on human."
"But time from time we are mistakening on purpose, with efforts of own crooked sinful hands creating all fresh problems and next hardships."
"It's also part of daily life: true fan of thorns is totally indifferent to buds, delights are alien for freaks. Modern human reminds sheet of cardboard with neatly cutted needed figure: you see its shape, its outlines and sizes, you understand the aim it should determine, but the very firm figure is absent, only emptiness, filling its gap. New human's prototype is made of shit and void. Each teacher has to be ahead of taming students, he's just obliged to keep such state. And that's why, right according to this, all ones, who teach downtrodden us to sacrifice at ease with all we have, themselves have nothing for to lose. And you'll exchange all miracles on dust – pedagogics is majorly stronger."
"Having coupled own mind with delusions, throw yourself to trash can. Such truth is deathless and eternal."
"You can sculpt and erect kind of aimlessness' monument even straightly right now. And even purified clear meaning in own essence is muddy, hazed and nasty thing, it stays here understandable not always. Any meaning itself is a sort of cute target: you want to hit it so much, that fall in shiver, and then with trembling hands you miss. But if to be most primitive in words and to expound in simplest explanations, shy meaning's presence is your tiny modest right to go ahead through being's forest, not counting its trees with your sick forehead."
"It's way to lose own path at all..."
"It shows whole trap of social swamp. It's not great grief as well as not too dead offense to fall down at width of smooth beautiful floor. You can easily go ahead, you can luckily move with most flawless success, it's almost nice for you - at least to fall. And you agree and greedily lose balance. And keep in mind, each abyss looks seductive, it's totally harmonious and graceful, laconic, sweet and full of tempting elegance. Besides vast dozens of companions around. People are hopeless at here, clothed in weakness, packed in veil of distressing obscurity. All way of human evolution has turned out to be just a fiction, hollow emptified farce, they had invented more fast vehicles, but at the same painstaking time had lost right path and suitable direction..."
"What's more sad, being damages best of own people."
"The same hawk feed himself with fresh flesh, not with wastes. Most precious, valuable and sacred gets destroyed in first turn – sincere souls and charming bodies. World's mediocrity is purely unkillable, wrapped in initial unbreakable protection, to itself, be informed, it's not harmful."
"I am really frightened and scared with so immense amount of people..."
"We have too much of people, I admit it. Such fact upsets and fills with pain, but such excess is absolutely useless, whole force of last ones' countless ensemble comes down to plain exorbitance of fiction, it does not give them greatness or perfection, as well as doesn't gift justification: a ton of ants will never gather into elephant, it's doubtless. All curse of people hides in them themselves. What kind of role each human actually has here? Forlorn, tormented by reality, dishonored and hammered by past – a doll, a dummy, faceless phantom, dead mortal freak, ill shadow, nothing more. New society is mad, tightly brainless, ridiculous and rid of any aim. The number of involved in circus actors can't change the type of showing play, excess of people doesn't make them humans."
"But looking long at stumbling ones, you yourself can forget how to walk..."
"At here takes place mind's abrupt imperfection, creeping greedily out of brain. True fruits of knowledge always are excessive, they're given into permanent abundance, that's why such ones not always can stay positive: some of randomly gaining conclusions can be harmfully pestilent, fatal. Sometimes new truths oppress and break. And you can't influence, you have just to endure."
"No joy, no shade of serenity. Abyss."
"So it is. Having broken in parts any square, you'll never gather its fresh splinters into circle. Life's vanity can't serve as source of happiness. It does not happen here such way. But selectivity, as rule, provides salvation - the plot of fate is surely bilingual: both God and devil read you kind of text, the only question whom you listen. The thing, which is a hoop for skinny person, is just a ring for amply plump. The thing, which's an infinity for fool, is just a moment for at least most slightly smart one. The space of room is determined by size of inhabitant."
"I agree. But anyway futility is stronger."
"Weed plant will calmly grow with no soil – in total vacuum will rise. It's guilt of freaks, but not of being. If you've stopped to believe into heaven, it's not a reason to greet hell."
"But too easy it is to give up, to mistaken."
"Each fuss is matter of life's suburbs, not of middle of world, look at the same rotating wheel – its center all the time is fully motionless, it's spinning only at own place, not describing long tiresome routes, with the life all is wholly the same: truly weighty and purposeful spheres will remain monumental forever - all century invariably original, all time completely innocent and static, real greatness is freed - from events, mortal passions and hurry, it's constantly devoted to perfection, the only valuable and frankly omnipotent... And indestructible by rubbishy society."
"Life is angry today."
"You say right. Just look at beggars and sick lepers, who has made them like this? Our life. And it can easily repeat such things with you – as well as can endow you with great money. All depends on one shy timid luck."
"Right here I eagerly confirm – vast vagueness is all we truly have."
"Most high complexity of any of devices doesn't mean any scale of true usefulness. The world is just excessively structured, just excessively plunged into technical blooming, that's all. And if to say of suitable ideas, among of such ones stays full vacuum and only. With admixture of apathy and shit."
"So, having decently succeeded into death, you can at all forget of any future. If you're going to perish, you're corpse."
"It's sad, but smelting is most merciless of actions, most violent of processes and deeds, it's not accustomed to show pity, not used to feel remorse or kind of guilt, such one is freed from any care: both an angular piece of material and a cute graceful figure or statue will equally dissolve and disappear, will get hurriedly smashed by high temperature – with no one trace and no of remains. With person's perishing and dying, with inner breaking all is just the same – such things can occur only once, they're hurting irrevocably and deadly, with most unbearable result, which hits immediately, sharply and forever. We're made of bitterness and errors. Any share and life is quite short and despotical matter. All its luck is not more than a ghost, a tiny flash, indistinct, faint and meager. We live in horror, into murk, thick and endless inside, dark and painful – from far birth and till placing in coffin."
"Each step is point of despair."
"I know, but essence hides too deeper. Any prison in obvious practice is frightening and scary not by cage, but by length of imputed imprisonment. In fact, it's absolutely vain and unimportant, how much hard is your life, how sad and piteous conditions does it have, indeed significant is only one thing - your chance on getting rid of living problems, on finding decent exit and salvation."
"It's greatly difficult at now to survive, no drop of matter how strong you're with your soul."
"It's quite disastrous and appalling. You cannot live without reason. Main horror and nightmare of your being is laying into only one fact – in fact, that all the time you persistently try to stay saved, to attain any rescue. You neatly hide from pains and dangers, research new ways of how to survive – for unbearably long hopeless time, and as a poisonous result, having lost past control for a while, for only just a little modest moment, you yourself go to grief and collapse all your share. Don't give up, don't succumb to environment. Forget of all except of you. Whole world is not on object for excitement, it's just a stage, which's close to garbage can in right perception. Indeed remarkable and valuable for soul are only rare individuals and prospects – if all of flowers will turn dead, you will mourn not for weeds, but for best of the roses."
"No matter, how much hard you try, you cannot change lost world around, deception and dishonor are immortal."
"The better is the actor, the more disgusting are his roles. It is main point of confusion, slightest weakness of faith under force of huge doubts turns all plans into junk."
"Life is shit or much worse."
"Life is life. Don't look at stone, which's under water: you'll never see it's surface from aside, just dive and say hello to damaged spine from its appalling crackling sound."
"The more you're trying to compete with given share, the more promptly it turns you in dust."
"In games with God, the winner is one devil. You can't cross life with help of feet."
"Heaven's frankness is utterly cunning..."
"All ones, who don't believe in sweet and tasty lie, calmly get bitter one, but again far not truth. Such cynicism is basis of world's nature. For the sake of nefarious goal, of most soulless and ugly beginning, you'll never get plain offer of to kill. For the sake of such rubbishy goal, you'll get offer to gift a salvation. You'll be surely trapped by high purpose. You'll be trapped and agree on an error. Remember, evil comes with calmness, not with hurry or storm."
"Human's role is offensively small. Small and useless."
"A person here is just a tiny screw. But each screw is completely specific, even partly not equal to others – one of them serves as useless addition, and other one supports and holds whole huge ponderous structure of system. Any eagerness, striving or ardor is nothing more than sign of harsh naivety: the louder is praised the breed of winners, the harder will be beaten losers' flock. All gracefully and beautifully fallen and all crookedly and uglily risen are neatly balanced, as a rule. And climb too high is mindless risk. When they're stopping to hate you, they begin to prepare for your burying. The more essential you are, the more awful will seem life's conditions."
"It's hard to fit to our time. Hard and utterly lonely. And even harder to be pure."
"Noticed well. Smart thought today is like a ball: you throw it, but no one can catch. People are aimless, their most favorite program today is white noise. And don't be zealous, it's fruitless: active ones dead in violent storm, passive ones – at calm shallow. The greatest helplessness inhabits heads and hearts."
"Initiative all times was just a rubbish, at here I eagerly confirm. Strong desire to eat today is just a reason to be poisoned."
"This lost world can't be changed. As well as can't be changed each share's route. Crowd around is dead. Their skillful madness can't be fixed, can't be properly cured or corrected. You can't meet truth in swamp of lie. Dirt, pain, futility and vainness are immortal, omnipotent in damaging power, they beat without any rules, without chances on recovery and saving."
"All what life truly is – just source of grief and paranoia..."
"It's quite easy for us to give up. But peace, which meets you after storm, is a hundred times sweeter than honey. Each pause is just a reason for to move."
"You cannot find a lot in our being. Can't find right course and can't affirm oneself."
"The relevance of one or other note is determined by one single melody, it changes and turns, and you have to support correspondence. So, where the tone will get turned, you will play with new part. But do not rush to build predictions: foresightness also is not sweet. The thicker is the covering of veil, the more tender are fogs for perception, sobriety's state is painful, hurting thing, as well as presence of pure mind. Even thoughts can deliver one torments. What's more each decent understanding of all better begins from checking of the limits of all worst. The main gift from the life is its absence."
"But how to become life's owner..."
"But what for? All the owners of life do not matter, essential are only one creators, primordial and mainest organizers, and temporary holders not in count. Such ones are just a source for human humus, food for worms and not more. But stay aside, keep aimfulness and calmness, be more high and more strong – the further is your goal, the closer are your tools. Strive to top, to life's peak."
"Any peak is entirely lonely – it's always bordered by emptiness and only."
"So it ruefully is... Having luckily turned into human, be ready to endure lots of monkeys. Among of brilliant ideas and beginnings, the most important of all things is not to get seduced by petty purpose. And if you'll cope in proper manner, then all next road to greatness will be free. Be more fervent in dreams. The more than sea of possibilities is only ocean of wishes. While fools have doubts what to do with tools, smart ones enjoy with taste of goal."
"With fish-net, full of fish, main thing is not forget to pull..."
"I confirm, so it really is. It's truly helpful and important to do just few quite simple things – to keep perseverance of own mind and to shy of extremes. After all, all is terribly easy: any hasty and will-less agreement is a sign of soon stupid defeat, every questionless, steely denial is a marker of prompt skillful winning. Be patient, world is such a place, where all, who are afraid of fire, get a flood into role of replacement."
"For to go faster, I am sure, the world will start to drop own speed. How much I agree with your words..."
"You have to be more brave and more heroic. Don't live with emptiness, just die, but with idea."
"Nice position, I like. The thicker is the lie, the more willingly people consume it. Most of them have no aim for to live for. This is painfully sad and completely oppressive."
"More sad, that nothing can be changed. You can turn all the earth, but all will stay in similar disorder."
"With realizing of the life, your optimism will lose all types of hope."
"The peak of pessimism is called as realism. After all, having seen cherished essence, you do not want to see at all. The highest bogey hides in truth."
"Once again I agree. Naive ones wait for spring, prudent ones wait for autumn, a
indeed most far-sighted wait here directly for one death... Any greatness is myth..."
"With greatness, main is not to lose connection: if you're climbing at rock you can equally either just fall or get filled with tart glory. And reality goes ahead. Burning circus, as all we're informed, is not not a cause for stopping cheerful playing."
"Current play... How to guess, what it is..."
"But for what? Trust to rules of the game is a weakness of losers. Full ignorance of road is an excellent guide."
"But random also is too shaky. After all, having lost inner compass, tear fate's map and stop way."
"We have no of roads for such one. And we have no need in such madness. Don't save this world. It's pointless to rescue breathless corpse."
"The role of human is a curse."
"It doesn't matter more than nothing. The gait depends on given route, not on efforts of walker's feet."
"We have lots of pedestrians here... Lost and useless."
"And lots of paths, do not forget. And all unsuitable and worthless. World's maker wasn't jeweler."
"Who has made us? What for? How to guess and to stay with cold head."
"Good mind's machine can calmly cope with any information.."
"But which a way... And how to do it..."
"Which way to realize, that world is faked? That it's primitive matrix and only. How to destroy the universe in brain? In childhood you've been scared by some nonsense – by bedside monster or the same. And you've been ardently believing. Santa Claus was seeming quite real. Then your childhood has suddenly ended and such fears, of course, have also deftly disappeared. Then you have got acquainted with religion and learned some truth about God. Then, if you've gone to study science, you've meekly fallen into atheism's division, having lost faith in God and his teem. But even if you are most stubborn skeptic, you anyway believe in world itself. In fact, that it has myriads of people, that they really live here and die, get sick and suffer into torments, make mistakes, hate and ask for forgiving, you believe into history's way, believe in far antiquity and future, believe, that at medieval executions had been cutted away real heads. And finally, you think that you is you. You believe that all things you remember had place indeed with you yourself, that each of days has really been real and no one moment of your fate has been implanted in your mind, but has been surely existing. You believe into nude information. You do not even know who've produced it. True God controls both saint and evil. He himself richly sins and forgives own omissions. All of facts are just parts of one plan. Humans' god is just local performer. As well as devil, by the way. True creator is greatly above. Destroy all patterns, that you know. Any sciences work right because now it's needful such way, it's needful for initial beginning. If such one will lose love to this world – no single scheme will show you truth, all of atoms will helplessly crumble and whole space will collapse into seed. Be sure, genuine Creator can't be known. We say of world, reality and God. All this vain fuss is temporary matter. Only truth can be permanent here. The one, which, by the way, stays always absent."
"I need to visit any God – have some questions from now."
"Than bring me mirror – I will show."
"Your self-esteem supports as doping. It's much brighter than lamp."
"Gain some similar one and enjoy."
"Will you share with seeds?"
"I'll even tell most proper type of watering."
"Priceless offer, I'm glad."

VII
Onto liquidly purple dawn sky are thoughtfully and carefully flaunting first timid rays of pale and sleepy sun. Blissful silence of innocent morning, caressing area with paints, is meekly listening to moveless outlines. Thin gentle fog is gradually growing faintly white. Margarita Yegorovna is greeting starting of new day - drinks tea and fills with sharp anticipation - Elvira Antonovna, new trouble, is promissing to come in few of minutes. Such fact, most threatening and awful, has made the lady noticeably nervous and chained with permanent alert – do not wait too much good from adventures. Time also flows with no of zeal, inert mood stays in frames of weak languor, and rambling flocks of pensive thoughts get submissively mixed with each other, intertwining in weird combinations, full of doubts and firm hesitation. And finally the knock in hated door.
"Open gate. I have come! In early morning, as I love."
"Okay. Step in."
"Why damned you once again is so sad? Has woken up without sun? Cheer up! We have a lot of things for to commit. And you support habitual refusing. Don't show your babyish part of person. You're tons of years not a child."
"Okay, I'll try to come to terms with such a burden."
"Where are you going to go - to have rest or to delve into grief? Catch a shame from my side. Where have you taken such a sadness? Like a corpse. I so many of times have been feeding your soul with advices – you need to have more of fun in inside, more of smile at own face and so on. No even shadow of result... But now I'll break this static state: let's shake own bunches of emotions – for not to lose from memory these times. Why are you silent as a stone? As if you're seriously dumb."
"What can I say, I don't resist."
"Are you normal or not? I call your person to cheer up, and you're against of such an offer."
"I agree. It's okay."
"Then get ready for storm!"
"Where are the coordinates of last one?"
"You will see. Just get ready."
"I'll get." - Margarita Yegorovna has reluctantly moved to the chest and begun to put on future outfit.
"Have you bought some new clothes?" - has asked Elvira Antonovna. Margarita Yegorovna has nodded.
"And now do some brisk makeup. And we'll go."
"You know, I'm not in friendship with makeup."
"You are strange. More than many of others. Okay, let's go - the route is promising and dazzling."
"Where are you going me to drag?"
"I feel, you'll never stop protest to my beginnings. We move to safe and lucky places with short and pleasant kind of road. To recreation country house, to Yeniseevka, which's near of Crimson Hill, remarkable by bridges, made of oak. You certainly should know those locations."
"I did not even hear of such place. I've never been in there for all my life."
"Then it's time for first visit. In love newcomers must have luck."
"So, luck - it's not about me."
"Once again you are falling in mourning, once again melancholy and only."
"Do not try to console my depression, with me this vice versa kills last mood."
"You are hopeless, I see. We are riding to joy, and you sing tragic melodies and get dressed into sorrow."
"Happy notes do not cling to my fate – to dark and desolately mortal."
"You're foolish head - yourself is moving to despair. All my efforts as water into river – flow away and dissolve."
"Is it right and indeed smartly sensible - to involve me each time to some matters, to promise help to my ill-starred fate?"
"I care of your share so much neatly, with so keen kindness and control. I'm not a stone, as you see, I can't permit for you to lose your chances. Who you are, after all? With nothing suitable inside and with no hope. As if damned."
"Maybe so, I don't know. But I live as I can. And it's barely aimful to change me."
"What are you doing with your share? Fate will stop, you will die – life is deft."
"I agree, death is kind of sweet gift for my being."
"Perfect mood for a walk."
Both ladies have dropped eyes and fallen silent, slowly looked once again at each other - first one bewilderedly, shyly and forlornly, and second one - appraisingly and sternly, and so with no of big participation both of them has unluckily trudged into voyage.
Quiet street is deserted and static. Pale houses are modest and indistinct. Friendly weather is pleasantly peaceful. Smooth landscape is expectedly calm and restrained. An ordinary truth of usual summer.
So, having languidly exchanged gray city's suburbs, the heroines have gone on bending path and freely left behind of shoulders the last inhabited massif. At this time, trickless route of these wandering travelers has breathlessly and helplessly got stuck at mournful faceless square of bus stop - the place of finishing location of their going.
In around is steadily staying wide keen serenity of dominant oblivion – most distant quarter of the city. Old road is practically wild – no high-rise building for a mile in both directions.
"Now 35th will dock at our side, and we'll happily move into ride. One hour more, and we'll arrive." - has delightedly told leading lady to her pensive and silent companion.
After tiresome pause of observing, have unhurriedly fallen in waiting. Twenty minutes of time, and white cumbersome bus with large scalloped black numbers 35 "Yeniseevka - center" has appeared from blurred horizon.
"Get in. Be deft." - has commanded in brisk abrupt manner Elvira Antonovna and the starting of trip has been calmly announced.
Into wide and impressively thick hazy window has lazily begun to stretch own boundless vastness friendly temperate summer landscape – neatly plowed crumbly arables, tartly green monotonous plains and richly motley splendid lawns, amply filled with high blossoming herbs. Pure grace and absolute enjoyment, the very apogee of pleasure for soul's depths. Best treatment from distress and devastation. Great flawless beauty – bliss and gladness. In perfect bottomless degree. Charming rustle of wheels is with meek sedulousness caressing tired ears, smell of freshness and dew is alluringly blowing with hope, and tranquil soul is gradually delving into harmony, enveloping both purposes and feelings. Faultless excellence, marvelous abyss.
Three static quarters of an hour have passed, and breathless wanderer – worn bus – has turned to small and pretty house, drowned in foliage, and opened iron shutters of own doors. The ladies have relaxedly gone out.
By sides is picturesquely staying native nature, indestructible freedom of wind and vast emptiness – no single soul, no face or voice. Onto building of resting estate are hanging huge wine-colored letters: the recreation center "Place of Miracles.".
"Lovely sign... Sweety view." - Margarita Yegorovna has lamentably sighed: "Far from truth, by the way."
"Stop keeping sullen, break it down, all will come, all will be. Let's just go."
At territory everything is quiet, under wide yellow canopy – few grouped in pairs tennis tables, in shade of thickets – old oak benches and long stone paths with neatly painted narrow borders. Atmosphere is mildly welcoming. Even close in some way to sky's cradle. At reception is cute pretty girl, and all of her, of course, maintains traditions – in thoughtless head no shade of slightest knowledge of current state with free for settling rooms, at dolly face – tart permanence of smile.
Both guests have introduced own floated persons. Having furtively winked, lounging worker has moved for fresh schedule, then has started to check. Then has written new visitors' names. Then has held the appropriate keys.
Now up the stairs few of floors.
The room itself is stunningly ascetic – small bed and shameless naked air, nothing fussy and vain.
"We'll eat in local dining room and will wait for upcoming of evening – time of recklessly passionate heat. Priceless matter it is, I will tell - to please at once both soul and body." - Elvira Antonovna has playfully and frivolously yawned in habitual indolent manner.
"I feel no drop of aspiration for such deeds, feel no inward desire... For me it's not a feast, but dreary plague."
"You are mindless, I guess. Come on, let's at least eat some food from their kitchen."
"Well, let's take such a risk..."
In sleepy eatery is staying lifeless quietness, late visitors are eminently rare, modest tables are free, food distribution also empty. At wide clean windows – flower pots. In lonely and pathetic atmosphere – deep thick oblivion, despondency and sadness. Enormously viscous and lavish. And in soul – endless hopelessness, gloom.
Margarita Yegorovna, having got slightly lost for short time, has indifferently settled herself at most near of sits and left the content of own breakfast at Elvira Antonovna's choice. Last one has taken pilaf and pancakes and, having luckily returned, has begun to sing praises to cooks:
"Let's eat, let's taste. Be sure, it is most excellent of dainties. And table setting here is also rather nice."
"Okay, I'll try to cope without overeating."
"Do it hard, with whole will – prepare flesh for soon adventures. We will move right to great."
"But will reach only bottom, I feel. It's too mad to rely on good luck."
"So having primarily killed all better chances, you will find only murk."
"I can't believe in other state, I am bathing in sorrow all life. Only pain nowadays is my partner, only grief."
"You even do not need a reason for your mourning - start crying right whenever you desire. Even paradise cannot console you. You yourself do not know what you want."
"I know what I want. But, trouble, nobody offers..."
"Have you fed your sad belly? Let's take route to the beach, maybe we'll even find some nice fellows. It will be glorious, I know."
Having pushed chairs back under table, have drowsily begun to step own way.
The length of distance to the water is not long – short fifty meters of thin grove and sand vastness is reached. Calm peaceful features are indistinct. Air is pure. Deep height is pristinely transparent. Space of sky, wholly pale in zenith, in unison with faceless whitish sun is silently and shyly alienated and mystically dreamily forlorn. Lines of contours are meekly laconic, smooth landscape is perplexedly dull, warmly cozily languid and blissful. Tart midday melancholy – surely in peak. Rare colors are also restrained, affectionate and friendlily welcoming. Time is wordless and sad.
Not tall pier has huge yellow umbrella, under which there is some glad company.
"Take off your clothes, and I will visit those guests." - has here informed Elvira Antonovna and assuredly moved in straightforward direction.
"All repeats once again. Each one is looking for adventures, and I'm predictably alone..." - Margarita Yegorovna has sighed and dejectedly given herself to moveless visual surveillance of action. Easy plot did not make any waiting – seduced by craving for unknown Elvira Antonovna has masterfully joined resting community and then briskly returned – not alone: by both of her amorous hands, were keeping two philistine guys, quite average, but bodily textured and stylishly and boldly outfitted in beach-riotous prurient clothes:
"Here I'm bringing you excellent catch: two great companions - best eagles! Remember, one of them is mine."
Margarita Yegorovna had reluctantly raised pensive gaze and, supporting own usual fearfulness, has hesitantly stretched in feeble voice: "I greet you, unfamiliar new faces."
"She is good... I'll leave this devil for myself. It's such a kind of woman breed, who wear kindness as own clothes." - has instantly concluded in response one of new carnal seekers.
"I have no questions, she is yours." - has given personal permission Elvira Antonovna.
"Well, my keen beauty, what's your name?"
"Margarita Yegorovna ..." - the lady has downtroddenly replied.
"She is Marguerite, Daisy." - has briskly integrated Elvira Antonovna, representing her fortunless friend.
"Charming consonance. Eloquent." - has picked up nimble walker.
"Then retire with her far in passion." - has interrupted Elvira Antonovna, having here once again reconnected to dialogue.
"We're dissolving right now." - the seducer has cunningly winked and, having given weighty hand to own new darling, slowly dragged by coastline, neatly hugging vast surface of water.
"Tell me now of yourself."
"With whom I talk?" - has coldly asked Margarita Yegorovna, who has already partially removed from involvement in course of discussion.
"If it matters, I am Nikolai. Nikolai Valentinovich. If you need my full naming."
"Well, I've heeded, okay. Where are you from?"
"Not from abyss. From city."
"Quite respectable fact, I can say. One minus – not unique. Our city is big."
"World is also not small."
"Yes, not small, but not bottomless too – only crowds and fuss. City also is kind of an anthill. It is uncomfortable here in modern times."
"It's vain to feed own head with nostalgia, live for forthcoming, for next days."
"What will wait in last ones? There are enough of trifles even now, but what significant will happen into future?"
"In the present, I'll say, I haven't f*cked you yet, but at tonight... Maybe, all will take place. It's explanation for past question. Have my words impregnated your brain?"
"You've started with vulgarity, okay. I see, you're going to go far."
"Not deeper than yours nature will allow."
"Good passage, but with no intrigue."
"I love your genuine straightforwardness and promptness, not frequent kind of inner boldness. Here I'll console your hungry essence – I will be generous in pleasures. So, consider this case for true personal luck - fall in ardor. If you need some surprises, I'll give. We can easily make a sweet trio - my amigo Mishka, the very one who has been grabbed by your brisk friend, will be excellent helper in lustful, he like such marvelous adventures. Will your scarecrow let him to us? Maybe even will join herself. You will study each other more tightly. And we will rapturously look."
"Tempting rubbish for somebody else, but not for me, I'll disappoint. I don't need such a dirt. Exchange of personal fate's weightness on scholastic and heartless intimacy is not looking as precious prospect. For me myself, polygamy is sign of mind's absence, of sure imbecility of human. Thought and flesh are entirely bottomless, having changed them on shallow of rakishness, of vain licentiousness and lewdness, you'll lose whole depth of admiration, such one will wretchedly come down to simple mating. You have no inner fire into soul, if you call it as true conflagration. I don't appreciate such trash, dismiss my person from this scum. Without me commit your sickness. You can seduce my "scarecrow", as you've described her – she's not a mountain, and you are not a climber."
"You'll stay with no dick forever..."
"And I will certainly express no faint regret."
"You are kind of unsociable shit. You are stubbornly mumbling some wisdoms, as if you really are smart. If you don't need in f*ck – roll out, don't poop in mind, I will easily find someone else. For me you are not more than speaking meat."
"Well, I've heard. Here we'll go apart. Good luck in dirty expectations." - Margarita Yegorovna has assuredly turned and sadly walked away from nasty tempter:
"What a rubbish in heads nowadays, what a dust... How can they live in such a manner? All their life, all period of being - what does it have inside of years? Why is it based on total filth? Do they have any kind of true purpose? I am waiting for happiness here. I frankly and sincerely believe. With all my mind I clearly know my wishes and live today by cherished expectation of grace and warmth, of something really better. I'm not afraid to be deceived. What's more, I have no faith at all – nor to deserted days, nor to short blurred chance, nor to stigma or fate. Last one is painted not with oil – with loud tears, pain and human blood. But even if all really is so – is it cause for to stop? To kill seeking for tart, matchless passion? There's no need in any skills, if you are rotting. I understand, it's difficult and hard to treat own life another, than it treats you. I admit sure hopelessness, losses. I feel world's death, but try to keep resistance. The stone of sadness falls at whole your being – at heart, at mind, at daily deeds. It's a pity to look at reality. Thoughts' evolution ends with one despair, with cognition of emptiness, murk. What else is left to us in actuality. If everywhere – abyss of the Hell. Low pettiness is called today as smartness, soulless meanness - as love, cruelty – as strongness and foresightness. The world is surely ridiculous and ugly, it's entirely wretched. Wretched and lost. Where is nothing to wait for at here. And Elvira Antonovna is probably in best, most flawless mood. In evening she will go to the disco. In depths of sharp unbridledness and sins. Why do I need to follow her vain person? What just for? What a huge brainless whim... To see vile faces and amuse them. I have to keep my path away. And not to meet with such a friend in future. To forget her at all."
Margarita Yegorovna has deftly made her route through gap in fence and gone in straight direction to bus stop: "Take me back, 35th. Take forever."

VIII
And again conversation of two. Savely Semyonovich effortlessly begins:
"How stupid and vain is this world, how much full of unbearable recklessness. Local people are ready for all – for any mindlessness, atrocity and fuss, as if sick last ones are just absolutely dumb - till worst of horrors. Why everything is accurately so?"
"It's the only possible way. Any lie, tartly seasoned with legend, is much nicer, than absolute truth. For flock of mad society all is so. Nothing else can console their strivings. So, be careful, strained – if you look at those ones, who are falling, you will identically fall at one of days, don't forget. " - Alexey Borisovich has observantly told.
"And it's even more sad and dramatic, that most right and most beautiful shares get most pernicious of facts and situations."
"Decent feet never get suitful paths. This world encourages one uselessness and void. Strong heartlessness and mental devastation. You cannot bloom in swamp, it's changeless."
"How to survive in such nightmare?"
"It’s not easy, I know. And what's painful, it's needless. But be, at least, more careful and prudent. Carrying thin crystal ball, at first, don’t dance. It's main of truths."
"But awareness also destroys - each apathy is road to mistakes. And people kill, deject and puzzle – they don't reach for their perfect foundations, they support only ugliness, rave."
"Each one, who has betrayed with lantern, will never look at any stars. World is lost in itself, people too: having killed all of weeds, you will not get a rose from nowhere."
"It's sure tragedy, nightmare. No drop of happiness at here, no drop of gladness."
"True happiness is similar to rainbow: it appears with rain of illusions and for sadly short time. As replacement of longing..."
"Incoherence is mother of the world."
"Incoherence is sign of soon strong changes. Main thing is to resist till very end. The narrower are paths, the angrier are borders."
"Such a pain into soul..."
"It's a fruit of keen mind and reflections: any crack into head splits whole being."
"Where to look for true calmness..."
"In your own righteousness and pureness. In holistic self-confidence. Having opened own casino, you will not care of your bets. Speak behalf of the world, be most significant from all its countless members. In such parameters you'll have no useless questions. And shy of people, they are harmful. All connection with wolves is given only in role of helpless sheep. Be able to avoid such vain cases."
"It’s so much easy to get used to inconsolable lost being — to come like those, who have fallen."
"I cannot argue - it's too easy. For bird, who has no wings, even cage will be something as sky."
"I want to be concurrent with my better, want cherished miracle of luck, but cannot find..."
"You seek for happiness, it's good: each flame of miracle is dish for ones, who're hungry."
"We're waiting for some miracles, and miracles are waiting in response. And both we wait..."
"We have no choice in given frames. Initiative is absolutely fruitless. With opened cards, the swindler is defenseless."
"Be strong, each light is sort of darkness."
"Gift more freedom for brain, for decisions."
"You can't change world by understanding."
"I completely agree. Both minds and souls are rid of power. The world itself is definitely dead. Having started with clearest emptiness, you'll never finish with completeness..."
"You cannot draw right circles by square templates..."
"Once again I agree..."
"After all, world is surely stronger, it so much easily can kill each one of us..."
"So it is. We've been raised for to perish."
"Sometimes you feel yourself so stupid, you trust to life, to love, to luck. Trust and fail. Time by time."
"So any honesty in fact is nothing more than an example of naivety and only. Believe, that you can fall in love with anyone – completely, irrevocably and firmly, and no of matter how much petty is your partner, how disgusting and low, you will adore your companion with hunger. It's quite clear in cases with stars: it doesn't matter how weak is light of star, important is exclusively the distance, nearby feeble star will look both bright and hot as hell, as well as close and needful person. You can simply burn out in flame, in endless fire of own feeling, it's more than abyss, more than pit. Fear the ones, who are near - stranger ones will dissolve, but native ones will stuck inside of heart. And the last one is right as perfume: you open it, and it loses own smell and past tartness."
"If you admit close ones as friends, than consider that snakes are great pets..."
"You see this correctly, I even am surprised. All hopes are lost in our souls. In our personal demands and inner strivings. In force of aims and depth of gaining wishes. That's why, remember for all being – in any floating at boat send praises only to oars."
"Fatalism nowadays is undying..."
"And besides, it's so awfully cruel. The more bright is your life, the more dark is its death."
"And you are nothing, when you've died."
"So it works at the earth, that the only role of the losers - to give all victories to winners and retreat. As well as role of all defenseless is to amuse the ones, who're armed. And that is why, don't ask for help from weaklings, human breed is wrong source of protection, their helpless flock can only calmly drown and quietly call your fate to common bottom. Don't crawl for lost civilization, follow towering God."
"But we get used to such a crawling..."
"If your feet have got friends with the music, dance until you will fall. It's unkillable here, everlasting. And if to say about others – most of them have no things for to risk, have no sadness from death or own wilting. Torn sail is not a grief on sinking boat."
"I agree. Never clean sinking liner... Do not maintain own unity with death."
"And never go to storm without boat. Be prepared for grief. After all, night is scary for only those who're not familiar with dawn. Strengthen soul. You can't become a winner with no fight."
"But world is so, that no of good ideas will ever meet true followers' excess."
"In the hungry years, by the way, each undertaker, I assure, is ready to get dead himself for only to extract some money."
"And our local living hell is universal and enveloped in total satire."
"Exactly so, I will confirm. Any tragedy, viewed from far sits, one a time inexorably turns into comedy."
"And kindness here, in world of evil, is as rain over dryness of desert..."
"I know, in ocean of being, saved ones cannot be counted by reason of their absence, and drowned ones by the reason of countlessness. Look at world, each its member will die, each one without of exception, the only moment and thing - will they have time to bloom into years. To bloom and to get filled with fake of happiness, then to step into grave. And even if you've saved yourself and rescued – before of next upcoming death, then you are also not a chosen of fate, but just an idiot, protected by occasion."
"I know, desire to be saved, is not a property of life ..."
"So it is. Love to life gets destroyed first of all by mind's presence. Among of buffoonery, aimlessness and farce, you can be nothing more than just a pawn. You are controlled by threads of your emotions, by getting truthless information, by all depending not on you. You can't be late in walk to abyss. You will be surely in time. In frames of timeliness, all given is just moment."
"So annoying to be nobody, to lose and lose from day to day."
"It's also temporary, vain. After all, any horror of frosts is actual exclusively in time until of gathering of harvest. We're afraid not to have useful time, afraid to stay away from plans' fulfillment."
"Long life is nice exclusively with purpose, with light ahead and wish to be. Such conditions are utterly rare. Today we hasten to nowhere."
"And we'll certainly be there in time."
"We all are promptly decomposing... Wholeheartedly, devotedly and brightly, with kind of flame and scary morbid passion."
"And what's remarkable, it's absolutely right. Last chords should sound loudly and lively. The more thin are the strings of your nature, the more tuneful and keen are their tragical notes of life's melody. Don't forget of this pitiless rule."
"After all, in the midst of world's horror, all chances lead to equal endless murk."
"So it is. Death of lie, misbeliefs and deception, doesn't bring any shadow of truth. Each lie at here gets killed today by one – by skilled and dexterous changing on another. And truth is elementarily absent, it's sadly far from actual conditions."
"The world has surely got totally transformed in dreary circus."
"With no of essence in inside, all what really leaves to vain cover is to get weaker and to rot. For our universe it's also stably fair."
"And no small place, no tiny moment for soul's weightness, for honest step and sinless route."
"So it's made - any highness' attainment is similar to climbing by long ladder: if its parts are improperly fixed, you'll never climb too far with whole persistence. No matter, how much stubbornly you try – for every cup of vast ambitions this world has heavy hammer of annoyance."
"That's why all sanity is also rather pointless. Today it's rid of fruitful application."
"New barren world is absolutely mad. In aimless frames each sense is strictly worthless. The parachute of mind and understanding in airless space of brainlessness is useless."
"Do we have any chance on some changes?"
"I do not know such vain trifles... But anyway no things can live forever. And insanity too. After all, alpine skis work in hills, at plains such ones are wholly useless. One day we have to meet mind's blooming. We have to overthrow both fuss and gloom. Vile power is just temporary trouble, just short omission and not more. I'll add, that most of dinosaurs were thinking that sun's light has also been created just for them. They have failed with such thesis."
"I cannot guess, what's good, and what's pernicious."
"Collecting fruits and picking spikelets, look, please - who've sowed their tiny grains. Only goals and intentions take matter. You can easily keep blissful task, but move straightforwardly to hell. Don't be afraid to be too cruel – God's hatred is much better and forgivable, than devil's love and preservation."
"All is killed, all is dead – any plans, any roads, any actions."
"It's also nice. Both tranquil peace and tireless despair are also parts of common dish. Anyway all will lead in one tragedy."
"World's maker had to be quite handy."
"That's why don't trust to will of being. After all, ears aren't equal to eyes, as well as feelings to mind's power. Impression – partner of deception. Keep coldness, firmness and uniqueness, do not get weak, don't stay idle. Build all best, go ahead."
"All I build is just pain."
"All good gets birth by naked luck, not by flock of free tools and decision, not by course of gray days and vain meetings. But luck is also sort of dust. In evolution of the buildings the highest level, what's most dreary, is occupied by absolute ruins. Last station for each human is graveyard."
"It definitely hurts and puts in torments."
"Fate is huge, but still quite manageable, opened for control. We obey ourselves, we accept harmful rules of life's playing – you cannot go with straight direction by sharply winding twisted road."
"What's the main?"
"The main is not to lose yourself. Not to surrender to sick routine and not to bend with deathless soul. Not to get sold to devil's prison. Continuously stubbornly remember, it is impossible to stir own shit in cup and then to drink clean tasty water. Having lost human honor, you cannot get a spare one. Even if everybodies betray you, main thing is not to act in their manner. Betraying, you betray at first yourself, your soul, which falls that time in abyss. It's difficult to differ from own flock, I admit such a pain. But crown of universe is person. Excess of people's population is rather breakable short thing. One strong and merciless pandemic - and it's fixed: no enemies, no kings or venal presidents."
"So it is. All is shaky. Sometimes long years pass as day..."
"One day, which's spent with use and purpose, is much more valuable and nice than worthless century of fuss. And current ideals are equal to nightmare. But still you have no reason to give up. The more submissive is your head, the more frequently will it be beaten. With full indifference your path will roll to hell."
"Not to find inner bliss."
"Think more aptly at here. Having sadly succumbed to days' routine, you'll never leave its endless frames. After all, the more nice is the night, the more hateful is dawn. Getting used to life's shit is most awful. You will have no escape from its poisonous pit. But bright experience is always undeniable. Each one, who've truly felt sky's height, will never manage to agree to limp and crawl for all next being. But with no confidence in personal beginnings all will be frighteningly foggy till life's end. Most firm of boundaries and limits are modestly located into heads. With opened mind, all chances are in hands."
"I agree, having nimbly escaped from the chase, the main of things, what's greatly strange, is not to find, that no one person has been chasing. Extremely lots of things depend on single head, you're wholly right."
"And never be afraid of storms and troubles, go through them with no pain. To fail is much more worse, than to die. As well as whip in holy hands is much nicer than sweets into devil's."
"But sometimes, what's most bad, we are stumbling at obvious finish, when all hardships have passed."
"The closer is your target, the weaker are your hands. Each way to miracles has lots of forks to hell."
"It's regrettable, sad. And nothing helpful can be done. You can't build greatness from its splinters."
"Real troubles and griefs never leave your forever. The more quiet is each dormant volcano, the more merciless, awful and scary will be felt its surprising awakening. But still act and persist, rush to goals and keep rescuing promptness, I just beg - don't give up, don't get lost. And, going up by others' heads, do not forget main deal – to save your own. Crown yourself and despise all around. All scales are usually deceptive. You cannot heal and turn in dust all universal pains and sorrows. Love yourself, don't get perplexed by alien omissions. And do not trust to anyone you know. Remember zealously one - well-hidden devil, freed from checking, can be perceived as doubtless God for completely unlimited time."
"And so it perishably is - the highest devil's strength and talent is his ability to act as pristine God. It doesn't matter what we feel. All is fog, all is lie. Degrees are powerless today. As well as past experience and will."
"From ant to elephant all difference in ego."
"Trouble here."
"Such thing is popular today. Main plus of any known poison hides in fact, that its dangerous eating does not require presence of companion. Life's shit is permanent damnation. And inner peace... It's pure utopia most often."
"Each second – soil for despair..."
"Pain is fuel of thought. Mind grows in sufferings, in abyss."
"I'm neatly suffering from birth... This earthly world, forlorn and aimless, it's so much alien, so nasty and disgusting."
"Each foreign land depends on geographic. All heart's affinity is fruit of living course. Close yourself from the world, change soul's lock and go up. Drive away doubtful guests. Fight, resist, kill mistakes. We never stumble by the mountains. True greatness can't be wrong or harmful. Don't be afraid of something high. And don't allow to be with something shallowed. You can calmly forgive any enemy, but only if the last one is a corpse. Each fear works as treatment from mind's presence. Remember, winners can't be judged, but this is only a half of prudent statement, the second part informs of more – of fact, that losers in response are firmly rid of every chance on any own justification."
"And what you'll say about beauty?"
"For me it's fake of real greatness."
"And sex is fake of real love?"
"Maybe, yes. Sex is a derivative of last one. It's also kind of precious pearl. Each of splinters of miracle is already huge trinket."
"We look for more, but live among of rubbish: world causes absolute rejection, people - hatred, and God... God – compassion. Nothing good. Nothing high. No even matter who you are..."
"We all are dying, don't forget."
"How long will it go?"
"Who will guess... Time will tell."

IX
Well-performed, silent morning has quietly filled mild peaceful atmosphere of timid, shyly sad and sleepy bedroom of similarly idle and relaxed Margarita Yegorovna. Lonely dim weightless rays have cautiously crawled by modest things, attentively and curiously studying inconspicuous moderate furniture. Monotonous time has effortlessly stepped into narrow bounds of habitual tender oblivion. New day has started own beginning.
Outside of hazed colorless window, are impassively timidly melting sad misty tiresome expanses of sky's tent. In gloomy depths of faceless corners are idly creeping shapeless shadows. Time from time, with sufficiently ample tenacity, is faintly shining smoothly tinted floor. At spacious width of sweetly cozy lonely bed is lying into lovely lounging harmony its incessantly pensive inhabitant. Is still loafingly sleeping. But this is strictly not for long – one minute more, and Margarita Yegorovna, having shyly and sluggishly yawned into warm satisfaction, has coyly stretched herself and cutely shivered:
"One new morning again. New thoughts and previous old troubles. The same vain deeds and changeless barren goals. Freedom's spectrum is short, sadly meager and far, it's forever remote, strictly closed and appallingly hidden. Lost world is not a source of rich variety. It's surely not bottomless, I know. And the longer you live in life's abyss, the more strong is your inner rejection. World's coldness kills, exhausts and hurts. Time of festive extinction is scary, greatly rueful and dead. And indeed most unbearably awful is not people's and souls' extinction, much more horrible, tragic and sick is broad extinction of the world - of main of principles of being, of main of meanings and foundations, of deepest essence of each human, of any fate with whole its daily presence, of every particle of good. There are no of people at all, only madmen and herods around, hollow idiots, jesters and liars, freaks and cynics, last shit, that's all our undying society. Their idols are including one rough tyrants, they understand one pain and doom of grief. The path of world is terribly disastrous, it's filled with only one tart shame, with dumb confusion and omissions. This can't be healed, diluted or improved. Gilded sand of all their faked pure and sinlessly innocent promises – in next development is average deceit, useless dust and vain valueless rubbish. But we mindlessly trust to so evident poison. We'll never fall in sanity, in joy. Such ones are temporary, lifeless. The only thing, which's absolutely changeless, is time of grave in final of each path. Being's storm doesn't care – ones will die, other ones will replenish their absence. Updates are stopless and eternal. Life is a sort of endless abyss, where people cannot float, can only sink. Human journey is dark, attached to painful burden of oppression. Situation is sad - we have two sides of hopelessness' conditions: first - reality's emptiness and second - aimlessness of hopes. All we can differ from each other is one degree of torments and humility. Vain years first, then visit to the coffin. And days of sufferings within of birth and death. Drop own luck, it will never be found. If meaninglessness has entered your heart, your mind and plans, then hands are free, untied for madness. And all will crumble - step by step. Mental gap will be surely added by moral briskness, body's lust, feeling's weakness and low demands. And fate... It cannot be controlled or understood. So, what it is, if not a bottom... After all, any kind of activity is short straight way to personal defeat. And the stronger is zeal, the more tragic and dark are its outcomes. This world is merciless to perfect. There are no of ways, no of rights for torn from better breathless soul. If you have no of path, then get relaxed and go to nowhere. No matter, how you rejoice with small details, totality determines own plot's moving. You can't save happiness at here – can get seduced and disappointed, that's all. World's pier is boundlessly poor. It's current state is helplessly absurd, unjustified and obviously harmful, wholly aimless and hurtingly stupid. Modern frames look as tree with no roots. The source of productivity is vacuum, full emptiness, which gives all kinds of things and equally consumes all types of facts and strivings. For sufferers it's offered at here to get learned how to love all own sufferings; for ones, who patiently endure, is given scary fear of pain's increasing. Vast rampage of realities is stronger. We have to suffer and to lose. Even God has dissolved last of hopes. No light at here, no aim, no miracle, no chances, no faith, no of tangible prospects. Only madness and dirt. And my soul in this abyss..."
The lady has got up, caught up with window and leaned with elbows on its frame. Outside, as each time, daily life, meager breathing of purposeless routine, deep emptiness and languid blissful murk with snow-white flocks of tiny clouds in dim height, with boring veil of faceless fog, long straight horizon, rid of features, full of bottomless cloying severity and indifferent typical buildings. At left side – dark smooth roofs. At right one - endless thinning expanse of cold latitudes. Depressed and wilted urban space, old familiar views - completely deserted and gloomy, drowned in tearful rains and unfixably drowsy. That's whole world's picture for both eyes.
Margarita Yegorovna has lovely shrugged her shoulders and then longingly sighed: "Where are true ideals and meanings? Where I am in life's cage? With only emptiness around. So much familiar for years. Too hard to be all time alone... And no of lucks will ever help. Except of fortuneless myself, no one will comfort me or heal."
The lady has obediently sat down right in front of wide mirror and gently risen with her hand by piquant hips.
"Again I coyly share my quiet warmth with lost and irreparable myself. And every time like that and only."
Margarita Yegorovna has slowly spreaded thirsty legs and, having dexterously gone down with deft fingers to own personal charms, has totally relied on dreams' abundance and on promptness of primitive movements.
"So much good... So much insanely pleasant. How nice, how hot it's inside. As in stove. Priceless bliss is this bodily joy. Much better than each paradise and heaven."
Keen rakishness has timidly continued. Concerned by lustfulness and lewdness lecherous lady has nimbly put her other hand behind and then cravingly shifted by back: "I want in all of given ways, in all my entrances and inputs. I so much love this simultaneity of pushing."
Margarita Yegorovna has impudently sharpened speed's pace and, having skillfully achieved own suffocation, has involuntarily fallen into groans.
"Oh, I'm melting, I'm flowing. Bring the bucket to me." - the lady has chaotically trembled and, having gone through frenzy of convulsions, with deep relief and satisfaction has slowed down and then leaned back in relaxation, serenely and wholeheartedly devoting to pleasant process of self-tasting: "So sweet and yummy are my juices – as if not part of flesh, but honey! And after all, what an awful injustice - so tasty slit and so alone obtainer. I get consoled exclusively with self. But it also has weight - you shamelessly amuse your tired body, and your soul gets so bright, so exalted. Flesh and spirit, I see, are insensibly secretly soldered. Let's I'll do it once more... I love myself, I want myself, it rescues."
And again tart repeating of pleasures.

X
And again lonely featureless room. Savely Semyonovich is purposelessly sitting with no company, reading one of the books - the monologue of someone from dark forces.
"I clearly remember how someone has told at process of creation of the world, that it will never die and fall apart, will never disappear with no traces. Such a nonsense it was, such a shit. And now this person stands on knees – right here. You was a fool for all your being... Kill him now and then put his vain skull on my shelf - as talisman of brainlessness and madness. You even now wait for help from the powers of darkness, but you are secretly devoted to the light. Heed in mind, you're having sins in front of devil, and he does not forgive them as God. Burn his flash! I am tired of him, I'm bored."
"My hero has got mortified, it's sad. Now no of interest to read. But I still have to occupy myself. Aleksey Borisovich will come here only at noon." - Saveliy Semyonovich has pensively concluded and continued painstaking plot's going. In such a way have passed two hours and quarter. And then the bell.
"Here I'm holding my promised shy visit."
"I see clearly. Come in, we'll greatly sit."
"We will sit, if you will not fall down. There are some news. Not good for our friendship."
"What a thing? Someone's dead?"
"Not so sad, but not cheerful meanwhile."
"I'm surprised."
"I myself am quite shocked. I am moving to neighboring city – I'll have my marriage at there. I have not told to you in time, but, believe me, all this not by reason of fear or distrust, but by cause of my personal doubts. We can easily cope with each alien fate, but with own we are weak."
"All you previous life has been spent into bars..."
"I've met my love directly there. So, you scold them too vain. Please, don’t smash me with dirt. We mustn't get apart, I beg. I will give you address. We'll send countless letters, I'm sure. I'll even pay most recent visit - as soon as I will buy some car. Therefore, don't curse me as a traitor. I'll prove myself and my fidelity. Gift me chance, give me time."
"I'm not angry at all. And even not in hurry to be broken. Letters also are great. In them sometimes my thoughts are even deeper. I'm also not afraid of being lonely. I will go to your bar with my sadness, will support your past duty. But honestly I'm catching love more simple - I read smart books, and then I write my number and leave two tiny letters "S"- Savely Semyonovich. And also leave man's sign – as maximum of needful information. But nobody calls..."
"They have some problems with connection... Do not be sad. I faith, you also will be happy."
"Life tells me opposite. Just firmly screams inside of soul."
"Do not listen then. For any shouts of absurdity, we boldly have huge gag of logic. I will report you now all details, and then we'll go to drink fresh kvass - in my bar, by the way. You will keep my past changeless continuity. And it's forbidden not to visit its saint cradle."
"Priceless. Deal."
Have sat slowly down. Then brought tart pickles and dense honey. Laid out the remains of dainty cakes.
The conversation has gone on.

XI
One new morning again, but now gloomy and unfriendly, impassive, colorless and sad. Cheerless end of September. Margarita Yegorovna has already got up. And by reason – at today is her birthday. 25 useless years. Even essence of date is quite weighty. And not to celebrate is sin. The heroine is looking into distance and measuredly gathering with thoughts.
"Once again my vain birthday – new aimless year, which's spent with emptiness and pain. Why am I here? For what of prospects? Each day I hammer this dark question in myself. I have my life, but life has no reason. I truly live, but cannot find myself. What a bottomless curse? They have no need in my shy presence... They live in swamp and stay quite happy. They have no benefits, no goals. Only helplessness, murk and oppression. Hollow days, boring past, poisoned future. We have no water in life's river. And planet spins, transforms, moves forward, accelerating and replacing times and fates, ripping ones and producing new others. Days, like pages, pass by, melt and fade. Fragile reality gets crashed by force of madness, by stable worthlessness and sins. Deception, torments and disorder gain own volume. It's difficult to stay completely sober, to reach own aimfulness and blooming. We live in peace, which's close to worst of wars. And no light, no helpful point. Truth's wall is bitter, painful, wrecking, but wall of fuss is obviously poorer. No matter, how strong you are. Strength of weakness is stunningly higher. We adapt own shy ways to world's flaws, we can't be saved or properly corrected. I'm greatly scared for myself. I try and rush. But all is vain. Once again and again. In midst of shadows, by the way, no sun will rise, no heat will warm. I look at people – they are lost. I want to cry each single second. I feel own incompleteness, wrongness. Feel own discordance with their breed. Feel opportunity to change my stupid being and awful inability to do it. And others do not care, pass as rainbow. We have not only right to build low lawlessness, but also right to choose and think. They have preferred to take the first. But I can't, can't agree to get parted with mind. Life's sense is locked, access is rare. And it's the saddest of all things. I’m a loser, I know. The one, who is unlucky into everything. I don't expect and do not wish. I admit given facts and get older. I'm child of loneliness, of grief. And no holiday will help. Wretched ones do not need them."
Margarita Yegorovna has faintly raised her sullen lifeless gaze and slowly looked around sides: "So huge room, so small me... So disappointingly painful harsh injustice. Immense one. Dark and frightening, dead. You pay attention to this world, and joys completely disappear - with last weak drops of self-control in sad addition. It's hard not to become a soulless corpse, not to get burned with no purpose. Without findings, ripening and feelings. How much simple it is - to wait and not to get, to believe with all heart, but be wholly deceived, to glorify environment and world and to stay fully lost and defeated. Each of lucks is casino, I know: you are informed – you'll be deceived, but anyway you want to check. All is vain. Humility is shameful, self-confidence is stupid. You can't rely on anything you have, as well as can't predict next fate's direction. And nothing will prevent world's ruination or even drop its mindless speed. All are lost, all are surely helplessly spoiled. And no of chances, no of paths. You can't create rich life on barren lands. Can't find true flame in breathless heart. The time, where optimism of plans comes down to absence of death's wishing, is greatly far from love to own existence. As well as far from cheerful expectations. No one place, no one corner for happiness. Many facts, many deeds, but no use. Best soil here is one, which's shyly moisten by sinless blood and perished dreams. Life is mad. All access to its long contemplation is not a gift and not a prudent source. Too much of sacrifice and pain, of endless hardships and disasters. It gains intention to get lost – if all broad universe is hell. Only shouts are quieter and oppression, apparently, weaker. You can't be comforted today, as well as can't be truly rescued. What infinite do really we have? Only memory, thoughts. Saint memory of finished distant past, of best and coyly of oneself. Does world's past ever die? Does everything in world just disappear? Does true happiness die? As the only essential thing in frames of aimless routine and ashes. I know, that life gets ended in deception. That faith is child of weakness and naivety. But how much, damn all, I want to trust, to believe into best and in happiness. In tiny chance and vague opportunity. And fate is no longer than a moment: it will fly far away, will get burned and dissolved. As life itself. As time and poor me. Just as me, just as purposeless me."
Margarita Yegorovna has humbly and dispassionately sighed, wiped off own inadvertent tears, with guilt got frozen at cupboard: "I have to read some tranquil book... I had been doing it quite frequently in youth, had been leaving my number on pages... Had been waiting for calls. And sometimes had been calling myself. But all of them, as I remember, had been already occupied by others. Not a fate. Not a luck." The heroine has briefly looked at shelf and pulled out small volume of poetry.
"Let's read some page."
66th.
"Don't ask, who gifts me sweets and flowers
I've bought them yesterday myself
You have been feeding me with cunnings
And I've been sending all my best..."
"Even here only sadness. As well as deep inside in mood." - Margarita Yegorovna has dejectedly sighed and leaned back in mixed thoughts: "So, what is love? How it can be explained or perceived... For me this property depends on past experience. Love is close to transparency: if you've never seen glass or smooth surface of water, then you'll never imagine such quality. That's why it's useless to describe. For ones, who love, this thing is simple, for ones, who have just parody, it's hidden. I believe that it's wholly impossible to keep silence, but love, impossible to hide it or to mask. We never lie of own love in frames of negative degree. We don't say "I don’t love", when we're loving. But vice versa it may happen. World itself is too far from sincerity, it's close to money, craziness and dirt. To deep personal pettiness, sins and oppression. Born at first, then grow up, then start rotting. That's whole width of suggested realities. What is love... Where it is..."
In identical sad meditations, has flown away whole rest of day. The sun has quietly disappeared. Lifeless evening has spread own thick darkness. Margarita Yegorovna has reluctantly risen, put on her hat and trudged by empty street - for short walk and then back into home.
"What a filthy and marvelous weather... Exactly marvelous and filthy at one time – as well as policy, for accurate example. So much cold in inside, so much dark... And no people around. One dumb lanterns with yellow eyes. What a curious bastards they are... Are staring aptly at my face without blinking. And I am even not undressed. There is nothing to look at. But even if whole world will look, I will not stop. Now I'll sit at this avenue and will start my self-pleasing – why not. I am tired of everything here. All foundations are wrong. All is source of one pain and oblivion. No matter, stand you or keep rushing."
Margarita Yegorovna has waved annoyedly her hand, got deep breath and dejectedly wandered back.

XII
In mixed with colorless depression, pacifyingly enveloped tender haze, are sleeping long and featureless surroundings – with thick dumb clouds, shy gray sky and faceless and dispassionate environment of meager outskirts and silent barren pictures of merciless and endless devastation, symmetrically added by quick fading, impenetrable, mourning tart darkness and pale and nebulous sunset, sunk in bliss of fixed shadows of alleys, so much shamelessly naked by wind. Whole world is poured with dying, landscape is plain, unfriendly, chilled and weak.
Perplexed and sullen Savely Semyonovich is calmly walking by cold street, contemplating lost gloomy surroundings and tormenting own mind with dark thoughts.
"How much wrong have I been, believing, that captivity of loneliness will never be too torturing and painful, how much greatly I have been mistaken. With what I live – with couple of short papers, even howl time from time as a wolf - from oblivion, sadness and torments. Alienation is hard. Person needs person's presence. Understanding is gift, best of treasures. Even bar has got closed. Two times I've managed to go there. Apparently, it really had been built for Alexei Borisovich and only... And now emptiness and murk... I can't recover from these hardships, can't get suddenly healed – in my loneliness. Sadness."
The hero has turned back, exchanged two pairs of calm blocks, then stepped by porch and looked around: "Maple leaves, smooth huge puddles and silence. And hopelessness in every part of space. Even here in this air. In my mind. In lost thoughts, into heart. Omnipresently, endlessly, deadly... With no of finish and of pause..."
Now to home. Once again to new letters.


AFTERWORD:
And again calm dispassionate birthday. Margarita Yegorovna is 49 years old. It already is evening – room is dark, cake is finished, light is helplessly weak. The day is surely completed. Symbolism is respected.
The lady stands in front of mirror, neatly studying with eyes own inconsolable external evolution:
"Well, thank you, fire of emotions, you've left one ashes from my life. I was looking for happiness here, dreaming, waiting... What did you do with me, my fate? Still how much soberly remember I that summer, that village with true happiness' example... And now? What is shyly left? I'm still alive, but surely exhausted. What do I obviously have? What a kind of own world? Someones die in big cities from boredom, someones in little modest towns, some in unloved cold reciprocity, some into loneliness and hopes. Just think more deeply – all is aimless. The staircase of mind is far not easy. Not all will get completeness on its stairs. One deception on them, one mistakes. My whole existence has transformed in single tears, in endless helplessness and pain. Next length of life is evidently meager. I definitely will not fly to joys. There are no of miracles here - in my universe. Too much late. All is ended. And will barely have some improvements. I've been waiting for dreams. Now I stand into void. I'm switched off, rid of essence. We cannot even guess, which things will wait. You look for hope, believe, build prospects. But all breaks down and go to bottom. Sometimes life's route is greatly dark. What am I able of to try to do in current time - to finish tragedy of fate and to close my wet eyes... Now doors are opened for oblivion and only. It has got ended – my vain life. Has just passed. No one power will help, no one force will return into youth. Expensive price for hollow dreams. And no of light, as well as no of chances. You can't be late to own grave. My next future is short – rather good: all torments and omissions aren't eternal."
Margarita Yegorovna has sighed and looked at silhouette of book at window's frame: "I have been thinking for whole day – what I've forgotten to commit... To visit library. I've finally remembered. I had strong ghost of imperfection by this cause. Well, at least, some clear progress. My memory is luckily repaired. In ancient times I had been seeking for free numbers and had been writing my own one. Nobody has called. Let's check this book, as hundreds others. Maybe, fate will be mild."
The heroine has taken book in hands and purposefully looked at yellow pages. And it's really great: on greasy cover - two twisted letters "S" and clearly visible small number with gender icon – male in our case.
"Oh, this is truly entertaining. What to do? Maybe, truly to dare for call... Just right now. Mistaken lifes should also have some purpose."
The lady has got up and rushed to phone, but then stopped and despairedly waved with her hands: "Ugh, the phone does not work! Once again I've forgotten. All as usually wrong. Not a fate."
Margarita Yegorovna has perplexedly put useless book and, having parted with last hopes, turned off the light and moved to bed.
Not a fate, not a luck.





The lady of deception.

I
In permanent and gradual twilight of amply clouded with passion curtained room, in narratively shameless tight embraces, was spending last remains of ending day young 19 years old Anastasia Valerievna, engaged in nets of sinful joys and rid of useless moral burden, excessively till bottomlessness lovable and hot, full of bodily chic and amorous dizziness, disunited with limiting shyness and freed of social taboos, but excellently flawlessly quipped with great degree of rampant dreams, which are most frequently inherent to one madmen and sometimes to romantics and childs, pretty lady. In role of pair of such passion was acting random Alexei, come in world in the same with his chosen year haughty, arrogant youth, harshly hungry for precious trophy of prompt and easy intercourse, so evidently promised and announced from early start of current meeting, so ardently and greedily endowed with carnal sweetness, deep lewd obscenity and tempting lecherous ardor. With complaisant and cute hospitality, opened personal space of Anastasia Valerievna, with painstaking and endless submissiveness, was waiting for commands from rakish lover, getting slowly closer and closer and capturing in boundless depths of mutual devotedness to sins. And our hero, truly not a fool, was spending moments not in vain and with no shade of any doubts, as well as with no poison of confusion, was boldly using best of lady's fruits – those ones, which can be sweet and only. Languid time was meekly outpouring with smooth tenderness, neatly spreading with luscious playfulness and calling far away from earthly being. Having played for enough with enchanting and lavish preludes, Alexei has proceeded to straightness and, dextrously exploring spacious limits of all permitted and allowed, with freely visible and simple curiosity has clearly and imperiously stretched out: "Come on, my soulless, let's please me, I am already rather tired of aimless massaging your charms."
At such a moment, our lady, as if she constantly was waiting just for this, has passionately clung to hungry lover 's body and deftly dived between his legs, wholeheartedly devoting to obedience and limply plunging in relaxedness and weaknesses – in cult of full submissiveness to pleasures, to strong totality of hotly boiling passions and to almighty fervid flame of brisk desires. All this alluring shameful action was hopelessly developing to sadness within of walls of parents' flat, that's why was limited by narrow modest frames of short and nervous oral contact, fairly staying as absolute maximum of safely possible variety. But even such imperfect meager volume of given sexual and sensual plurality was not so pointless and fruitless, calmly serving for both of young sinners into role of some lightning conductor for low flesh's strivings, calls and needs. That's why, right now, full of softness Anastasia Valerievna, wholly trying to stretch languid pleasurable minutes, was ardently submitting to own playfulness, accelerating chosen pace and with all skill expertly satisfying dense piece of flesh, extended to her mouth.
"Try more hard." - Aleksey has coldly commented on quickening long breathing: "Work, work, my girl, don't lose your time."
Anastasia Valerievna has meekly and submissively responded with full obedience and faithfulness to duty, having flawlessly coped with habitual action.
"I definitely love your inward madness!" - the youth has gasped: "Theorists will say it's an animal feature."
"And I will say, it's influence of feelings." - has smiled Anastasia Valerievna, lovely licking own lips: "When will you come?"
"Don't shake, at once I will return. I'll spend next day at institute till noon, and then I'll make your monastery happy. Deal?"
The lady has most doubtlessly nodded.
"Then I will go... But... Wait a minute, do you still have you soup? Rests of yesterday's one."
"Seems, that yes."
"Tell your parents – let pour it, I have to fall in gluttony right now."
"I will tell."
Brief fleeting meal – and visitor has left.
Anastasia Valerievna has timidly get closed with glad herself and leaned in rookery of chair: "What a stupid, vain woman I am... It would be right to grow wiser. But me... Anyway, no of time for obsessions. I have to call to my Anton – he truly loves me, as I know."
She has picked the phone up.
"How are you, my beloved dear joy? I was thinking of you all my day, I am so glad to hear your gentle voice, to warm my heart in your saint feeling."
"Hello, my miracle, I was waiting so much, so hot, was wholly gravitating to your cradle – in sacred transcendental bonds. So lost I am in dark and hateful hours of our killing separation, with every thought I'm fully yours."
"You're my good one. Tell me all, tell of day and its essence."
The dialogue has continued, then stopped.
Anastasia Valerievna has meaningfully sighed and perplexedly fallen in thinking:
"But I really love him - indeed. And after all, it's a fact. Not a dream, not a rave. We know each other for whole year. And besides he has been my first man. And Alexei... After all, he is utterly dear, I would not want to lose his presence. I feel so good, so carefree with him... Oh, God, we've known each other week ago, and I already have become attached. Oh, heart, one day you'll leave me with no future. But true pleasure lives always in current - strictly here and right now, I'm sure. Minimalism of worries and plans is fastest remedy from torments. After all, being's flame always rescues adventurers, seekers. And restless heart is also kind of gift. Any mind breathes with vanity, fuss, every feeling – with personal tartness. After all, if you're ready to drown, then do it only in sea of pure temptation. What else can be compared with life's abyss, except of endlessness of infinite desires... I definitely like all what I have. I like to be so cherished and so needful, I like to fall in love myself – by accident and out of response. I'm greatly glad, with all my sinful nature, to taste and savor being's spices. Small cage of powerful allurement is brighter than each paradise and heaven – life's time will vainly fly away, and pleasures' memories will surely remain. After all, we have nothing more sweet and delicious than loving madnesses and lewdness. I do not tolerate another paths and courses to satisfaction, joy and bliss, do not obey to routine and grayness. I'm made for miracles and meetings, for lavish luck and flame of heart – for not to think, to suffer or regret, I'm more close to success and festivity, to easy life and simple deeds. For me long mind and prudence are taboo, I want to stay just young and foolish, to choose by senses and to rest. This suits to me, my skills and seekings. And I will always do like that. After all, as I've neatly discovered, I am so chic and purebred bitch. And I certainly endlessly love it."

II
As we decently know, any purposeless youth for each fate is a firm fruitful source of all next facts and any future prospects, of further paths and main of last ones' twists. That's why, directly corresponding to this statement, Anastasia Valerievna's personal life, having also got stretched through of time of harsh careless indolence and having lavishly collected and erected lots of drearily bitter mistakes and omissions, has painfully got stuck at useless present. Having promptly exchanged 35th empty birthday, she has luckily stayed with eternal and bottomless loneliness, modest trio of average children, of course, born out of wedlock, and with proud and lofty profession of restaurant bar singer in night pub. Rich set of these events and outcomes had been gifted to her apparently concretely from above, or, what's more possible, by chaos of life's stigmas, of blurred days and hazy motley years, meekly rushed as a panther in past and left in soulless response all what has laid in actual conditions. With no of place and no of reason for retreat, our lady was strongly adhering to all of laws of previous existing and was straightforwardly replacing to ahead, not changing either principles or methods, admitting only paradigm of lust and all-consuming boundless frivolity. And life was freely moving on, eating soot of unflattering prospects, marshy deeds, hollow ways and vain startings. New today has begun own shy route in identical mood. Anastasia Valerievna has routinely woken up and, having stopped to watch mishmash of sweet night dreams, has overcome own laziness and languor and proceeded to thinking of fate. Last one, as we have clearly defined, was dragging shakily and vainly, absorbing problems, flaws and sins and gifting time from time to childish owner either huge piquant joys or immense terrible mistakes and endless troubles.
"To live at ease and not to reckon with all others – I always have been doing just like that. So many years I have passed, so many different bright scenes, tart passions, meetings and achievements, so many games I've keenly played, so many awesome transformations, metamorphoses, victories and levels. So many times I've been at edge, and what it finally has given? Which denouement will send beings' gems? What will find me at end... I am always on fire, I am always in rush. I am constantly free - like a song, like birds' wedge or stern roaring storm, and my wide retinue – long tail of loving men, of their mixed bodies, thoughts and wishes. I am in laurels, in star light. I'm victorious, graceful... Perfect, flawless, divine. They need in me, they need in my saint presence, in my lewd flesh and lecherous manners. I am prima for them, I am goddess."
The heroine has yawned, then scheduled prompt scenario of day and with inherent neat dexterity of movements, thrown swift makeup on shiny face.
"In daytime - boring walk, and in evening - hard work, without changes I do so. What it certainly is... Curse, tradition, reward - how to name my strange life, how to describe its fervent actions. But I'm convinced, that everything is right."
So, having added few more hours to day's going and having looked at featureless landscapes, the lady has returned again to house and, having waited for late evening, has moved in regular vain voyage to night tavern.
Behind of curtain of dense smoke, amid of dominance of chairs and fat faces, is lively swarming changeless fuss – with clinking dishes, laugh and rustling bills. The range of styles and human breeds is truly fabulously large – from poor losers and romantics to wasteful crazy moneybags. Both are entirely disgusting, but, being giver of emotions, you have to tolerate them all. So, having gathered with spirit and having tuned own soul to opened mood, the heroine has entered in role and selflessly devoted all herself to depths of musical nirvana. The song has soared like swans and soon successfully received strong cheerful flurry of applause.
"I'll mumble something of high love, and they will bring me last of money. Without me, without miracle, they're empty, dark and hopeless, I know. I am like goddess for this flock, like lavish bunch of crystal pearls, like piece of heaven for their hearts. The best of all – the most sweet and most needful and cherished."
Anastasia Valerievna has waved with tissue of her skirt and luckily continued own performance.

III
In the middle of room, tightly crowded with books, in continuous circle of sadness, is lonely sitting in oblivion and grayness quiet and silent Vasily Yegorovich, lost youth, depressed and alienated – young, richly gifted astronomer, determinist and absolute peace-lover. The poor man is looking into gloom of autumn withering and slush, cold rare rain and bitterly cooled fog, enveloped counters of roofs.
"Well, one another useless day, just as all perishable others. Neither luck, nor hot flame, nor real happiness, nor at least any sensible future - only staticly changeless obscurity, decay and constancy of daily tasteless rubbish, deep killing helplessness and deficit of truth, of honest closeness, of reciprocity and kindness, of tender heat of understanding and of progress. No even field for such of matters. All is fatal and wild. All is dust. How can you be here real human? How can you manage with control, how can you fairly turn able to curb wide canvas of world's random, to overcome all dangers and gain freedom... To ascend to pure sky and as by magic not to fall. What is needful for this? What exactly can help? Can provide with bright heights and achievements. With nice stability and firmness, with creativity and weight, humanity, fidelity and gladness. What will warm, justify, flood with fullness... Where is such thing, where can it be? Among of emptiness and sadness..."
The hero has sighed and looked through frame of hazy window. Cold exhausted fresh dampness has breathed in face with bitterness and weakness.
"Eh, autumn, time of soulless darkness, of endless anxiety, wet chilliness and burdening bad thoughts, rich vainness, troubles and decay. Long hopeless period of pain, of murky days and stopless tears. Not most abundant of life's times. The one, where you can suffer, cry and wait, surrender to obscurity and wither. And celebrate sad fact of separation – with everything what promises you warmth. And you cannot reject, cannot brush all this doom, cannot throw it away from own being. Until the spring one sullen faintness, it's sent concretely by the very course of times. Useless period, harmful. For which unknown game we live... I want to act, to stay and try. To be sober in swamp of broad madness. You resist, but you fade. Today we sail without ships, have gluttony without any food and live in houses with no one single wall, with no floor and no ceiling. It's pit of torments and omissions, hurting abyss of grief. I would eagerly lie into coffin and refuse to get up. Not to get rescued from own presence. Be patient, wait, then simply die. And then no haste, no worries, no idols, no known puzzling hardships, no frames. No shade of perishable past and nothing wrong, offensive and oppressing."
Vasily Yegorovich has moved away from window's square and decided to keep usual way towards tea and long talks - to Boris Vladimirovich, his long-term friend and mental helper. So, having thrown an old pale jacket and having luckily exchanged not long gray block, the hero has gone up by shabby stairs and proceeded to helpful discussions.
"My best of greetings to your person." - has unlocked cheerful friend: "And I've been thinking, you've got lost."
"It is unnecessary fear, without dialogue thoughts are dead."
"Then sit and sprinkle with your thinkings."
"With pleasure, passion and great ardor. With no of rest and no of pauses."
"Share your pains, don't be shy."
"I will share you all. How much strange is this world, how much caged into limits, how sadly meaningless and fussy, full of madness and vain. No reason, no aim, no of prospects. Only darkness and gloom."
"So it is, so it hopelessly moves. Ruins have maximal degree of immortality. You cannot kill what has already died itself."
"You even do not know where to run, where to seek for escape and salvation. Swamp of life has no end, no bottom. It's eternal, perpetual, hopeless. This world is lost in any of own spheres. And nothing valuable – as well as nothing aimful. Only vain, wholly hollow and wasteful. And no outlet, no way to truly better – no shine of mind, no purity of soul. All is wrong, all is innerly rotten."
"Mishmash of miserable and pointless opinions and set of uselessness and sins have transformed into voice of society. Such chorus of delirium and sickness serves here as anthem song of current being. And no one tool to break this madness, no chance to overcome its omnipotence. No of rescue will grow, no of hope. No right on easiness and calmness. Not to comfort own soul, not to warm."
"And not to change dark living stage, not to rebuild its rotten basics."
"It's wholly needless at today – in our lost and barren present. It's even nicer in dead world for ones, who're empty. In center are appropriate bright lights, in outskirts – deep darkness and depression."
"But time from time you truly want to save them - to breathe in their cracked hearts some part of kindness, some taste of purpose and free will. After all, even here – in lost world, we also see some fragments of good deeds."
"So it is, I confirm, an admixture of God can be seen even straightly in Satanism. Each insignificant small goodness is wholly pointless and vain. It's strictly purified from freedom and broad rights. Its role today is just to perish. And to destroy unskilled naive followers."
"Disappointment – food of existing."
"We learn by passing through such state. You can't become a nail without hammer. Life have to be sacrificial and stupid, this is the only its duty."
"Light is faint, short and weak. Such success is completely deceptive, it's able only to tease. Or to torture and hurt – close to finish."
"In sea of days both calm and storm are tightly joint. Resultlessness unites all living ways."
"No one will save you in this abyss, no of facts will console and tranquil."
"Crawling ones feel no shade of compassion to any ones, who've ever learned to fly.  They will not understand your inner sufferings, will not share this pain – in their paradigm of bottomless consuming they have no modest tiny space for spirit's  seekings and demands, they support only pain and destruction. And hopeless perishing's geography is easy – from death till everywhere is just step. One wrong attempt – and you're a corpse, one sudden grief – and you are crippled."
"Time's arena is dark, it's rid of outcome, of logic. And nothing ever can be changed. And neither human can be saved by current world, nor pier of world can be preserved by current humans."
"I agree with such view. You can't draw life, as well as cannot draft its main conditions, all you can – just to fill it with tints and new colors. You cannot change the essence of events, can't adjust their scale, depth and sequence, all you can really correct – one single personal perception."
"Mind never builds and gifts a lot, but understanding stays most priceless. It brings saint feeling of yourself. And so painful it is, so offensive - to let own fate in permanent annoyance. In delusions, vain fuss and deceit, in killing worthlessness and troubles. You live and die, you play and lose, you do your best, but keep aside, you believe, but get meanly betrayed, you gain own mind, but stay as total fool."
"Disappointment hurts. The simpler are constructed being's traps, the higher is the number of their victims. All nails of trust take place in wall of lies."
"How dirty life is, how low, how openly harmful and thoughtless, deadly, alien, wrong."
"Poisoned life, poisoned people. They build realities on aimless. And there is no place in them for good, for true perfection and completeness. In world of ugliness, all elegance is breathless, in such conditions it's a slave, a useless particle of nothing."
"Earthly frames are too sad. Sad and fruitless."
"You cannot fall from lowlands. Petty life is more strong, more assured. Weak faint sun cannot kill tart thick darkness."
"It's sad. We're also part of them."
"You are right. Life will swallow your fate in a moment. And idiocy here is kind of burden, of agrimony plant: you detach it from others, and it sticks to yourself. Environment is dominant for people. Omnipotent in force. And life is such a sort of game, where you'll never play twice. First mistake – path to others."
"How to be, to survive?"
"Keep endless care of own head. Wrap thoughts in truth and be more sober. The role of sage is holly simple – longly looking at flies, not to forget about elephant. The game of fate you play with you yourself. So, try not to lose, not to stuck in mistakes and vain doubts. In fears, ideals and dogmas. We all are free, we're all equipped with mind. Birds have sky, pigs have dirt, humans - right to have choice. Don't forget it. And never trust to any facts - the more nice is the smile, the more dark is its owner."
"The closer is the bottom, the farther is the sky... I am familiar with this. But inside once again only sadness."
"So, sadness, friend, is not a skirt – it can't be instantly torn off. If fills whole heart, whole gap of soul."
"Hopes are dead."
"The less chances you have, the more firm is your faith in yourself. In struggle think of victory and only. And don't regret of empty things, such were born for to die."
"Not easy it's - in mourning thoughts."
"I agree – greatly hard. Mind and pleasure are far. And love of fate is simply a perversion."
"All ways are leading us to noose."
"But where else to take route. Best thing for world is timeless ruination. Very sad - this is fact."
With pensive eyes, have fallen into silence.

IV
Who knows, are there any clones, or whether really exist full duplicates and copies of the people, of their style, thinking, minds and fates, but in this local case, doubtless presence of that was entirely evident. In totally the same unlucky room, identically featureless and small, was meekly sitting in depression pale and wilted inside Anatoly Viktorovich, young shy librarian, confused and purified from firmness faceless person – with no of plans, of strength and of requests. Lost poor fellow was gazing at gray ceiling, remembering past times and current doings. Melancholy was tart, murked mood was scrabbling right by bottom. The pace of minutes was unhurried, and lost capacity of heart was getting filled by only one unending anguish. Soon sadness has haphazardly got stopped – a long-familiar good friend, Stepan Igorevich, has gladly visited home's prison and stepped in.
"I have sailed to your walls." - the visitor has told from very porch and walked inside in colorless apartment: "Once again we'll be sad?"
"Yes, as always before."
"Then fill my heart with endless longing – as with flock of unlimited clouds, fully tired of sky."
"I will fill you with thought. With its heat and its coldness. I am always amazed, how timid we are, how hopeless, how weak is each purposeless person, how painfully vain and ridiculous, insignificant, small. Why is it so? By whose dark will?"
"We have no reason to be strong. Don't forget, that all measure of confidence depends on only two things – on depth of personal acquaintance with all alternative from flaws and on width and degree of accessible tools. For eyes, which aren't familiar with truth, any lie will persistently seem wholly honest. They will endlessly trust to each rubbish. All big takes sprout from valueless and small. From shy and inconspicuous for viewing. We're growing from experience of good. And nice ability to see and understand, to analyze right goals and proper meanings begins from plain ability to feel and to admit - what in own turn is meaningless and wrong. The more bright are sky's stars, the more indifferent is night. You have to enter into prudence, and you'll forget of vanity forever."
"But world is just ridiculous and petty. It’s simply stupid, fussy and awkward. There is no one chance for straight logic, no free space for right path."
"And human also is the same, even worse than world, even darker. We have much deeper crisis in inside than our lost and rotten universe. People are herd. Disunited and evil. No help, no mind, no inner sense. New society is crashed. It can't be glued, can't be saved from continuing crumbling. Fate itself is such terrible mechanism, which neatly separates successful and enriched from unlucky and constantly suffering. Nothing else. Only pain."
"Too strong, too powerful is world, too aimless in eternal daily rushing."
"Any reason is faint, caged in frames of surrounding madness. The more lively is dance, the more useless are legs. In era, driving vertically down, don't even think about brakes. Before of death, mind shines quite shortly. As well as, having fallen into bottomless dark pit, you'll never fly in sky again. Current scanty frameworks are exhausting – excesses of pain and plenty of delusions, zenith of mourning and fuss."
"And so mush easy it's to fade."
"So it is. World is bad. Till most small of details it's oppressing, wholly harmful and vain. All is wrong. And this wrongness is strong. Immense, boundless. Thickly shrouded in gloating. Into permanent murk. They will pick up deft key for each person. Both for smart and for silly. The hungry ones get tempted here with food, well-fed - with offering of diet. If you yourself will get succumbed, then prepare your fate for soon funeral process. After all, if you've woken in doubts, you'll fall asleep in ground, in grave yard."
"It's so hard to catch truth, to find reason and aim, to get filled with mind's clearness." "The soil of truth gets fertilized with dust of broken lie. Without firmness and persistence you'll never shine with victories and strength."
"But in current just lie."
"So, life is far not noble process, it's a performance with no genre, with no end and no prize, except of voyage into abyss, in endless nothingness and void. And the more cunning is reality in madness, the less rights get remained. Nowadays rave is leader of thinking."
"This feast of pettiness is dead, sadly harmful in terrible consequences. It's filled with worthlessness and rubbish, with boiling vainity and filth."
"It's role and aim of temporary startings – to defame all eternal and deathless. To stuck in mind and lead to end."
"It's so easy to fall, to get rid of all cherished and dear, to lose all savings and achievements."
"Sense gets mined only slowly – by tiny particles and grains, but gets wasted just instantly, promptly. Repairing life, you only gain new holes."
"So much hurting it is, that glimpse of mind is shorter than a moment."
"So, lamps of genuine insight don't get turned on for spacious time – apparently, for not to be burned out. Each mind is prisoner of limiting conditions, of changeless rubbish of surrounding affairs. But I'll say, that before of transforming in smart, it's quite useful and helpful to stay an idiot for utterly short time. This is terribly nice - for further facts' comparison and confidence."
"Where to find proper mental perfection..."
"In lucky circumstances, maybe. After all, this is sane – it's true, that weak fertility of hundred miles of desert is much more meager than few meters of damp soil. One single deep experience is outlet, I faith."
"I do not know such expressions, they are not given at today. Set of life seems too hazed, wholly liquid and faint, but brain still gets completely stuck, gets caught and caged, deceived and preyed."
"So reality's drink is far not fortified, but fools you better than hard booze. And thought is mistress of each mind. If it rots, you depart to the bottom. Life is gap. With vastest stage of madness and oppression and with no stage of aimfulness and prudence."
"Contemplating world's fuss, you're also getting shallowed and ruined."
"If you're walking by edge of some abyss, your step in last one's tempting void is totally a question of the time. But course of road depends here not on legs, but on head, on it's taken decisions."
"And no of end for torments and omissions."
"Life is free opened process. The one, which finishes exclusively with death."
"And events are too motley, too far."
"Being's storm is a source of mind's injuries. It's your ticket to grief, to dead bottom. After all, life is test of endurance. Of firmness of the chosen foundations. And anyone, who suddenly surrenders, should be cruelly killed."
"But victory is also rather useless. It's blurred, valueless and far."
"This is life, rotten purposeless matter. Lost and vain. Full of gloom. Truth is ghost, mind is corpse, all is wasted. We have no shadow of good."
"And so vain are all paths, all attempts and beginnings, all your strivings and deeds."
"I know, initiative is secondary, rightless."
"And only sorrow in inside."
"It's not easy to feel. But any fatalism is surely for better. Fuss is partner of start, and pain and tragedy – of finish. The less we have to live, the more it's nice."
"We hope for death... So funny story, but I don't know where to laugh. Time from time life amuses with happiness, but the last one goes back, melts and fades, slides aside."
"All depends on occasion, on trust to luck and given tools."
"Is there any global aim?"
"But what for is it needed? Such things are inaccessible and far. On highly risky, slippery directions, goal's presence is just formalism, not more. And having healed this life from madness, you'll understand with endless horror, that nothing else is frighteningly left. So, live as you was living days before. Such frames equips with dreams, with all romantic. Don't bet on path, get pleasure from your legs. Cheer up, believe in forcefulness of better. The more deep are the roots of obsession, the more high is the tree of your hopes."
"It's so nice to believe, but so awfully stupid."
"Believe, as always, all is right, quite soon you'll be deceived again."

V
And again dancing tavern. In fog of sweet and pleasant smoke, amid of faces, noise and drunkenness, is sitting sad and pensive person - Vasily our Yegorovich, not other – observing, pondering and waiting:
"I have come in some hell. All are glad, all are happy, and I am ready for to cry. What, tell to me, to do at here – among of morons, freaks and bastards. There is plenty of them everywhere. But at here, I'm quite sure, epicenter. But grief and fuss aren't new for my lost soul."
The hero has sighed and fallen into usual sleepy spleen. And now, having wasted decent hour, he suddenly has noticed real angel, which has appeared at stage about eight. At least, in shy opinion of viewer. The performance has deftly acquired both color, interest and sense and finished only at midnight. The hero has canceled joyful watching and, with no shade of hesitation, has gone behind of dusty curtain.
In small and lonely dressing room was quietly sitting cute neat silhouette - smoking incense of cigarettes and straightening own slipped till knees transparent stockings.
"Let me..."
"Well. I will let. Step inside. Did you come for autograph or with craving for act of intimacy?"
"I... Which way to say and to explain. I have fallen in love with your image. With your flawless and glorious nature. Allow me, please, to warm you with acquaintance. At least, for minute or for couple."
"And you are evidently funny. There are few ones of such as you. Do you want me to love ? I'm quite opened, not hidden. Will you take me to home?"
"Is it really real?"
"So, will you lead?"
"With greatest joy and bottomless delight - as if it's trip to paradise and higher."
"Come on. I'm almost finished with the smoking."
Vasily Yegorovich has taken stranger by her palm and they slowly dragged to his home.
Landscape has started lazy crawling – endless vastness of murk and infrequent pale windows. Has blown cold wind – breathed up sharp instant hopelessness of autumn melancholy.
"I am so happy to be here. To walk together in your presence."
"Go on. You're really amazing."
"I'm incredibly happy with meeting. Just with the very so much sacred possibility of this."
"You have barely seen my appearance, but you already are amazed. So sweet amusement, I'm surprised. What of plans do you gain?"
"To enjoy. With you and presence in your heaven."
"How nice, but maybe something else?"
"What is needed from me?"
"Come on, I'll show, what I mean."
"What kind and sort of acting you're preparing?"
"If to be brief - some breed of pleasures. I hope, you've guessed, what I describe."
Another block of gloomy quarter, and required address is achieved. Then up the stairs and in door.
"And room is far from being vast. For decent madnesses it's inapt."
"Crowded shelter, I know, but for my century I've certainly got used."
"Lovely fact. Will you pour any tea in my throat?"
"With pleasant languor and delight and with most tender immense care."
"You are so good, as real angel. Tell me now, who you are – for which aims do you live, with which of spheres do you breathe?"
"I'm an astronomer. I look up in night sky and study maps of stars' location, learn current planetary orbits, eclipses and activity of sun."
"How greatly wonderful and beautiful it is. How madly interesting, likely. Apparently, the best of occupations. Not work, but holiday. Not less."
"I'm also happy from my being. Each science here is kind of song, of higher art and clear magic – thin lunar phases, calendars of comets, perihelions, aphelions, parsecs of distances and long enchanting showers of small bright meteors, appearing from darkness."
"Where is the telescope?! The main, I have to ask."
"On windowsill - behind of curtains. Progressive type – combined refractor!"
"What a glorious nice apparatus! And this shy eye is looking through of worlds?"
"At least through our sinful one."
"Already cause for tiny pride. What do the stars inspiringly report?"
"I do not know such of things - I’m not astrologer, don't err. They see no difference between of these professions – astrologers, astronomers – all mix us. I guess, it's probably because of sure consonance of last ones."
"Then all is temptingly unknown and depends on one abyss of dreams - from light innocent fun till true bestial miracles."
"What a charming gradation! We're made for marvelous, I know."
"Yes, not for primitive of fantasies and wishes."
"What an ingot of bliss."
"Keen zestful plot, pure lustful gold. Well, are we going to continue? At least on little modest step..."
"You tell of something sinful and immodest?"
"Not only of immodest and impudent, but of directly lecherous and lustful. All good, without any doubts, should end with excellent and only. I hope, I have sufficiently explained all my not intricate intentions. It's hardly possible for me to show more tart straightforwardness and clearness."
"You openly suggest me carnal shame?"
"And you, apparently, prefer at first to wait, to think for century or two, to get used to such burden of luck and to try these keen laurels on?"
"I’m just utterly shocked... In good way, in best one. I've never known so brisk permissions. I've been unable even to imagine. It's so priceless and nice. As if I've been allowed to walk by heaven."
"Then play in bird and gather pleasures. Come on. I'm absolutely yours. In all my blossoming and beauty. There are no boundaries from now."
The hero has entirely got limp and, having moved to newly-minted passion, has carefully hugged her tender waist.
"Don't be afraid, remember of full freedom. There is nothing forbidden for you." - the lady has turned out to her partner, then spread own legs and promptly closed them back: "Take all given, be bold, it's not a dream, if you still doubt."
The heroine has thrown hot thirsty glance and lovely sighed with distinct longing: "Come here, if all is so unusual. I'll help to get acquainted with my flesh. Don't shy, I'll meet your asceticism with battle."
Anastasia Valerievna has dextrously embraced her timid partner, so heavily perplexed by sudden pleasures, which have in period of seconds intoxicated and enslaved both mind and soul and every inner corner: "Well, let's start, kiss me now at least, for right and beauteous beginning, and then without of delays unhurriedly replace your movements down - to most sweety of parts and locations. Do you want to go there?"
"With unrestrainable swift fury. Till chills and stopless inward squeals."
"If so, then why are you so slow? Or I seduce you not enough? What a terrible hurting inaction? Not a flirt, but a stubborn boycott!"
"Sorry me. I'm in absolute stupor."
"Well, I see, I have whirled you with warmth. And you've melted away... Let me start now myself." - the heroine has slipped with playful hand between of neatly sleeky hips and, having walked with pair of fingers by sopping folds of sultry crotch, has alluringly stretched them ahead and stopped at puzzled lover's mouth: "Lick them. Grasp them up with your caramel lips and take in into mouth. Do you like it? It's tasty. Yes, I know. I know. Enjoy, my boy, enjoy each moment. Now with no fingers – right from me?"
The hero has politely nodded.
"Come on, bring your mouth to beloved. Now, cuddle me up – tightly, hotly, do not be shy, my little baby, please your girl, please her well. Make me good, quench this languor inside, put it back."
And now, having will-lessly surrendered to keen frolicsome soulless fantasy, Vasily Yegorovich, who has totally floated to heaven, has clung with lips to melting mellow flesh, having fully attached to plain procedure with only one most forceful thought - not to leave these tart bonds all own life.
"How desired I am at today!" - the lady has pathetically breathed: "Just a fair of bliss, so incredibly cool and so lustful. So much immensely great. Most unreal of pleasures, most indescribable one. I can't even convey how much pleasantly nice now I feel."
"I'm so happy, so glad." - has moaned bewitched and limp Vasily Yegorovich. Fornication has calmly continued its course, having luckily flared with the peak of turned on vice's feast.
"You maybe wish to try me from behind? I so want to be taken there too." - the heroine has offered with smile: "I love when both my entrances are equally involved."
"All will be as you ask."
"Wow, sunshine, it's gorgeous. You are my sweetie. Do it, take me like that, it so mush terribly excites me. Especially in wildly hasty pace."
Meek partner has submissively obeyed and long sharp shouts of the lady have swiftly filled dense void of bedchamber.
"Yes, yes, yes! I want to groan for all the city. Priceless bliss. Very good. Very pleasant. Till uncontrollable mad shrills." - Anastasia Valerievna has gracefully bent down and, having finally relaxed, has unbridledly fallen in ecstasy.
The intercourse has come to own denouement.
"You are my miracle. My treasure. Heaven's gift." - weak trembling hero has stammered.
"I know, my sweetness, clearly know. You are my adorable boy. I just feel wholly good. You've made nice to your girl. Thank you, baby."
"You're my obsession, my saint angel, my sweet goddess! I am so happy here with you – right as in paradise, not less."
"I clearly know."
"Be always mine."
"Don't hesitate - I'm yours. I'll look to you tomorrow again. Do not be sad. I am yours, my cute boy. I am yours."
"You are my goddess..."
"Yes, I am..."

VI
Every peace gets replaced by one war, as well as every pleasure – by hard stiff pain or by dark thoughts and inner weakness, that's why straightforwardly right now, having calmly restored from past bliss, Vasily Yegorovich was again quite habitually sitting with Boris Vladimirovich, sadly talking of purposeless being:
"Fate is vain. Vain and wrong. It's too hasty, too short, too fragile. At first, we are allowed to fly, and then it's given only to fall, to get broken and crashed, smashed and damaged. Each single hour brings you anguish, each finished day is source of future pain."
"So it works, a chicken in a cage in modest pair with an eagle is no longer serving as a bird, it's just a food. And for fate we are also just slaves."
"So unbearable here from life's vainness. From being's void, dirt and fuss."
"World is rid of own right on effectiveness, on prudent aims and healthy basics. It's too far from all sane."
"All world is abyss of oppression, of madness, rubbish and destruction. It's hollow, purposeless and spoiled – in any space and every corner."
"It's quite nice and assuredly helpful. The more dogmatic are the postulates of living, the more bold are their adepts. Life's mildness works as awful poison: if slavery has lenient conditions, than it will be appallingly much harder to leave out its temperate bounds. Such frames are voyage into perish. Having bent even once own past views under burden of doubts, you'll never have opinion or will, you'll never be yourself in decent measure as well as you will never get true freedom – for all next path and every further day."
"All gaining use, all past experience is brief, all you heartily build gets so easily killed, dead and broken."
"You cannot carry inner meaning in mental vessel, full of holes."
"Too tragic are life's lessons, too much bitter."
"Any truly essential storm never litters with wreckage, it leaves no splinters, no debris – its abyss swallows ships with all their size, with all of passengers and parts. Non-existence is cold, it's indifferent – will calmly take away each sort of soul, with no delay and no slightest weakness."
"And no help, no path away from grief."
"All is indeed exactly so. Among of boiling harmful fuss you're nothing more than barren pawn. You cannot close your eyes and see no darkness."
"And so much strong are these embraces of destruction, so unbearably firm."
"Any abyss at here is highly tenderly devoted, it'll never easily agree to let you out. Life is such sort of endless road, which's rid of any roadside, one step – and you're forever lost. If you think of to go to the swamp, you'll be there."
"This gains horror and murk."
"Don't be afraid, see something helpful, bright and better. Each being has some place for consolation. The more strict are life plans, the more predictable are possible results. Deep faith itself is seed of positivity. The higher is degree of romanticism, the more amazing it's to live. Do not give up, smoke fate till filter or till lips."
"Anyway, finish line is unchangeably made of one pain."
"Pain is widow of truth. Reason's presence is strict soulless mistress, what's nice, if you are masochist. Adjust yourself and fit to being. Look at world in a different way. True sanity is hook for catching essence. Mind is ladder to God, don't forget."
"It's not easy to climb by its stairs."
"Heart and mind can't wake up at one time, but they extinguish own sobriety only jointly. You can't heal feelings with one mind. Thought is weak for such deals. And even all attempts to think of good and blissful are just not more than extra short and speedy way to soonest thinking of unbearable and bad. Tears and blood are world's lubricant now. And this is doubtlessly forever."
"So vain way has been chosen by life."
"We have no rivers and no ships. We have exclusively three things - birth, death and useless expectations."
"Not to cope with fate's gloom."
"Fate is stronger, I know. We can't be friends with such a bogey. Do not knock, do not rush. Just hope for chances and success. But think of purposeful and nice – the wider is the circle, the harder it to clamp. And think less of vain things. Take care only of yours. If you'll forget yourself, you'll die. Self-betrayal in fact is similar to murdering of God. "
"How to know what's prepared in future..."
"Most high intentions are indistinct. Having known of such plans, you hardly will console yourself."
"And so easy it is to fall down into common delirium. And goodbye any goals."
"Each soul has need in kind of leading starting, in helping source of alien support."
"And so utterly hard it's to find it, hard to think, hard to seek and to look for solutions."
"The more deft and more huge is mind's carousel, the more frequent is nausea's presence. After all, our life is such river, where ship's equipment with sail's presence with every possibility of wind transforms in sure ticket to the bottom. The deeper is your personal involvement – in life, ideas and events, the shorter is your actual fate's length. Trust to sea stays alive till first storm."
"How to guess, what will wait after fog..."
"Such thoughts are nice for fortunetellers. For others – inappropriate and harmful."
"We have just hopelessness and anger. And as result, no fruits and no soils."
"True hopelessness is scarily despotic. Believe to me without doubts, such one will easily transform you into dust."
"For my lost life it looks as source of rescue and doesn't seem as grief at all – I've died inside and wholly decomposed. I don't expect for something better, don't dream and do not gain bright plans. And truth... It's sad and bitter matter. And how to find it, how to get..."
"We need more correct ways of understanding. Don't walk by far untrampled roads, prefer well-groomed and full of steps – those ones, which have already gifted senses, gifted aims and inspiring conclusions. Be more apt in all things and beginnings. Bite apple tree exclusively for apples. And touch reality for body of the truth."
"But fate sometimes forbids such daring courage."
"Fate is fatal for mind. It litters with oppression and destruction. What else can we expect from being's abyss... If everything depends on single fortune, on breath of luck and lenience of route. We live in vanity, in horror, where one absurdity is holder of this world. Don't look at corpse of broken days. Try to pass into better of prospects. And find yourself among of madness. Life's time, I'll add, is not a bird: if you miss it, you lose – rest in darkness forever, neatly seeking for warmth, but never meeting even ashes."
"But how to stay in such nightmare?"
"To deny all you see, that's the only workable method. After all, any given reality is nothing more than fruit of person's trust. And paradoxes in own turn serve here as kind of being's stones. Each mind is regularly stumbling at their presence. And even death as final living point is not a clue for period of life, just simple glory-less retreat. And future also, by the way, does not heal you from past, does not change vain world's essence. One day such one will similarly pass and transform in identical past. In part of dust. In weak and will-less rubbish. We have no sources for true miracle. Don't forget, darkness never brings fire. Slurry's dirt carries rabbles. Fictions' cage drives to perish. And devil here, as all we know, is greatest master of deception - with endless plenty of swift hoaxes and deep delusions of all sorts. So, meaning's role is helpful rather rare. In modern life we have more trifles and details than aims and purposeful ideas. It's popular to trust to way of being. And gullibility is worst of human sins. Every pointless faith is nothing more than simple weakness, so powerful in lack of real strength. Each happiness gets proofed by single contact. With no experience of last one we fall to hopelessness and anguish and don't rejoice for all next path. We also never walk with truth for long: having luckily coupled with such one, we promptly hurry to the heaven. All is mask, all is fake. Most graceful crests of ocean waves are just nice cover for cold corpses, which calmly sleep in depths of bottom. There are no of doubtless answers. Only soreness, bitterness, pain. The last one is new artist of reality. Hopes are useless today."
"But is it possible for us to get rid of this limiting sadness?"
"Minor belongs to melodies and only and never to the notes themselves. Each concept is a paradigm of world, not of its vain and temporary players. So, all is possible with luck. Don't fit to mad and aimless crowd. Stay yourself. Life today is not waltz. Stopless gallop. The only rescue is oblivion, it's sad."
"What for is all – for which of goals..."
"Who knows, who knows... Who'll answer us... Thread of world is too long. More long than any single life. You cannot trample all of roads, can't complete all of pictures. And, perhaps, plan is greatly stretched for lots and lots of hasty years, for thousands of centuries ahead. That's why today we have just rubbish. But, maybe, all will be more bright. Who knows... And who will ever answer..."
"Can something good be really erected? In narrow frames of barren world."
"In war you think exclusively of peace. Do not puzzle your head. The only source of joy at nowadays is fact, that everything will pass. After all, death is healer from all. From any worries and sorrows. Such one for me is finest of all blessings. Forget of sad, of wrong and empty, path is short, that's too nice. All disgusting will die. All offensive will melt. Be more free, more inspired."
So, having finished with dark thoughts, have moved to talks of personal relations.

VII
In inwardly equivalent discussion were quietly sitting Anatoly Viktorovich and Stepan Igorevich, humbly thinking of life and unhurriedly seeking for truth.
"How much of uselessness and rubbish have new life, how sharply sad is hollow burden of vain days, of endless routine, rave and flaws. Cognize, how stupidly this world has been erected. And how heavily it's filled with barren things – with wrong and purposeless beginnings, with tiny pointless details and trifling valueless affairs." - has feebly sighed Anatoly Viktorovich.
"So, any vanity of tools is just a mask of pettiness of aim. It's nothing more than kind of wig – for bald head of defective ideas."
"But how forcefully it works!"
"Deep stopless dominance of madness is much more strong than rare liquid gleams of sense. In tart delirium of being, in lost reality of fuss, it's rather hard to stay with head, as well as hard to look at wide vast street from small and narrow window's glass."
"This world is rid of any chances..."
"Don't go to fish-less zone with fishing rod. What to do with these purposeless chances? You know, it's given just to miss them."
"This shows main paradox of luck: the more rich are your obvious chances, the more often they fade, stay forever as chances and only."
"The more gifted and smart is the driver, the more mindless and mad are the passengers. It's rule of world, of whole existing with most stable and firm of its obstinate basics. And people at today are insignificant, devoted commonly to lie, to tart harsh cynicism and endless growing vices. Nowadays inner dirt is life's seasoning. New humans are equipped with merits not more than circle's form is filled with corners."
"So much vain is their world, so impassive..."
"On frozen water, as we know, no waves, no ripple, no move. New lost people are made of deep callousness, of hard indifference and void."
"And so much difficult it is to bring them aim, to endow with some perfect beginning."
"So, boldly widening your chair, you cannot narrow your ass. As well as cannot save sawn tree by frequent watering. Such zeal is absolutely useless."
"From bare optimism till hopes, I see, we have not less than abyss... Look at modern society – it's petty, alien and rotten, but at the same surprising time so much neatly and steadily balanced."
"Such equilibrium is cheap, if gains between two nastinesses only. Keen balance of two evils doesn't please. But anyway some harmony is needed. Sharp lack of enemies gives weapons' excess. This is also not fine."
"World is meager in all. No suitable aim, no glorious soul. Only flaws and mistakes in each action."
"It's more nice to get frozen alone, then to be warmed with filthy traitors. Smooth hopelessness looks better than crooked hopes."
"All good is grievously fruitless. Wholly fictional, faked."
"Each evil, masterfully joint with any high or neutral quality, is much more dangerous and strong. And kindness often only helps it. After all, any soulless creature with small addition of light nobility or smartness is much more poisonous and cunning. Any rational, talented freak is more insidious, disgusting and more harmful – it can't be promptly recognized, as well as can't be killed with no confusion."
"I agree with this truth. And path is weak, fragile, unstable..."
"Each chain depends on every part. Any small further step can effortlessly kill all past weightness, having turned any heights into dust. Time from time life's collapse is so close, but we don't want to guess and notice. We admit only crowd of consequences."
"We frankly try not to believe - in this meaningless world, in its frames and events, but sometimes anyway lose past strength and build hopes, this is awful."
"So, thinking to regain own money, you'll hardly leave casino too much soon. And life in fact is nothing else than storm. And love to storm is always fatal. Impersonality, we know, is greatly far from any person. World's swamp is totally indifferent and dead. And no of doubts in my head, we will remain just idiots and only."
"You can hardly predict, recognize and reveal any steadily confident cause to bloom with faith in better prospects or to rely on some escape."
"Preparing for the fire, be waiting for the flood."
"Nothing surely true, nothing decently fair."
"In field of lie, no truth will ever grow."
"Life's plot is merciless and tricky..."
"All I can do at current moment – just to confirm your hopeless words. Here cynicism is sun of human world. In all and everything it blossoms. Even fire today is not more than a tool of dividing: in ones, who're warmed, and ones, who're frozen. The fact of happiness itself is already strict cause of division - in those, who have it, and who not."
"Each step is reason for despair, each day is soil for dark thoughts."
"True oppression destroys. If you can't fight it, you are corpse. Perceive this world as pure illusion, as strange and terrible nightmare, sadly long and entirely empty, it's greatly similar to curse, to kind of filthy provocation, where all we're hopelessly engaged."
"Quite successful damnation. With no of end for two dark thousands of years. Pretend all this inside of mind, but don't go crazy after second."
"The more hot is your flame of emotions, the more close is your grave. But calmness also cannot be a friend. Death's drink gets drunk at here from cup of own humility and only."
"Any path – route in abyss. And no of holiness, no single trace of God."
"From God till devil less than step."
"And no of heights without troubles, without bitterness and pain, harsh endless sacrifice and anguish."
"Sorrow - measure of weight. Deep crippling mourning of truth is face and flesh of realism, remember."
"And the more actively you climb, the more promptly you fall."
"Main of things - not to rush."
"But to wait for whole century – hell!"
"Time is fatal, it's swamp. Do not rely on what is cherished."
"One sudden thought, and you so sharply realize all current poverty and pettiness of being – of each of basics, laws and frames."
"The more broad is your thought, the more narrow is world, this is changeless."
"It's rather difficult and hard to come to terms with given being. To stay alive and not extinguished."
"This is truly not easy. Mind and spirit are far. Stay alert. Having strengthened your mind, do not lose your past soul."
"Fate's line is definitely cruel and amply fruitful with sadism."
"But fate itself is not a source of evil, all it does – just collects people's deeds. And human breed, as all we know, is the worst from all scary inventions."
"In long vain wandering through fate you catch one hopelessness and sadness."
"It's way of world. There are no doors to bonds of heaven into hell."
"Life is surely rich on success, but last one usually is mercilessly short, wholly barren and raw."
"Life never whispers, only roars. And people – rubbish at its route. Nail and hummer aren't friends, they'll never be companions or partners. Heed this truth deep in brain."
"Nothing high, nothing great or widescale, nothing decent."
"The more long are the plans, the less chances you have to complete them. True greatness is utopia in practice."
"This world is merciless to humans, especially to those who are weak."
"The thinner is your neck, the thicker is chain's clamp. This works for centuries at here. And other way is obviously absent."
"And so funny it is - to look at lost and worthless crowd and to research low spectrum of their habits. And what's most comical and stunning - the more disgusting and more sinful is some person, full of dirt, nasty deeds and deception, the more often he talks of high moral, of soul's rescue and God."
"The more far is located train's wagon, the more often its voyaging people discuss the personality of driver. Lie at here stays in role of main cult, of leading force and food for hearts. And what's more frightening and hopeless, without of repeating passing through deceit, you'll never guess of what is truth. Right as well as in absence of animals, you'll never notice any traps."
"Deep world's essence is dark. Dark and cruel. It's plunged in violence and meanness, in endless outrage and pain."
"The more distorted and unsuitable is filling, the more pretty and neat is false cover. All horrors live for few of pleasant views. For presence of high mountains and rocks, you have sometimes to tolerate their gorges."
"And not to cope for all the life with daily hopelessness and weakness, with boundless lawlessness and murk."
"Our life can't be fixed, can't be properly healed after breaking. If it's spoiled, it's dead. Dead and crashed. Wholly wasted."
"And so cruel is madnesses' influence. So greatly zealous and firm."
"The more patient is mind, the more restless is rave. Inner peace – way to grave. Heart's passivity kills."
"And no difference, no matter for life's plot, how much hardly you try and persist – all your strength and all will stay resultless, all efforts pass entirely vain."
"Fate's path depends on possible direction, on free ways and attainable routes, not on gait, not on legs, not on hurry. You'll never curb your life with such of methods."
"True luck is definitely absent, it's breathless, dead and wholly lost."
"Any greatness' ruins, just believe, as well as insignificance's palace, are absolutely purposeless and fruitless. If you've broken your fate, you are nothing."
"Too much of pain, much more than patience."
"Pain is dust by itself. If you can't overcome it, it's useless. You have to fight for victory and only. To fight for fighting looks like madness."
"World is wastefully vast, uncontrollable, stopless."
"But don't forget and always keep in mind, every giant is led by some midget. As you know, fate is strong in one trifles."
"Anyway we are weaker..."
"So it is, your efforts aren't a horse, such ones are only a whip. With no suitable conditions, with no tools and no luck, you'll have no benefits from being, no fruits from any of attempts."
"And no of miracles are promised, no of heights, life openly suggests you just to suffer."
"True poison does not ask for any snacks. Here everyone was born to live for nothing, to be an idiot all route, to stay limp and submissive to share."
"What has made our being so wrong?"
"I think, that too excessive scale. The more large is the world, the more vain are its people. Most likely, everything is so."
"It's too easy to die, to get perished, sadly lost and forlorn."
"If you've never been knowning of deep proud breathing, then suffocating looks quite pretty, it doesn't seems as tragedy or grief."
"Most sad, no basics will get changed."
"If you are running on the spot, you have no shade of moving and direction."
"If you refuse to run on spot, they will offer to run by a circle..."
"It's also true."
"And so annoying it's sometimes to be defeated in life's playings."
"The higher are your chances to be winner, the more often you lose. After all, nests of death, as we know, were made at first for birds of hope. You fall straightforwardly in abyss, when you climb unforgivably far, as well as you proceed to climbing, if you detect yourself too low."
"All is breakable, thin. Only troubles are firm, only hatred. Only darkness and murk." "So darkness is more fair, more devoted. Any light can be calmly extinguished, but darkness – changeless human partner – will remain, no of doubts, forever. New people have no need in decent ideals, for them deadlock is aim of travel. Only idiots bloom, only morons. And they are rid of any guilt: goal's absence – fault of goal-less system, not of its victims, pawns and slaves."
"But people now, as I see, have no of difference from rubbish. And they can easily destroy you. I will never get used to such madness."
"Kings' killers also rarely were gods. World is wrong. What's sad, it cannot be replaced. You cannot build by using hummer. All attempts are just dust. The more hotly you ask and more ardently wait, the less of prospects you achieve. Both desires and hopes are just litter. The higher is your soul's anticipation, the louder will sound your next tears of grief. The only outcome is death – it consumes any flaws, any pains and omissions. True salvation is grave – best of places."

VIII
Sunset's shawl has with impassive timid fright got unhurriedly stretched over city. Stingy passionless features have turned painted with thick twilight shadow, enchanted all surroundings in darkness and filled whole sleepy tired world with priceless pleasure of oblivion and calmness.
By shy and timid lonely street, amply caged in immovable emptiness, is freely walking step by step trudging forward affectionate lady, Anastasia Valerievna, who, cautiously passing through of murk, neatly mixed with pale glitter of lanterns, is getting slowly, but surely involved in newly started conversation: one short quarter ago she was met by a passerby, who was not longer than in moment wholly charmed and enslaved by her beauty. And now, having no doubts, he was leading her person to home, continuing to praise own admirations.
"You are so graceful, so much nice, so amazingly gentle and tempting. It's so endlessly pleasant for me to realize, that we are just together, that I am going next to you."
"Do not stop, my good one, I am heeding. I am listening you. I'm so pleased! And which way did I lure you? Which strange way did I hook your attention?"
"You are my holiday, my peak of exaltation. You are so perfect in each thing."
"Greatness. Grace. I am standing right here and just blushing. So tender words..."
"I feel so comfortable, so madly good. You are my dream, my talisman and goddess. And how did I manage to deserve you..."
"Who knows, who knows... After all, all we have kind of fate. Perhaps, life is for us... We will soon? Soon we'll come in your house?"
"Not far at all. At next left turn."
"Come on, I want to enter to your cradle."
And then the very reached apartment and cozy sofa, occupied together.
"So tightly crowded at here. And so many of books!"
"And this is wholly understandable and clear - after all, at my work, I'm librarian. But sometimes I'm ashamed to admit it. Not so much popular profession – no prestige, no rivers of money."
"Come on! Cheer up. Such work is terribly exciting. And what is that thick book over there?"
"Encyclopedia of kitchen."
"So much old and so fat - very lovely for eyes."
"I collect all these ones - I save them and appreciate as humans. After all, into any of archives, their fate is totally abandoned, and here they are my pets and my best friends. I sometimes even pet them with hand, when I'm tired or sad."
"Are there any reasons for your sadness?"
"It happens... Life is often dark."
"Come here. I will give a sweet kiss to your mouth."
"So much promptly?"
"Yes – like that and then quickly to heaven. You want to try me, all is so?"
"I can't believe my own eyes! I wouldn't dare even just to dream of such an absolute saint bliss."
"Let's fix this fact. Give your woman a kiss."
The hero has obediently moved and then merged in a kiss with so much marvelously gifted tempting person, having wholly surrendered to joy.
"Come down and please your dear mouth with tasty!" - having spreaded apart silky legs, has assuredly offered the lady: "I am so ready to be yours."
Anatoly Viktorovich has blissfully dissolved in sweet nectar, fastly melting in sugary moisture of shameless lovable locations.
"Wow, my darling. Go on. My keen dear. I am immensely pleased and rejoiced."
And again, the same kissing with lips and again act of tasting of dainty flash's dews and offer to be taken from behind. And again uncontrollable groans and squall of unbelievable orgasms.
"You are my wonderful sweet cat! So much cute. So much nice it's with you. Do not let me away anywhere. And do not let your mouth from the sweetest. Give me kiss once again. Is it good to be playing with me?"
"Much more good than in heaven. Incomparably tarter and better – than any known earthly pleasures."
"You're my beloved, I'm wholly yours - completely, totally, forever. Are you happy with me?"
"Till firm shiver inside."
"Well, it's nice. I am yours. It's so much wonderful to be at here together. It's a pure fairy tale. Will you tell me such one?"
"Yes, I will."
"Come on. But only of us."

IX
The dome of sky has got unhurriedly enveloped in slowly whitening smooth mist. Lifeless thin rare features have shyly filled oneselves with brightening faint colors. Pale landscape has submissively veiled with dense bottomless haze. Slanting carefree wind has swept through cold indifferent surroundings. Anastasia Valerievna, having been woken luckily up and having sent own children to the school, is standing, gathering with thoughts, looking up at thick fog of gray window's expanses.
"What a dummy I am... What a fool... Once again I've confused in myself. After all, I have really fallen in love with both of newly-picked seducers. They are so utterly unique. And now I break my heart in parts. After all, I have right to have love, to have warmth and frank rescuing care. To have sincerity and joy. To get daily amount of happiness. It's not my blame, that I am so, that I'm ardently seeking for good. I want to taste participation, to share reciprocity and dreams. I want to give to somebody my world. Do I want something wrong... After all, I just love. Do not judge my lost soul. I've got entirely confused. But I know how to be. Enough of stupid fairy tales. I need to call Pavel now - at least, some kind of sober contact. Or I will really go crazy."
At here it's worth to make report, that Paul was her ancient lover, greatly known for about nine years. The man himself has been married for two decent decades and was accessible for only rare meetings, which were for heroine as honey.
So now, having hurriedly arranged new cherished contact and having proudly put on best outfit, Anastasia Valerievna has left the house and proceeded to wait for soon arriving of the car – the lady had to meet each time just so – in frames of car and not for long, but even these unsuitable conditions were serving as the biggest of delights. And now spacious foreign, brightly painted in red splendid car has appeared and hot and passionate embrace were received.
"Enough of your servility and greetings, do not hang at my chest, irritates. Let's now stay somewhere far, but don't behave as piece of sheep, I'm rather tired of my wife and you seem to be acting the same. How are your purposeless offsprings? Grow up?"
"Grow like crazy."
"Well, that's nice. And you yourself still howl at bars?"
The heroine has accurately nodded.
"Eh, you are my coquette, sweet and stupid. Nothing happening notably changes you, my small personal fool."
"I have decided what to choose by my own will..."
Have unhurriedly stopped. People are rare. But they are not a hindrance at all – thick glasses are more black than night.
"Come on, get down to your usual duties." - the gentleman has taken cozy pose and opened trousers' fly lock: "I have been yearning for your throat. Give me holiday now. Your shameful lips already shiver."
Anastasia Valerievna has submissively bowed to main organ of male and proceeded to primitive movements.
"Neat job. Come on, do not slow your pace. I still wonder each time - how your head can so skillfully walk - back and forth, back and forth. Like a piston. You are my mindless lipped tadpole. Keep your work. I am certainly pleased."
So right now, having reached final bliss, the intercourse has gradually ended. The lady has begun to lick own lips, and Pavel has identically started to wipe warm sweat from smiling face: "Well done, you're definitely perfect. I have been seen so many work-tresses with mouth, but you are surely the best. You couldn't not to grow as singer."
"Feel you good in my presence?"
"As in cradle of gods. We are acquainted for so long, but I've never met anyone better. Perfect breed, heaven's bitch, what to add... And at now I'll return you to home."
"Will your miss?"
"Are you crazy or what? You think, I'm having nothing for to do?"
"Will you come at next weekend? I'll be waiting each day."
"I clearly know, that you are waiting. If I will not be busy, I'll come. And now goodbye, flesh's feast is over."
The car has dropped the lady off and removed far away, having speedily lost at horizon.
"Well, at least, I've refreshed my small soul." - has sighed the heroine and yawned: "Eh, Paul, Pashechka, my gift... And again I'm alone. And again melancholy and sadness. And survival in sorrow and thoughts. This is essence of life – at first pure grief, then true deception. Torment, curse. Nothing more."
The heroine has slowly sighed once more and meekly dragged again to walls of house.

X
Meanwhile, in astronomer's flat, is getting kept new one unhappy dialogue.
"How sadly alien is word, how hateful, distant and disgusting. How zealously painful and unpleasant."
"The more wide is the gap with your fate, the more essential are contrasts. But until you'll be thrown from the boat, you will not learn which way to swim. Time works as well as evolution: any past one a day gets unviable. And doubts one a day transform in firmness, in strong assuredness and will. As you see, all is terribly simple: sober mind is a ticket to heaven, lack of rights is a pass to graveyard. It's sometimes even utterly easy to disclose dirts and lies of reality: its harsh insidiousness acts as greedy hunter: gets trapped by own excessive traps. Main of things – to believe in own rightness. To keep calm pace and to move up. After all, all weak ones aren't so weak, as well as all, who are endowed with strength and power are not so strong and omnipotent. Main of things – to believe. Believe and not to be afraid. After all, any locks at mind's doors with time become ramshackle, old and worn - truth's escape will decidedly occur."
"But how to save own seeking mind, to overcome all tricks of madness..."
"For each poisonous needle of fate you must have rescuing thimble of brain. If you'll allow to be destroyed, you'll stay as splinters on forever."
"We even have no values for to lose... Lifes most often are vain, wholly aimless and barren."
"For to fall and get crashed, you have no need to climb to highest top. We live exclusively for nothing, that's why achievements are just temporary, pointless. All is wrong, all is dead. And each of fears in such frames – source of next soonest devastation. But chain is not an owner of the dog. Inner weakness is dust, beat it, kill. Mind and will are more strong, more insistent."
"But any peace is painfully deceptive..."
"The quieter are the waters, the more of drowners in inside they calmly hide."
"Soul's passivity breaks, leads to murk and omissions. Be aware of this, shy away of its pit."
"The longer is the term of imprisonment, the more soft seem your shackles. Don't get used to fate's frames, don't addict. This is surely endlessly worse then all poisons."
"Life's plot is rid of any purpose, of any prospect, sense and light."
"Sometimes whole world is hollow and empty. It can be useful only for few."
"But even here – in swamp of being, I want to move and to believe..."
"The ghost of happiness can live in any grief. But life's indifference destroys. Each single human, purified from fate, is close to cannonball, which's left without cannon. And any hopes... Such ones are fruitless dust."
"Darkness, gloom..."
"The world, forgotten by its God, gets remembered, as rule, by the devil. But darkness, trust without doubts, is not a horror, not an end. As well as chaos, by the way. What's more – such one is rather helpful. The more scholastic is your fate, the more apt are results. Routes' crossroads bring harm just for thoughts, for legs such ones are purest fun."
"But world is too immeasurable, too huge... This is awful."
"The size of fate is soapy bubble. Its scale is fiction and not more."
"But you feel so much sorry for future. Daily roles are so vain, so offensive, useless, empty and doomed, damned and cheep."
"Life's play is cunning, low and deft - it makes actors from decently stupid, and make slaves from excessively smart. Don't get used to life's path, build resistance. After all, fate is strange entertainer: having frankly decided to save, it can suddenly kill."
"Each soul is place for hopelessness and torments..."
"Main role and aim of any hopes is to lead into gap of despair. The more cheerful is gait, the more painful is route."
"Too much stubborn is world, too much stern. One wrong step – and you're dead."
"The more narrow is path, the more worthy is end. All is right."
"All is short, shaky, weak..."
"Sense is snow in old spring, fog at morning."
"World is hell... World is hell..."
"But you can beautify its cradle. After all, each paints' workshop is faceless, but with appearance of artist it transforms into doubtless paradise. We have lack of ideas. And of those who are able to make them."
"It's not much brighter even with ideas. Any future is hazed and unknown. You don't know, where you'll be, how, with whom, in which spheres."
"Fate is route, where all good and all bed acts in role of your fellow traveler. So, everything depends on one direction – what exactly will bring you more benefits: low shameful alliance with darkness, or saint friendship with light."
"I agree, but what's next..."
"Finish line, nothing else. Predictable is only life's end. With no details and no additions."
"And even mind is sadly far from being helpful, if no of things depend on our deeds."
"So mind is only separator, which divides all in useful and needless. But all, what's given, is just rubbish. That's why mind's presence has no sense."
"I seek for something really reliable, for something weighty, pure and true. But such of matters, things and ways stay unchangeably stubbornly absent."
"So, getting wrapped in happiness and only, you'll remain wholly naked."
"All is vain, modest, sick, rid of meaning..."
"In poisoned dish fresh taste is not essential. We are born for to die."
"I feel no reason for to be..."
"You have to see in any case slightly more than was shown. Otherwise you'll be smashed. With no key inside of pocket, all doors are equal to stone walls."
"And so much dangerous is any bright of hopes – such ones are utterly deceptive."
"The more sweet is the bait, the more strong is the trap. Aim can kill."
"You live, you try, you wait... It's painful."
"So happiness is only an addition. Small and scanty in all. Fate is sad. You either wait for madly endless time, or get lost into short abrupt seconds. But risks aren't equal to collapse, as well as chances and soul's ardor have nothing common with achievements. All is hazed, all is weak."
"But which way to get used to such horror, to save strength and survive."
"Life is useless, you know. It's filled with lawlessness and murk. And lawlessness itself is even helpful, you can use it yourself."
"What's most strange – being totally wrecked, our life still keeps route and moves forward."
"Even stays in a hurry, it's true. And this truth is most firm and immortal."
"Such things just spoil and upset..."
"So life is bright here just for fools. Or ones, who have been beaten with a lamp. Nothing good, nothing deep. Everywhere is dirt, everywhere are flaws – in existence, in minds, in committings. But do not rush to build conclusions. Let's at first wait for death for beginning."
"Warming plan. I agree."

XI
And within of gray walls of books' dungeons right at similar temperate time is calmly getting kept another dialogue, the same in essence, hopelessness and thoughts.
"I look at flock of current people and feel great sorrow and pain, deep stopless fear and despair. After all, any average human is tightly filled with vice, with cynicism and evil, harsh soulless irony and pestilent deception. They have no drop of mutuality or frankness, no inner light, no unity, no warmth..." - has begun Anatoly Viktorovich.
"This is fruit of surrounding being, of murky past and harmful laws. People's breed loves to kill, especially those ones, who come to save them. Truly looks as historical habit." - Stepan Igorevich has skimpily remarked.
"They are indifferent to all – to heights, to aims and even to themselves. What to say and to add here..."
"And, the more sensitive and careful is fate, the more disgusting, valueless and vain are inward qualities of last one's lucky holder. So cherished canopy of sanity is short, it cannot cover whole society, can't hide each member of its mass. Only few rare ones have own personal right of access to such priceless and bottomless treasure."
"And freaks' flock, what is sad, is appallingly firm and tenacious: low bastards, ugly soulless creatures, mindless fools, sick mad idiots, herods – all world's scum, they are always immortal, full of health and fertile as rained mushrooms."
"Crooked graceless bodies don't get broken, this has no tragedy, no sense. Fate's fun is to oppress those ones, who're decent, who're flawless, worthy, deep and great. And useless lifes, as well as barren startings, are each time far away of world's viewing."
"And so much deft, so confident and stubborn are rejected by death human nits."
"This shows main feature of such rubbish – harsh persistence and boundless strength. But stay more smart and do not pay attention. Do not notice at all their lost presence. Shy away and keep distance. Such contacts never can have use. They are hopelessly vain and entirely empty. Be away of sick miserable crowd. All history from starting till today is one permanent story of fools..."
"They are so active, so much brisk..."
"The less volume of mind has the brain, the more loud and hot are dumb words of the mouth. Fools are strong, strictly mad and straightforward. All last ones' ideals and enviable examples include one tyrants, idiots and liars. The more deep are mind's flaws, the more often they serve as a reson for glory, for distinct proudness and boasting. Here total imbeciles get permamently crowned and ruthless punishers and killers get called as highest humanists and saints. Cold soulless heartlessness today is not a vice, but nothing more than feature of warm corpses. The very ones, who live among of you."
"And so disgusting it's sometimes, so unberably nasty and loathsome - after any of personal contacts with ugly members of their breed, most barren, purposeless and filthy in every property of soul."
"It's changeless for whole endlessness of time. The more aimless and low is the essence of person, the bigger problems he creates. The more small is the snake, the harder poison it possesses."
"And life oppresses and upsets and equally destroys both you and others, both purest geniuses and dumbest brainless morons, both thirsty seekers of what's absent and harsh rejecters of what is, it has no knowledge of exceptions."
"Life prefers only meaningless rubbish – most lost and prospectless of crowd, the ones, who're rid of face and head, of mighty thoughts and dangerous intentions. All others, purposeful and sober, were made for tasting grief and torments, sad vast omissions and regrets. And nothing new will ever come... And nothing else will ever happen..."
"And in so much dark, gloomy manner has been made our piteous world, that everything is calling for acceptance, for will-less meekness and agreement, long stable weakness, sickness and passivity. But, having heartfully forgiven all around, you will start to feel wish to be killed. And you will easily give up, will calmly put away all fruits of past, all taken heights and reached achievements – you'll do entirely right so, as was desired - by freaks and nits, who bloom and deepen roots, by wastes of world, who're more steady and strong than its hazed and irregular treasures."
"For lost ones any search is great sin. Bright light in hard dark century - it's burden. If you crave for true sense, you'll be dead. Wholly right, healthy, glorious person, as all we're clearly informed, will never be encouraged and approved by system of mistaken, worthless cripples."
"And what's most terrible and dreary, low filthy mass of spoiled human breed is appalingly bottomless source of fresh and young disgustful creatures, newly pooped in surrounding world and similarly cleaned from any values."
"Long route to hell gets paved from very childhood. As well as path to any bottom takes start most usually from surface, from innocent primordial beginnings. Sick mindless freaks produce and born only useless and purposeless rubbish, soulless nits, brainless hollow morons, bloodless hearts and dumb emptified heads. Having spent all the life into lie, you'll never die for miracle of truth."
"After all, most of them are quite glad – with given path and gifted grief, with all of problems and omissions, with all, that kills, destroys and spoils. As if they honestly percieve themselves as shit."
"The more stupid is life, the more cherished it looks. The more tyrannical is fate, the more it's filled with humans' love. They ardor any harmful occupations – if you have given birth to moron, you have to be true patriot for balance – send this worm to some war for cheep death: if he expectedly will die, this world will surely be cleaner. Sadism is rather popular adventure. What for to save this wrong and hopeless being – don't try to rescue what is dying. And do not love own earthly fate, if you don't want to hate yourself."
"We have an abyss right ahead - it attracts, calls and waits, enslaves and drags away from heaven."
"This barren, lost and worthless world is freed from all what's decent, frank and flawless. It's wrong and vain in every moment, in all own routes, details and startings – from insignificance till basics. Life's frames, as we are able to observe, have nothing true and saved from being spoiled, have no such glow and no such light, which aren't diluted by thick darkness, have no of paths and no of ways, which lead to happiness and comfort – no matter, long or short and simple, what's more, we have no better in ahead. Only hopelessly boundless falsehood – the more kind is the nature of poisoner, the more sweet are the tastes of his poisons. And normal dish, with no additions, with zero harm for sated person – such luck is frighteningly rare. And this is obstinately changeless, crisply constant and firm – from ancient days till farest reachless future."
"And so much terrible and scary, so dark and horrible are facts – crashed rotten souls, mad hurting thoughts, low useless ways and empty, wrong and fruitless prospects. All is vain. Vain and dead. All around..."
"Earthly fate is much blacker than soot, human thoughts are much blacker than fate... This is painfully true."
"All of truths are like that - either awfully sad or unrestrainably disgusting. In crazy world all keeps again as always: perverts are climbing in love idols, full satanists – in decent rightful churchmen, deep fools - in scientists and teachers, and freaks – in politics and ruling. The only way for us today - it's way, which's pointed to bottom."
"Where else to go, I agree. After all, every problem with God serves here as ticket to the devil."
"And so funny to look - to observe this surrounding madness: it's so ugly and low, so heartless, dirty and dishonest. And flaws at now, to doom, are main of features. All is wrong, crooked and false - any roles, any aims, steps and meanings."
"So it is. Days are mad. Bad liar can be named as perfect prophet."
"And so tenacious is grip of human flock - the one, which's so much purposeless and barren, so petty, rubbishy and lost, so sadly violent and zealously cruel."
"Each cynicism of losers, as you know, is always horribler and stronger than the similar one of the winners. And world is made at first of them - of hopeless losers, of beaten, worn and dreary fates."
"But world has moment of creation, has some reason and definite author..."
"So bad and talentless performer is worse than most evil vile constructor. I'm talking here of breed of current people. With ugly paints and shabby sheet don't blame the skill of failed, but guiltless artist. Maybe, world far ago had been planned rather nice, even smart, but simply poorly embodied."
"But even here, through pain and troubles, I still desire to be happy. To have some peace inside of heart..."
"I know and see, sometimes it happens. But world is unpredictable and huge. It's sin of globalism, I guess. True sense can live exclusively in small. In something wholly personal and close. Be more smart, shy away of encircling society. It leads in murk, in cage of horror, in pit of uselessness and dirt, of tart and boundless deception. And mind's delusions, even little, they kill, destroy and turn in dust: you can't dispel their muggy fog, can't let away own limiting confusion – it works most usually as poison: can conquer all the head by first shy tasting."
"And not to save own faint and blurred share, not to hide in some miracle's veil."
"So kindness doesn't dominant at evil, doesn't stop or prevent its attacks."
"And most scary and sad for next share is not to be just placed in mad society, but to be skilfully enslaved – by heavy chains of loving shackles, by inner personal devotion and deep frank strivings for soul heat."
"For to rescue your head - keep your heart. The death of mind, as all we know, begins each time from feelings' sickness. Such ones at here are leash of thinking. And having bursted with such variant of burden, you'll never save past sanity of thoughts. We have one dummy soulless nits, faked evil mannequins and cynics – with boiling poison of deception and endless seeking for fresh trust. You lose your heart - and heartlessness gets blooming; you fade inside - and turn in stone; you melt with will - and start to be just nothing."

XII
In bounty of small and cozy room is sitting company of two - Vasily Yegorovich and Anastasia Valerievna, who once again have luckily got peacefully united. They're keeping lovely conversation and, slowly chattering, enjoying with each other.
"Well, my sweet dear boy, one more time I am sick with my solely needable you. What will your holy voice broadcast me? Which way will you console my soul and passion?"
"I just love you, my sugary darling. And I am telling you of this. I can’t be silent of my feelings, as well as cannot be apart, each time so ardently and boundlessly missing."
"Me too, believe, my tender dear, I'm just having to kill all myself into parting, I cannot breathe without you - I wait each day and every second."
"I am so happy in your hugs, so incredibly pleased and so satisfied. I feel so careless and awesome, so gorgeous, excellent and sweet, as if fly each of moments to heaven, to cradle of primordial soul bliss. Nothing else can support, nothing else can replace these saint minutes. All other is indifferent and far, sharply alien, vain and exhausting, rid of value and joy. You are my only salvation, my flawless angel and my God. You're purely everything I have. You are my air, world and life. All of my hopes at here live only in you, in our harmony and care. I was not even able to pretend - to imagine, that this can be real, that my lost soul can be so clearly needful, that our world can do such gifts. I am in paradise with you. In true and doubtless sky's abode. I have never been feeling here better, I have never been rising more high. This is peak of devotion and pleasure."
"How madly nice for me to hear all of this. I am so happy in your warmness. As I am marvelously winged. Such a glorious joy. You are my miracle, my star. I am so glad, that I have caught you."
"I will consider our meeting as my new inward birth - before of you I have been nothing, I've been acquainted only with pain, I have been neither loved nor loving, I've been just smudging our world, consuming food, reducing oxygen and waiting. I never been informed how to believe – in better, hopes, success and chances, in possibility of being understood. Only darkness I had, only losses. Only burden of gloom. All have been looking faked and empty, barren, cold, wrong and hateful. And now I've found my own goddess, my rescue, outlet and light. You are my sense, my gift, my treasure. In your absence I'm dead, trashy, cursed, killed and broken."
"You're incredibly good. Sweet and honey. And frank. I love you, know it, my boy. Be always satisfied and glad."
"I'm glad exclusively with you."
"You are mine. You're with me. Do you want me right now? Will you take me again?" "In highest ecstasy of senses."
"This is nice. Take me all."
And again passion's act. And again long sweet kissings. And again indestructible parting. But just for period of several swift days.

XIII
And once again, as times before, having moved from love's context away, Vasily Yegorovich has settled at Boris Vladimirovich's figure and plunged in common dreary thoughts: "No matter how ardently you try, beat your chest, shake your mind and brain's sources - you cannot realize own course of earthly fate, can't look through veil of murky days, can't predict even short tiny second..."
"Human view, I agree, is short-sighted. We see reality from side - without aims, intentions, truths and secrets. It's given only to guess."
"And plot of world is obstinate and cruel, where people can commit all kinds of shit – with lost each others and with you. They quickly meet and promptly drift apart, building fuss and assuredly threatening to overturn all principles of world..."
"But people do not play with people, only God truly plays. Their actions are just points of huge plan, of prescribed distinct moves. Where all epochs are chapters of one play. And every human – weak and funny jester."
"Global picture is strange – both in current and past... Strange and useless."
"So memory is corpse of ended time. It's ephemeral, closed by fog. And world is place of endless building. Endless building of things, which will surely go to nowhere."
"And so hard to create decent meanings. And even harder to achieve."
"Good dish of bricks in proper terms gets given with fresh usable cement. With empty chances of big luck, all actions stay completely fruitless. Especially in frames of boiling filth. But weighty goal, what's also known, can heal and free from any sorts of troubles. If you really want something good, then you'll attain it, take and get... Albeit, as rule, with hellish price."
"And what's most wondering and funny in new people – each one of them has firm and stubborn habit to criticize, reproach, condemn and hate. And no big difference and matter, which of feats you are trying to make, which of ways you are ready to take, which pain and sacrifice you're eager to receive, they will equally see you as shit. Throw yourself into fire or storm, their past opinion and view will offensively stay wholly changeless."
"Condemnation is sinfulness' sign. Only ones, who themselves are most guilty, prefer to criticize, despise and bath in dirt each sudden character and person, not even barely concerning of some observable true cause of showing criticism and hatred."
"But which of secret ways and manners to stay sufficiently alive, to maintain inner light and soul's seekings, where to get at least drop of true strength, of real will and helpful firmness... Ah here - in cage of endless torments, in blooming sins and growing murk..."
"Free pain and torments, as you know, serve now as kind of modern bliss. Best choice for progressive request, for new demand of heads and spirits."
"Life is weak, hope is faint, days are gray, route is vain and oppressive... All is dark, hurting, wrong, sick and crushing..."
"Such state, don't answer with surprise, is understandable and clear. Small flames, which have no shade of brightness, don't burn for very very long. Short tails do not get chopped in lots of portions. Most of lifes are entirely lost, aimless, mad, rid of values. It has no sense to keep them here."
"So hard it is, so greatly painful - to part with ever taken heights."
"Each little victory, be sure, has taste of similar small loss. Only overall doubtless winning can be pleasant and nice. All rest is absolutely aimless."
"And, what's indeed most sad and dreary - no frailest matter how much fast you run from fictions, you anyway will finally be buried among their dominant excess."
"What's mad, your fear of omissions, of lie, deception and illusions is their main builder and creator. In walls of emptiness and void you rush to gain, invent and find, what instantly gives birth to soon mistakes, to deep regrets and bitter troubles. Your keen and obstinate escape from frames of static ruthless routine gets always used as major base of future fading, gloom and failure; of ruination, disappointment and wrecking - by all, that kills, destroys and tortures. All wrong, appalling and improper has roots in emptiness' replacement... All bad takes path from void's walls."
 "And not to justify this being, not to meet something decently bright, something flawlessly good and sufficiently hopeful. Only murk after tireless searchings..."
"So, loving constancy of feasts, love also wars and all their corpses."
"It's hard to realize world's moving, hard to fill it with aim..."
"You cannot take dead strings of lowness and attach them to heartfulness' violin. Such things have different foundations. Faked stage of humanism is shaky – each time you look at going play, it shows one violence and horror. And logic, purified from firmness, from willful stubbornness and strength, is also powerless and petty. But true straightforwardness can rescue, can free from fog of flabby thoughts. Indeed conservative and faithful mushroom picker is strictly cold to gathering of berries."
"If you become familiar with being, with frames of life and laws of world, you start to rot and fall in murk, eat pain, lose hope, feel gloom and fade."
"For your heart is enough even dungeon, but for mind even earth is too small."
"But soul is absolutely dirty. Facts are fast, world is huge, you can't embrace its immense scales, can't stay above of living abyss."
"Life's muddy water, as it's known, can't ever be completely standing..."
"It seems, that world is quite successful - in many spheres, things and ways. People's breed has assuredly reached lots of heights, having filled vain themselves with excess of great technical trifles. But they have no purpose, no fire."
"So, true completeness, what is changeless, is not a friend to mad excess, pure maximum and satiety aren't pair. In need is only neat measure, all other states are inappropriate and harmful."
"Life disgusts..."
"Life is fun for full fools, as well as death is toy for smart ones. Where there is only abyss and anguish, all being's harmony is ghost. Peace is faked, far and hollow. New days are terribly offensive. World's field is rueful and oppressive. With no experience and presence of lavish happiness and luck, you'll rest in vanity forever, with no escape and no of prospects."
"But you can't guess what's good, what's harmful, all is placed in one heap. And only pain, from all of objects, can follow you from start till end."
"Both night and lantern are two lovers, are one firm couple, as you know. Each one, who's been in real storm, will hate and scold one damned false calmness. And pain is evidence of living, modern days look as hell."
"World's frames are terrible and hateful. They hurriedly destroy all depths of soul."
"Each soul is slave of thoughts and mind. And minds are rotten, lost and broken."
"World is dead, filled with dirt, lie and troubles, it's hopeless, mad and wholly wrong."
"Truth's curtain always is transparent. It's rather difficult to catch it, to notice, touch and leave in hands. And path to happiness is road without ending. Or with ending in hell. In cold and limitless thick murk. And what's most frightening and scary, long route to God, as frequently it happens, can also follow to hell's pit."

XIV
And again one more pensive apartment, and again wholly similar dialogue. Anatoly Viktorovich is habitually beginning: "How much deceptive are all passions, how strange and different in outcomes and fruits – such ones can lead in any corner, in hell or heaven - no matter."
"So wind is helpful and supporting exclusively in suitable direction. Luck is hazed, don't forget." - has replied Stepan Igorevich.
"Any future is dead, any prospect is blurred."
"Today far-sightedness is useless, it has begun to be just helpless."
"The worst of all is to belong to rubbish of society."
"Don't be afraid of hellish sowers: evil seeds never sprout in good hearts. Think more bright. Think and move. And shy away of people's madness."
"And so much terrible is being, so dirty, dark and deadly false."
"So, having soared above of fuss, you'll keep to see its changeless presence. And then you'll perish one a day..."
"We're dead from birth, from first life's moments."
"What's sad in any sort of abyss – it has no bottom in inside. You do one step – and fall forever. In model with excess of counterweights, you'll never get long state of balance. Eternal war, what's truly clear, will never lead to cherished peace."
"I see, whole universe is rotten."
"We live for tragedies and torments."
"And so much easy to get dead, to disappear in thick horror."
"In any abyss, as we know, is weighty only its type: such ones get luckily divided in two comparable huge groups – in mortal abysses of space, unstable, perishing and petty, and deathless abysses of time, indeed eternal, high and great. It's hard and almost clearly unreal to find here something absolutely good: frank, pure and doubtlessly flawless. And no broad influence and matter, in where exactly you will search - in yourself, in your aims and conclusions, in given purposes and routes, in current role and daily duties. Each single variant and offer will expose one dense bottomless dirt, one evil blossoming of vices, fresh pains, offenses and regrets. Be calm, all rubbish of existing will fall directly on your fate, having smashed last of valueless dreams in vain dust of innumerous splinters. But, what's nice, all these horrible troubles, with whole heap of own boundless grief, take place exclusively in abysses of space, where you waste living days in forced hurry, in fuss of hollow events, in climbing up by ladder of professions and stopless fight for bills and food. Such madness perfectly explains, why best of us in one of moments, when wisdom penetrates brain's depths, begin to think of abysses of time, where life belongs to frames and limits of hazed infinity of world, of years, centuries and eras - not to breakable hugs of society, not to cage of its perishing laws, but to saint irreproachable cradle of priceless universe of prominent ideas, where you stubbornly seek for great deeds, for new attainments, heights and prospects, for chance to leave, preserve and fix some decent memory and trace, to spend life's period in path to heaven's cradle - in path of being's understanding, of gaining thoughts and healing soul. Such paths today are sadly rare. Huge luck to pass by one of them - to meet, to catch and to accomplish."
"But we also have roles, have share's weightness, scale and plot, have goal and distinct bounds of occupations, prescribed from outside by birth."
"Drowned man is not a fish's replacement. It's true and absolutely right. Any alien role, as you know, gets played just akwardly and wrongly - with awful clumsiness and tension."
"We have no reasons for to live..."
"For to be ready to go up, to move ahead till sure finish, you have at first to reach the middle. You need to have experience of progress. Worldview is variant of lens. And being's picture, what's important, is also fruit of brain's efforts, of inner mind's interpretation or at all nothing more than illusion, transmitted aptly right in head. Do you faith in reality's presence? In world itself, in people's mass, in any fact and every moment? Smash and trample world's frames, break this cheap empty fake, this unforgivable obsession, destroy it totally and deadly. Be own god, be own owner, this is best, what we can."
"I'd gladly trample all this world, but I'm afraid no soles will cope."

XV
Among of dominance of books, in habitually carefree abode, is sitting pair of two hearts - Anastasia Valerievna and Anatoly Viktorovich, who're sweetly getting pleasure from each other.
"I feel so much immeasurably good, so unspeakably calm and serene, so explicitly nice, so bright, so wonderful and easy – like in marvelous hugs of pure heaven. So much cozy it is in your love, in your affectionate keen passion, in incorruptible saint frankness, which lives between of us and only. And I don't have some other power, some other source of aims and orders, except of happiness of you."
"I know, my brilliant and precious. You're my beloved, my candy boy, my greatest miracle and treasure, most lovely, magical and dear. Most tender, sensitive and needed."
"It is so boundlessly pleasant to realize this priceless state, so deeply great, enjoyable and splendid, so warm, delightful, excellent and fine - in this sugary abyss of contacts, in flame of inextinguishable passions, in tartly high apotheosis of selfless holiest soul's tremor, in crystal pool of bottomless devotion, of thin God-soaked feelings and intentions, in rare harmony of hearts, in all-consuming unity of shares, combined by soldering together in timeless monolith of routes. No kingdoms, no rich golds and no gifts will ever even barely compare with this breathtaking flawless bliss, with this life-giving infinite oasis of dreams' fertility and beauty, of gleaming light and blooming hope. I have no particle of doubts, that you're the best, what can be at this dolorous earth. We both are neatly tied with kind of thread, with some invisible unbreakable connection. You've filled all space of mind and fate – all nooks and harbors of shy soul, all wilted thoughts, all plans and startings. Everywhere one you..."
"Yes, sweetness, I am everywhere. And this is marvelously good. Do not let me from you, feel me, taste."
"So long-awaited you're, so needful, so much desired, cute and fresh. Each time together is a gift, each meeting - paradise and heaven."
"Yes, my boy. Whole world from now is for us. Come on, move more close to my charms, take me all - in all of ways and all of manners."
"I am moving, my girl. I am moving. My angel, treasure and my God."
And once again new intercourse, tart madness, amazing closeness of hearts and sweet delicious juices into mouth.

XVI
And again hopeless dialogue for two: "How unattainable is stable living balance - changeless mentally-sensual calm, how much fragile is every chance to look at world with no of poison of own doubts, of fears, burdens and mistakes, to see all and to stay in sane mind..."
"Worldview in correct form and needful manner is greatest rarity today. Such thing at now belongs to few of heads. New brains are made of flaws and rubbish, such ones are fatally infected – with wrongness, pettiness and fuss, with all that makes us vain and empty. So better don't perceive at all, do not look at surrounding being, admit, that last one is pure fake, deceptive hollow illusion, stay free from anything around, deny, that everything is real, leave it far, kill, dissolve."
"I try, but life is not a smoke - you can't dispel it with your hands, can't move its tragedy away and stay entirely aside."
"Each soul is slave of mind's omissions, of thinking's errors and defects. Main current murderers of happiness and greatness are lie and fearfulness, that's all. But real madmen, as we know, will never cope to go crazy. The only remedy from world is firm development of dreams."
"Trust's serpent bites in depths of soul, what's sad – we rarely can stop it, or at least rather rapidly notice. Don't forget, life is terribly low, life's frames are meager, meaningless and barren. Their endless emptiness destroys, enforces soul to seek and hurry, to rush for new and stuck in old."
"So it is, I agree and confirm. And lack of meaning, as we know, can't stay here totally alone, it promptly sticks to recklessness' excess, to something perishing and harmful. And such harmony kills. It can't be speedily rejected, can't be canceled or blocked, it's more mighty than we, more persistent, more deathless, durable and strong. Whole new reality itself is nothing more than garbage's basket, the very one, where right at bottom among of trifles, dust and dirt is calmly lost vain priceless penny of generosity and mind."
"But world is certainly constructive. All earthly problems, if to rummage, exist as rule not far from own solutions."
"I see, but usefulness is useless, it's not a guarantee of truth. Solutions aren't a remedy from problems. As well as victory or treaty is not a cure from having war. After all, only permanent peace is truly suitable and correct. If God is just a remedy from devil, then he is also darkness' servant. All these different helpful solutions are truly valuable and needful in one tight unity with problems. Scary thing, I will say. Smart mind itself, as you have guessed, is greatest source of pain and horror. The more deep is your thought, the more shy is your look. The more mad is the world, the more glad are its fools, this is static."
"But which way not to look at yourself as at error, as at fruit of mistake, as at flaw onto general canvas?"
"Only confident values' obtaining is truly capable to heal us from offenses. Only positive prudent experience clearly fits for to serve as salvation, as good sort of life-giving example. You can't learn sex without sex, you can't save wings without flying. If you've never been loved, then you live as a shit. And you feel whole yourself just as shit, as unsuitable purposeless rubbish. You cannot run without legs. As well as can't be really happy with no of happiness inside. Each fate, from pettiest till greatest, depends in everything it has on two and only conditions – on depth of reasons and beginnings and width of instruments and tools. If life has suddenly decided to make you fool and idiot – it will, and you'll stay till own death as a jester. And living finish, what is sad, locates as rule before of dying, before of grave and coffin's box. It starts from losing of yourself, from getting needless, vain and lost. And death today is kind of gift, of sweet and adorable present. At least for ones as me and you."
"Only death can support, I agree. Only corpse can have luck, this is timeless."
"Keep in mind, fools are also with luck."
"But what for is this world? For whose weird whim? I ask myself each day and minute."
"We have seas, which are started for drops, and we have world around us, which's also started for some share, for someone's single modest life... For you, or me... Or someone else..."
"Anyway, one a day we will die... Right as all, who're alive – both completely unique and entirely empty."
"Body's death – spirit's feast, all is nice. Let us die and get freed – right from all."
"Let us die, let away. Sweet request."
"I believe - we will cope. After all, endless lives are forbidden."

XVII
It so happens sometimes in this gloomily perishing being, that all hidden from sight always tries to reveal own shy presence. So, according to this, one a moment Anatoly Viktorovich and Vasily Yegorovich, who all time had been living apart, never knowing of fact of each other, have unexpectedly got mutually aware and, of course, have got caged with embarrassment. It's not so possible and easy to describe into decent of words, what exactly this fact has produced in their personal systems of values, but result is result, and mask of secrecy was thrown, having given firm birth of necessity to get some kind of abrupt explanations, of sharp and merciless denouement, which will skillfully put all of dots over i. That's why at dark annoying now Anatoly Viktorovich, wholly crushed by exhaustive vexation and right at yesterday enforced to watch by eyes an unbearably heinous incident of observably shown infidelity, which has stubbornly slammed in sick mind and persistently plunged all of thoughts into scarily deep moral wreckage, which, having armed oneself with hatred, have been having to have some appallingly cruel resolvement, in seconds inwardly supported by unstoppable heat of emotions, deftly smashed last of sanity's rests.
"What to do with such evident trouble, so unpleasantly fallen at life and so hopelessly hugged with despair. How to be in this absolute tragedy? But what for to suppose, to think or hesitate and wait, all is endlessly clear – to kill, most recently and promptly, to kill and part with any doubts, to kill and calmly go further, otherwise I will stuck in limp weakness, in hateful softness, waverings and shiver. In all, what's called as inner garbage. The one, which leads us right in hell. All I currently have – just to kill. Just to kill, nothing else. All is plain."
The hero has replaced oneself in kitchen and, having looked by modest sides, swiftly taken long knife, lost at table: "Pretty thing, nice to choose. But tools in killing do not matter. Only enemy's death has true weight, only fact of stopped life. And details... They are dust."
Anatoly Viktorovich, full of hatred and will, has put on shabby tissue of jacket and, having slammed with heavy door, stepped ahead with harsh obstinate gait. At first by deserted stone bridge, then by street and around the corner, then through gloom of worn desolate quarters, among of which ones' murk and grayness, was calmly waiting cherished goal – an old ramshackle, scanty house with slanting porch and wooden shutters.
"And I've remembered his pale mug, his petty outlines and image. I'll never miss this scary creature. From many thousands will find. I have to wait and then game's over."
So, waiting's period was started - with inexcusable long routine of immovably stretched slow minutes and inner torments of mad thoughts.
And at now, having saved mind from boredom, right in peak of still motionless time, when few infinities have powerlessly passed, from murk of entrance has slowly appeared and moved across of house's wall faint drowsy silhouette of male, rather quiet and entirely modest, the very one, which was so needed. Anatoly Viktorovich has automatically shaken and, having done brisk abrupt step, with full assuredness and firmness has caught own enemy by shoulder: "Your life's path stays at end. You have been clearly remembered and now you'll certainly be killed. That's why don't move. I'll ask you several of questions – you'll tell me all before of death. Well, let's start... Which of reasons and aims have forced your miserable earth route to interweave oneself with my saint dream, with my soul's angel, talisman and treasure. I've torn my heart in breathless pieces, and you, wild plunderer and scoundrel, have crashed my paradise in parts! Who have permitted you to do this – to destroy priceless bottomless unity, to spit in mutual devotion - in flawless harmony and peace."
"What of exactly are you talking?"
"You have to guess, as I suppose, but you, low nit, keep muddying waters. I'm talking here of only one – of my light, Anastasia Valerievna. The one, on whom you have encroached."
"Well, let's talk."
The heroes have stepped inside of entrance and soon located for discussion into walls of Vasily Yegorovich's room.
"Well, let's sit. Which of claims do you have? What's the plot?"
"I want to know all of you. It's my aim at today. And then I'll tell you all of me."
"What exactly to say? To tell whole story of relations? Here I'll stuck in word mass for few days. But it has to have place, I am guessing. You want all moments and details - nothing wrong, I'll report, from time of earliest beginning till latest seconds of today. All had place in cold slush of October - I have suddenly come to one tavern in greedy thirst for to kill time, with no one shade of expectations and no of brightness into mood, right then I've seen pure miracle, pure goddess. I can't describe her somehow else. She has been singing onto stage, among of smoke and dishes' noises. So perfect, beautiful and holy. So graceful, lovable and great. Most charming, sweet and flawless ever. I have waited for end, left my sit and replaced to the curtain, then shyly stepped in room behind, as if being itself has invited me there, at least I've felt right so that moment. I've stepped and seen her face to face and, what's most marvelous and shocking, we have instantly tuned tender talk and soon, with luck in role of helper, we've started wandering through night, after which, calmly reached these pale walls.  And then whole miracle has happened, whole flame of natures and desires, whole storm of passions and excitement. So tasty, plentiful and joyful was each minute of love in tight hugs of those keen sinful bonds of flesh's madness, of impudently hot intercourse of all manners and sorts, embraced with monolith of movements. As if I've passed through door to heaven, as if somebody endlessly kind has dipped my soul in boiling bliss. Right so, from time of that saint meeting, we have started to write our story, to gain care and love, to get stronger each day and to bloom - in feast of unity, in pleasure, in strictly miraculous frames - immortal, powerful and faultless. And then I've woken in today and you have met me. And now I know, that fairy tale will die... I've told you all, so you can kill me."
"What a bad, tragic plot." - after pause of deep mourning silence has hopelessly and gloomily replied Anatoly Viktorovich: "I've been unable to predict this... You say you're joint with her person since October?"
"From the middle of it."
"This is bitter to know. I know her from beginning of November. I have been walking by street grayness and then my fate has made a turn – I've met my miracle, my angel, my earthly paradise and god. The one, who has been sent from heaven's cradle. We've come to me and sat at sofa - just that, where everything has happened. The night has passed and changed me all – I've got so endlessly enslaved, so undeniably devoted. I have no words to show that bliss. I have melted in her, drowned and lost. Lost in joy, into bottomless happiness. And then I've seen, she walks with you, and promptly fallen in numb shock. That's why I've come at here to kill you, but now I'm full of doubts' fog... Look at knife. It was prescribed for your thin throat. At least, one hour ago."
"Weighty guest, very well. You could turn me in corpse in one minute...  So, what you'll do right here and now? Will beat my face and break my bones?"
"Your broken muzzle can't be helpful. I do not know what to do. Let me think for some time. I'll give you answer slightly later. And now no actions and no deeds."
"I accept such a choice. It's wrong to rush at muddy roads. But life is hopeless from this point, it has no future for us both."
"Life is hell, it's made of tears, dirt and madness. I'll write you letter at next day. Leave my knife at yourself – as a kind of your personal trophy."
At here they've wordlessly got parted.

XVIII
In everlasting domination of heavy books and crowded shelves, with darkened head and howling mind, is getting beaten by own thoughts wholly sad and depressed in great measure, cleaned from hope and past strengths Anatoly Viktorovich. He is gloomily quietly lamenting, tasting grief and submitting to pain.
"This is point of end. Of irreversible dead finish. I'm slave of murk, of broken fate, of lavish sorrow and great torments. All bad has definitely happened. Day ago I've been ready to kill, to make one step and solve whole plot and now I'm stuffed with hesitation. Day ago, just one short tiny day, I was in confidence I'm going to full bastard, to greatest enemy and monster. And now I am the same myself. He truly loves her, truly trusts, truly faiths into mutual frankness, truly hopes for undying completeness of these fervently passionate bonds, for light of soul and feelings' fire, for distinct outlet for mind, for sure rescue from past losses, from steel downtroddening oppression of sleepless nights and barren days. For rare chance of usefulness of self, of own significance and path's justification, of worthy deeds and gorgeous facts, of deep astonishing beginnings and vast fixed timelessness of truths, of any promises, beliefs and expectations. We need to have some miracle, some treasure. Some decent reason for to live – when fullness serves as leading palette, when all is fruitful, bright and flawless, then life looks better than in dreams... Two routes have crossed this time and frozen. Only one should remain – me or he. Do I deserve to be the winner, to be the holder of all bliss, to be the one, who'll get all values. After all, he is also the same, he wants own happiness and comfort, wants to live and to go only up. And not to throw this endless pain. Am I better than he, am I greater. I do not think in such a way. I am hardly more pure or more perfect, I'm the same, this destroys. Am I clear hero and only? Or one, who've parted with all sins? Should I punish him, hurt or deceive? He's not a hollow consumer, not a vile soulless nit, but most true human. Am I the one, who're free to stop his fate? No, I'm not. And I'll barely be such a person. He wants some happiness, some hope. And I heartfully want all the same. This upsets... How to be... How to solve it..."
The hero has unhurriedly got up, then taken out thin short piece of wholly faceless shabby paper and proceeded to write. The letter was not easy in own essence, but time has done own usual job and right one gloomy hour later the text of message was still gradually ended. Anatoly Viktorovich, full of mix of past pain and relief, has rather slowly got up, gone to street, walked few miles, then put own writing in mailbox and trudged to cage of waiting home. Outside pretty good - welcoming, beautiful and silent. Eh, world, you're better not to know what's inside... And now again in hugs of walls.
"All things are certainly decided and now I have to do the last. Let's stop at hopelessness and longing - two states, from which my life had started. And this is surely it's end. It's grave and ticket to nowhere." - the hero's hand has stretched to rope, then adjusted right length, fixed free part at thick durable nail, made a noose and thrown up at own neck.
"Goodbye, reality, be better. I hope all will be as I've planned. Goodbye, the river of the time, since now you'll go without me."
The chair's surface has upsided, the body's silhouette has hung.

XIX
Vasily Yegorovich, the one, who've spent whole life in grief and lived so many days sorrow, in all of sorts of pain and gloom, was currently especially exhausted - Anatoly Viktorovich's letter has unexpectedly arrived, and what's dark, it has turned to be farewell. That's why in dreariness of now, the hero, gritting teeth in blood, was plunged in hard and hurting reading of small and shaky lines of text: "I'm glad to greet you with my letter. I am writing to you, as I've promised. And such way life, apparently, wants, that the first and the last has to be this short message. I've spent a lot in thoughts and torments, in murk, despair and sick mood. And only one from all of actions I see as outlet and workable escape. We both are clearly understanding, that fruit of happiness and feelings will never prudently belong to more than one of loving pairs. But trust, true happiness will happen. I've made my choice - the one, which can't be named as easy, but one, which was quite needful for right plot. And strange weird worm was sternly huddling - in my downtrodden darkened head, when I was solving this life's puzzle. So, I've decided to retreat, to leave this world and kill own person. When you are reading these shy lines, I am already far away – am meekly hanging into noose. With finished breath in frozen throat and with skin of blue shade. But for you this is great. This is huge priceless present, rich gift - from me and from whole world. But I will not lose soul so in vain – not having left last doze of prudence, of elementary advices, collected here in single heap. Such way I'll feel more calm in soon hell's cradle. Well, let's start my brief preaching. Most main, unshakable and vital - give all love, all your warmth and affection to precious universe and abyss of perfect, marvelous and blessed - Anastasia Valerievna. Do it eagerly, zealously, hotly – with full passion and heat. Not as ever before – much more, much tenderer and longer. Love with flame, with unstoppable ardor, with no of doubts, fears and pauses. Burn out in this endlessness of love. Let only happiness be near. Spend each day, each small drop of life's time in bonds and hugs of common pleasure, of inner blooming of winged hearts. Love as much as you can. Exorbitantly, totally and freely. Till all depths, till great bottomless fervor. This is end of requests. Let your fate be most bright, be as dreams. As clear heaven. For me it'll serve as consolation. And the last of demands – I have one friend - Stepan Igorevich, very wonderful glorious person. Please, take some care of his being – I've sent him your address in recent letter. If he will come - don't drive away, just heed, communicate and chat. With him each talk is close to honey. Be the best – in all and everything you're doing. For frank sake of your life and it's future and for similar sake of my death. Goodbye. We'll never meet each other. All the best and with hope. Anatoly."
"What an unthinkable nightmare! He has really died for my sake. He has so zestfully and honestly been loving and killed himself for happiness of her. And done it instantly and freely, without batting of an eye. Modest average human, but with so shockingly strong soul, with so much stunningly pure spirit and so much powerful firm will. With greatly rare inward straightness and stoic obstinate heart's strength. He is really genuine Human, most true and irreproachable I've seen. And who am I, if to be honest... After all, I'm alive. He has died, and I'm peacefully living. Why it's so? Is it right? Am I better than he, am I franker? Am more appropriate or right? Am more correct in thoughts or more deep and more weighty? What's most sad, I'm the same. I'm not more beautiful, not wiser, not more useful. By the way, if to try to stay fully correct, at now I'm scoundrel and monster. I'll build my unity on bones... Have I rights to accept such an action? I'm alive, he is dead. Why just so? This is wrong, this is utterly tragic. Will I ever forget of what has sadly happened, of dreary price of current plot... Which way, explain to my brain's void, can I not pass through all the same? Which curved way can I stay in this being? The path is one, I see and know it. This means, we'll sail in single boat, in common voyage to hell's gloom. I have to pay the last concern of shy Boris Vladimirovich's share - I'll write few words to him right now, will let to visit these gray walls. He'll be good friend and talks' supporter for next evenings and days of Stepan Igorevich's living. And me... For me this game is finished."
Now, having sent his friend a letter, the hero has returned to home and found in insides of table the very gifted weighty knife.
"I know, it was intended for my flesh. After all, life is really amazing. So unpredictable, so sad..."
Vasily Yegorovich has laid down at hall's floor and, having bitted his thin lips, has calmly traced by length of wrist.
The face of world has swum away, freely spreading aside in surrounding thickening fog. Life's picture has begun to darken, to fade and get forever lost, coldly dividing in selflessly senseless detached oblivion and murk. All has stopped, corpse has frozen.
Well, that's all, one more life has got wasted. One more soul has engaged into gloom, not having left from own existence even drop of some durable trace. And no fresh body, no bright mind... But world continues to renew, to erase joy and pain, to move, to bloom and to develop. What for does everyone exist here... To make mistakes and wait for death. To seek and search each day of living and not to find... Just try and fail...

XX
Stably careless blossoming share of born for joy Anastasia Valerievna, who have never been touching true pain, has known today of rather dreary news: at first, of death of Anatoly Viktorovich and then, not more than hour later, of identical thing with Vasily Yegorovich, to whom the heroine had planned to make a visit.
"Oh, boys, explain - what are you doing... You've left me totally alone. Why you've done such mad thing. Life is sweet, world is wide. I've been in love with both of you, both of you had my neat frank affection, my keen sincerity of heart, of passions, pleasures and desires. But you've preferred to fly away. What a terrible frightening plot..."
At this point of mourning thinking, an unexpected sudden call has accidentally rung out.
"Hello again, my changeless hobby. You are free, am I right?" - the voice of Paul has pronounced.
"Yes I'm free! You suggest me to meet?"
"I've got sick day ago. Caught a cold into past slushy week. Now am laying at bed into walls of the Roshchinskiy hospital. You have to bring me some of fruits. Local food tastes as shit. Hard to eat it."
"I'll bring. Of course, I'll rush and bring. Don't be afraid, my sweet and dear. Have no of doubts, I'm with you."
The heroine has put the phone away and started gathering to journey: "Oh, Pashechka, my precious poor boy. Soon I'll feed you, my joy. Soon I'll come."
The lady has got clothed in shawl and, having closed the lock of door, promptly stepped by small stairs - to Pavel's huggings and attention. What's quite remarkable, neither Vasily Yegorovich nor Anatoly Viktorovich were even slightly guessing of the fact of so much hidden Paul's presence.


AFTERWORD:
In small and lifeless tiny room, among of books and murk's insistence, without joy and with true sadness, are having time of gloomy talk two wholly similar quiet persons - Boris Vladimirovich and Stepan Igorevich:
"How awful, bitter and disgusting has all happened and turned. So painful, tragic and appalling. So dreary, terrible and low... Two priceless lifes were stopped by one mean witch."
"I agree. But what's truly most sad, she has given them hope. Hope and reason – for to live and to die. She has given them ticket to dream, fully false, but quite true in their thinking. Thanks to her, they've got flame of emotions, of inner blooming, love and care, wholly faked in response, but unique. Otherwise, they would rot into loneliness, in daily mockeries and grayness. This is hard to admit, but she has saved them from much worse..."
"If to look at new life, you are right. But I'll prefer to hate her with each cell. Two-faced, unprincipled and vile, greatly false and completely deceptive. Rotten, dead. It’s so scary to know, that you also can meet such a creature. I would with happiness report, that just for her and other traitors had been made place of Hell, but I'm an atheist from childhood..."
"This is creepy and sad, dark and awful, very bad, very wrong, but if to stay most frank and honest, I also am an atheist as you."





A ticket into useless tears.

I
The most significant and weighty from all of principles and rules, fulfilling into frames of daily being of Tatyana Sergeevna's life, was rather simple irreplacable approach – not to pour useless tears: not to regret without reason, not to gift needless warmth, not to waste inner force and resources and each second and day of own fate spend in frames of unshakable calmness away from disappointment and pains. That's why, according to these laws, the heroine was obstinately moving by path of prudence and mind's brightness, new heights, fresh joys and opened prospects, vast luck, rich chances and brisk startings, deep honest unity and rightful deathless values. Main task, necesity and target was inalterably included in strong belonging to all true – all frank, perpetual and graceful. To all attainable in dreams and sadly doubtful in being. Such way was taken from far childhood, that's why had influence of gun. Daily time of Tatyana Sergeevna's share was placed in living with own father, who was the only representative and member of accessible human environment. The personality of mother was fixed in memory quite faintly. Years ago she has gone into voyage, in some casual journey abroad, and then forgotten to return. In other things, details and moments life's frames, occasions and events were categorically showing completely average conditions, rather smooth and sufficiently cozy, directly trivial and modest, freed from news, but equipped with soft boredom. The aforementioned lonely father, Sergei Grigorievich, was working as an architect and planner and was a human of great thought, of inner calmness and mind's lightness. Such fact effortlessly explains, why current starting of day's plot has moved ahead in changeless manner – with usual breakfast and long talks. What was especially inspiring – right today was the time of one visit: Evgeny Valentinovich has promised to come in area of noon. Nice priceless person of the last one was serving as most permanent participant of common dialogues and discussions, each time enriched by flawless speech of rare quality and meaning.
"How fine and wonderful to know, that our timid conversations are saved from burden of length's limits. We'll chat till point of prostration." - has responded Tatyana Sergeevna.
"Prostration rarely is real. Such states are equal to pure bliss." - the parent has approvingly shown smile: "You have to eat, cold dish feels dreary."
"I'm not so hungry for food's plenty. I am more hungry for your talks. For worldview and perennial questions. For honest gloom and frank lost hopes..."
"You've get used to so terrible sadness. This is funny for me to behold."
"For me such things are bottomlessly dear. From whole eternity most native, most close, familiar and sweet, much more than joys and noisy parties. Last ones are useless mortal rubbish, boiling purposeless fuss, vain and dead."
"You're so addicted to depression! That looks incredible for thinking, at least, for shy and modest mine."
At here the guest has come in dwelling.
"I send my greetings to your home. To place of peace, tranquility and care."
"Come in. My dad was noticeably missing. Me too – in highest of degrees. We have an omelet and a corn."
"Such matter sounds frighteningly tempting. I am already stepping in."
Vast width of waiting table's surface has filled own space with cherished food. The company has delved in conversation.
"This world is evidently endless, truly huge, broad and scaled - stopless, mad. But what is forceful in its abode, what's stably popular with days, what's full of dominance and power at fleeting stage of being's play? One filth in horribly deep measure, one sorrow, vices and deceit. One dirt, vile soullessness and lowness. Each fact is poisonous and harmful, each step is dangerous or vain. All routes are purposeless and rotten, all fates are meaningless and weak. Any possible choice is initially wrong. You can't be valuable or happy, can't move by path of fruitfulness and joys, of high results and future prudence. What's more, I think you also see it, we live with nothing to recall, to leave in memory as trophy and to encage in care's hugs. From whole hazed period of past we'll never find at least one moment, which we can honestly describe as hopeful, promising and happy. This is scarily sad." - Sergei Grigorievich has drearily complained with sure grief at face's surface.
"The more firm and alive is idea, the less sane is its dominant essence. Mind and madness are friends, twins and partners. At today all is so. This world supports, approves and praises one sickness, uselessness and trash, one flaws, mistakes, defects and losses. Such ones are serving as life's goal, as final fruit of current fashion. These things depict new being's basics, depict new purposes and laws – the very ones, which can't be broken and very ones, which make us dead..." - Yevgeny Valentinovich's sad look has slowly shaken with pale forehead.
"Any truth gets destroyed and forbidden, any rightness gets killed, any hope sinks in dirt."
"Among of powerless and weakened your strength will seem as greatest sin. As well as merciless sobriety for daily drinking part of world. This rule, I guess, is learned by every fool. That's why – don't hesitate, move forward, to best of prospects and results. If world has managed to deceive you, to rid from firmness, will and mind, you'll stay as slave for rest of life, with only right to beg for rescue – the very one, which comes with grave."
"After all, any route is too shaky, any sense is too shy, any hope is too faint, any choice is a source of fresh problems, any trust is your door into pain, in gloom, offenses and despair. From whole immeasurable world, indeed unbounded and immense, we have certainly definite nothing, what will surely keep at right path..."
"Each says - don't colligate your judgments, but please don't separate them too. We forget of world's terrible oneness, of fact of single being's source. It doesn't matter, where you are, in which of irreproachable locations, you'll always have straight thread to hell, to evil's blossoming and darkness, you'll always have some opportunity to perish, to fall from hugs of peace and greatness to pit of pettiness and failures, of hatred, wrongness, sins and scum. It's sad, but nothing is undying. And long close partnership with God is not an end for devil's presence. "
"We're rid of any understanding, of any confidence and faith, we're rid of true serenity and calmness, of proven fixity of plans and long stability of startings. We're rid of main for new achievements."
"I'll repeat, that each luck is quite windy, each state of pleasure, peace and joy is always frighteningly short. Each step ahead is wholly shaky. All is given to do – just to lose and to suffer, to look at pain and living's wilting and to fade with last rests of torn soul. If you are drowning in vast water, you'll try to grab each thing you see – from freely floating weightless garbage till metal splinters and huge stones. You'll see some hope in any action, in any probable help's source. In such unfortunate conditions, all harm will surely be yours."
"What's more, lost soul gets sadly used to any frames and facts of being, to any hardships, pains and griefs, with great obedience performing deep selfless heroism and trust - the ones, which grow for to be broken."
"This is wrong. We are toys of world's swamp – of devil's hugs and evil's traps. And such fidelity to darkness is much more horrible and awful than any sort of possible betrayal. What's more, it rarely has end. True curse loves habit to be timeless."
"Deep creepy hopelessness... In all..."
"Each case of hopelessness, I'll say, at first is ticket to the hope. It shows initial defects, shows roots and reasons of your problems. Each light, each spark and any flame gets gained most frequently in murk. Each plenty comes to us from void. From hollow emptiness, not less. This world was made of endless abyss, the very one, which seeks for blood, for new of corpses, tragedies and tears. In such deplorable conditions, in narrow cage of pain and gloom, your prospects, strengths, abilities and chances are sadly equal to pure dust. Your daily presence here is torment, it's rid of fullness, weight and sense. What's more - all this is fruit of life, of changeless givenness of being – that one, where everything is lost, from hopes till definite vain trifles..."
"And so much marvelous and funny it always is to look at deaths, at people's perishing for something – for rubbish, stupidness and fuss of wholly valueless beginnings, which act as remedy from head."
"The more far is your sit from the stage, the more nice seems the plot of performance. This truth is mercilessly fair. Most of us do not know of world's working, of living's mechanisms and aims. Minds can't think, hearts can't feel. They try to look, but see just nothing."
"This is hard to accept. All is wrong."
"Brain's opportunities, be sure, are rather useless nowadays. Thought is short. Fate's murk is certainly much stronger, world's frames are terribly more firm. Each mind is victim of confusion, of frequent countless mistakes. Each head is field of flaws and errors, of vain and hollow expectations and bitter frightening regrets. The more neat is the boat, the more rough is the sea. The more high is your flight, the more hard comes your fall. Any chance is just flash. Good luck is valuable in time. With any price and any manner."
"Brisk manners also are not helpful, as well as sacrifices' depth. Such ones are sort of wrong rain clouds: stealing sun, they don't give promised freshness, don't leak with downpour till night, just hide bright day and melt in distance. Each case of sacrifice is similar as usual, you get strong pain, but don't approach the goal. And no of candles, no of game..."
"It shows main rules of human being, shows price and essence of its laws: all you have is your risk. And luck... It comes from any source, from light or darkness – doesn't matter. Whole life is currently a burden, not a gift or a right. True excitement is lie, it's forgivelessly short. Days are fast, world is painfully big. Mind is limp. It's not a dominant beginning – just weak adviser and not more. All we can – just to shy and to suffer. This is path straight to hell."
"Even peace is just spring of next wars." - has connected Tatiana Sergeevna: "Each calm is pause before of storm. Each youth is stair into oldness. We are appointed for truth. But do not have its real presence."
"Time is wind - harsh and strong. It sweeps away without traces, destroys and turn your fate in dust." - Sergey Grigorievich has drearily supported.
"This world is figure with no contour, with absent form and blurred face." - Evgeny Valentinovich has sighed in inconsolable despair: "Each love to life gets stopped quite simply – by first betrayal with own death. Modern world is impassable forest, dark and thick, long and wide, where we have to accept and endure, to walk and wait and then to cry. "
"And so much meager is existence, so deadly gloomy, vain and lost. Incorrigibly lost and distorted. With no of chances to be fixed."
"What for to fix its hopeless cradle? On sinking boat, torn sails don't hinder."
"And so sad is reality's going, so unhappy and wrong in own plot. But at the same perplexing time so unbearably true... So weirdly smooth and strangely correct."
"The fact of correctness is not a cause for rightness."
"What for to wait, except of troubles, if every ship is source of holes. If search is reason of new losses."
"Each life gets end by death and only. All of heights, in first turn, lead to fall, to swift returning to the bottom – offensive, grievous and petty after totally useless efforts of climbing up and getting greater. It's deeply terrible to know, to let in mind and to admit, that any being's understanding is just a path in hopelessness and pain, in vast distress and endless torments. New world is feast at foodless table, it's home of aimlessness and flaws, of gloom, omissions and regrets. And even memory is far from being valuable and helpful. Such one is boat without oars, its colors constantly get changed, replaced by more convenient emotions and simply ruthlessly erased."
"But how to cling for better living, for luck, bliss' plenty and success? All other looks as sure rubbish."
"Just go ahead and take all things, new world is place for daily struggle, for getting fed with boiling problems and making everything from pain."
"In endless wars all victories are weightless." - has sighed with wistfulness Tatyana: "Not every struggle brings awards. A match of human has no box, no source of getting any fire. Every ship has to sink, every fate has to fade. All has terms, all has frames. And neither miracle nor accident can save you."
"Each luck is only a guide, not a path or a certain direction. It should be actual and lavish. Otherwise it will stay wholly useless."
"And what about our God? What to say of such doubtful object??"
"Our God is exactly not one, on whom it's prudent to rely. Each case of holiness and sainthood is greatly cynical itself – in own hard helplessness and shortness, in pure defenselessness from harm, from evil's tricks and filthy actions. Yes, God is powerful in moments, but devil also is the same, at least in nowadays conditions."
"And human?"
"Human is pure shit."
On this truth's note, have sharply fallen silent. Smooth faceless time has gradually moved and, having passed through pit of noon, attained the area of dinner. Pale dawn has tragically vanished and got replaced by zenith's sun. Away of slightly misted window, have brightly blossomed views of day.
"Late season's ending is still warm, but finale point is too near - half of August has flown. And then insistent autumn hardships, long empty days, cold rains and frosts... The prospect surely not easy, full of murk, of free pain." - after pause has concluded with gloom rather saddened Sergei Grigorievich: "How is your fortuneless lost wife? Has already returned?"
"Bad, but no. Like yours one day, she's left away, and three last months is stably absent." - Evgeny Valentinovich has yawned and looked at window's gray surface: "All has start, all has end... And summer also is short partner. And then again new slush and darkness, new windy coldness and no sun..."
"Soon life will part with last of pleasures and hearts will frozen in vast pain, whole world will plunge in boundless sorrow and necks will clothe in greedy nooses." - has smiled with tiredness from sadness shy and sleepy Tatyana Sergeevna: "All your talks show one anguish, the very one, I also feel. But soul is seeking for new feelings, for better hopes and brighter days. With indeclinable soon winter we will get sated and not once, as well as with hazed merciless wet autumn. For me it's better to get joy from sweet remains of dying summer."
"Then don't lose time and go to beach – for walk and warming of young bones."
"I have already been at there. Many many of times. This also brings me no of joy. I see excess of trudging people, but cannot notice even one, with whom I'll dare on relations. Warm days are empty as all others. As any corner of this world." 
"Whole year futility and longing, whole year one hopelessness and grief." - Evgeny Valentinovich has frozen and slowly lowered his gaze, forlornly pointed in void: "All is wrong."
"Life is stupid." - Sergei Grigorievich has stretched.
"All people – idiots and morons. That's why I'm changelessly alone." - has reported Tatyana Sergeevna: "For me it's definitely better, than in one pair with some bastard. I do not want to pour vain tears. Don't want to spoil flawless heart. For me it's worse than a torture."
"It has sense. I support such positions. You have stood at right path."
"I look here only for completeness. For state of happiness and bliss."
"True human happiness, believe, can come from any of locations... Even different clubs are erected - for shameful pleasures and lewd contacts, even agencies work for to couple, to solder losers with each other, even magicians time from time turn to be needful for decent part of such dark matters. The main of things – to stay just happy."
"You'll be eagerly f*cked even sober, if you are lucky in love deals, but if you're obviously hopeless, you even drunk will stay unused. I want pure truth, pure doze of blessing. Want all perfectly good. Want high and bottomless emotions, deep endless feelings and tart passions. And people's rubbish shows one dirt. They either mock or seek for profit, for some self-interest and all."
"Fate is wall: it's hard to pass through last one's thickness. One is greedily loved by all princes, the other one is driven out by last of vagabonds and freaks. Depends on share and conditions."
"I want here everything, not less."
"It's right, true life is made for better. And nothing else from given prospects can ever satisfy and calm, because of wanting just a little, you'll never cope with getting all."
"In rotten valueless today, in frames of fruitlessness and hatred, we are immeasurably hopeless in any strivings and attempts. We're so much far from being useful, from having aims and building plans. Each fact is doubtful and shaky, each tool is helpless, weak or wrong. Whole path is voyage in deadlock, in restless murk and boiling sorrow, whole term of days is one strange torment, one stopless madness and distress. All nice is surely not near."
"We are hopeless, I know. As well as everything around."
"And this is changeless, what's most awful."
"World's laws are so. We'll never break them."
"I wish I'll elementarily die, just die and finish my past fate, having fallen in peace and forgotten of all."
"But what will wait us after death, except of infinite dark abyss. Who knows, which horrors will be there."
"For me most nice is just to melt, to leave away and hide own trace. I don't demand some other prospects."
"I guess, that fate is not so friendly, such one is merciless in all..."
"You're right. I have to be afraid. But now I'm going to the beach – will let to body part of pleasures – from me myself and warming sand."
"You still has followed my advice. Rest is needed, you know."
"But thoughts will gnaw me even there. At first, deplorable and bad."
"Any thought is an absolute poison. If you'll not own it, you'll be killed."
The lady has quite slowly got up and gone away to free world's vastness. Sad discourse has continued again: "How greatly simple it's to die, to fall in darkness and disasters, how much easy it is, how close... How madly right is my Tatyana of fate's vainness." - Sergei Grigorievich has stretched.
"Here our essence plays own role. Believe, the number of the steps, which lead to paradise, is definitely equal to steps, which go into hell. It's more convenient to perish, to move in abysses and murk. From truth all paths take way to lying. The ones, who've mercifully saved you, can soon effortlessly destroy. That's why rely on head and only, on sober will and shining mind, all other cases are pure garbage."
"But wills are different, what's scary, the one is powerful and mighty, the other one is breathless, shy and weak, with no ability to help you and with no strength to change life's essence, to shake world's basics, principles and laws. Not each heart has dimensionless fire, not each mind has perpetual force."
"Such petty givenness of being is undying, you cannot smash it in one day. But into canvas of ideas, in final confident worldview indeed important is one straightness. One hellish firmness and persistence. All other tools don't work at all."
"But solid variant of thinking, holistic, definite and strong, gets promptly killed by one small moment – by high disunity of facts, which gains unsolvably deep conflict."
"Each timeless unity is fake. Such thing is certainly unreal. That's why, in any of next cases, do not combine extremes in couples. It will not feed you with result, as well as will not lead in better."
"The more you know of your fate, the less right are your deeds and decisions."
"This is terribly true. If you are freed from information, from any news of current world, be full of confidence – you're happier than others. What's more, the ones who've seen one lie, will notice truth from any distance."
"Anyway, life is wrong."
"Yes, it surely looks like nightmare. But any globalism is shaky, fragile, impermanent and dead. You have two things – yourself and world. And as you guess, suspect and count, you cannot rescue of them both."
"The first is quite impossible and tricky, the second – meaningless and vain."
"So it is, I confirm."
"What for to look in given void? To seek and wait through murk of days."
"For hem of sweety witch of luck. The more long is your flight, the more utopian is falling. The more firmly you're fixed into happiness, the more faint is your faith into failure. What's true, we live here only once. When life is stopped and left behind, you're unforgivably unable to bring some positive additions in its accomplished earthly plot. You cannot celebrate own burial, it's dreary."
"Sometimes it's so much dangerous to live. At least, with hope or faith in pair. Sometimes you neatly follow for their abyss and, as result, get stuck in pain, in disappointment and darkness. It's greatly frightening to know."
"Hopes' ticket cannot be returned. If it's lost, you will sink into sorrow. If you're allured here by happiness and pleasures, you'll never cope for all next path with silent living in their absence. Each one, who've tasted happiness, is burned. For birds of soul, long winglessness is fatal."
"You can innumerably win – each day, each minute and each second, but truly lose - not more than once."
"Sometimes your risk is not so harmful. In sure absence of the dishes, the fact of elephant in walls of dishes' shop is not a sin or an upsetting tragic trouble. Each life gets rotten from inside, from depths of killed and spoiled essence. And time rolls further with no pauses. And leads straightforwardly to death. It's nice and priceless to stay out, to be on distance from own life, in such conditions it's less hurting, less wrong and baleful for route."
"I know, but lie is too much perfect, too strict and violently strong, too ruthless to defenseless trustful natures."
"This weakness is a fruit of fear, of inner trembling and perplexing before of measureless fate's monster, which's lots of times exaggerated in own importance, force and scale. It's kind of regular obsession – the one, that definitely kills, submits and fills with boiling doubts, with harsh and bottomless despair and deep tart dreariness and gloom. All being's seriousness, everyone must know, is wholly dummy, blown and faked. It hunts for flaws of your perception, for gaps and holes in puzzled view. And any trust or faith itself is an extensible vast bubble, which's calmly able to envelope each nonsense, baloney and rave. That's why, unlearn to build believings, to get attached by threads of mind, of stupid groundless persuasion. Be firm, reality is fiction, sick strange performance and not more, and any facts – just requisite and only."
"It's understandable and sober. But anyway it doesn't help, as well as doesn't change your living's essence."
"I know, environment is stronger. You cannot paint it into hope, in brightness, confidence or prudence, it's sad, but everything is wrong."
"What's more, each day this life gets worse..."
"Time's essence never can be changed, it's static, stubborn and immortal. You'll much more easily stop earth, than soak its basics with true weightness. And people also are the same. We have to enter in acceptance of deathless givenness of grief – that one, which never will be ended. And even weapons' full absence is not a guarantee of peace."
"What's more, this life is madly empty, it's vain in everything, in all. In every place and any moment... It's spoiled, barren, crooked and wrong."
"With no of soup salt's mass is useless. Believe, true fullness here is needless, it has no purpose, no aim. We live in dreariest dead swamp. It's too unsuitable for rightness. Today all prospects are just dust, just empty word and nothing extra. Today, where wood is source of ash, where love is reason of rejection, where even mind is smith of fools."
"It's rather difficult to take it, to save own confidence in head."
"The role of fool is curse of smart ones, for ones, who're stupid, it's a gift. And too much easy to succumb. The more sharp is knife's blade, the more desirable are cuts. Weak soul is ticket to next abyss, to sure bottom of life's course. We are just idiots most often – those ones, who're opened for defeat, who don't see main and stuck in rubbish. The bigger volume has the piece, the more unhurried is eater..."
"It's hard today to trust to best..."
"Each faith is mirror of past fate. It can't be good in current horror, such deal is rarity and treasure. Each hope at now is fruit of falsehood, of lack of knowledge or mistake, such ones exist today for dying, for further apathy and pain. And world is even much more static, than any sort of human features. And the more wide is given choice, the more unlucky is path's going. Long reason's dominance is shaky, as well as blossoming of truth. But anyway, we have to notice, all best and fruitful at this planet was made by prevalence of mind."
"I know, but pain still shamelessly increases, still grows and blooms in all own force. And all is doubtful, short-living..."
"All good depends on chance and fortune, on something definitely far. But God is strategist, as known. At least, some people say, it's so."
Meantime, at sunny peaceful beach was calmly reigning lovely comfort – smooth tender warmth was playing with the bodies, free gentle breeze was slowly walking by opened spaces of landscapes and thin neat edge of silent water was keeping minimal waves' pace.
"Nice time, nice day. But I am lonely." - has concluded Tatyana Sergeevna, quite firmly vanishing in thought: "It would be pleasant to get someone, to share warmth and talk at once."
In broad excess of resting people, was noticed fabulous young man with black and curly splendid hair and polar yellow huge hat.
"I'll come. I'll try." - the lady has got up and gone ahead to goal's attaining.
"Hello. I also am alone. And also with a hat on head. But mine is white and slightly smaller."
"Okay, sit down. I'm gladly greeting. I love cute bodies next to me."
"You start with compliments. Well done."
"I do all this in order to get more. All things I do I do on purpose. From what of latitudes you are?"
"From the blossoming neighboring quarter. Not far from here, as you can see."
"This is great. Cool location."
"And you?"
"And I am from 10th district. The one that has been built a year ago. Behind the bridge, if you're informed."
"I know. Quite far. It's almost suburbs. But there it's quieter and more free. And air also is much nicer."
"Here also glorious to breathe. Especially in step from opened water."
"For me it's doubtful position. Here there are lots of cars. And people also are more frequent. From times to times you cannot breathe too much."
"These processes take place in everywhere, my area is also not exception. Quite soon it'll likely turn in anthill."
"An indelibly vast tendency at now. Which way and manner do you live, how do you build your daily being? Tell all and everything you can."
"I'm getting learned in local college. Feels bad, but feasible to cope with. In evening – beer, in morning – walk: with aim to get some lustful lady."
"Are there many of their breed?"
"With one of them I'm sitting just right now."
"Well tried. Opinion is spicy."
"You all are made of common crude."
"Each one? Don't think it's greatly stupid?"
"My past experience confirms it. To take, at least, my girlfriend for example. She's also surely pure beast. But I am marvelously greedy and always seek for someone else. For some cute face and tasty body. So what about such a role? From me I promise good foreplay."
"Are you recruiting me as a paramour mistress?"
"Right so. Or you see something wrong?"
"Wrong is all. I'm fed up with such miserable prospects."
"Not a grief, not an end. I'll find some other shameless princess. But forms you have are really alluring. I'm disappointed, you do not want to share. That's all, apparently, because of you're a witch."
The lady has persuasively got up and, with no saying any word, directed way again to shy home's shelter: "Still how much petty are new people, how sharply empty, meaningless and crooked, how sadly valueless and barren, how highly primitive in personal requests, how deeply rotten, lost and vain. But I refuse to pay attention, to take some care or concern. It's clearly pointless and silly. What's the main? Not to pour useless tears. And I'll wholeheartedly maintain their certain absence. That's why today without sadness. I know, I'll get my lucky ticket, I'll reach all goals, all better dreams. I'll burn in mutuality of feelings, in tight togetherness and love. I'll know of all – affection, care, passion. I'll be most happy, I just know."
The silhouette has deftly quickened pace and, after couple of smooth minutes, dissolved in little narrow arch. Goodbye, pale views of silent street. Goodbye, sweet time of cozy walking. One day, we'll gladly meet again.

II
In frame of spacious window is morning. Deep lonely canvas of faint sky, confused and innocently pale, caged by scraps of long thickening clouds, without visibly exposed participation is meekly hiding in hazed curtain of lying down waxy fog. Last heat of swiftly wasted summer, with weary sadness in own tone, has irreversibly submitted to hugs of cold impassive nets of soon oblivion and dying, unwittingly and drearily involving each fleeting minute of world's wilting in washed with tears autumn chill.
From day's beginning woken up and filled with wistfulness and boredom Tatyana Sergeevna is keeping timid contemplation of skimpy latitudes and morbid nature's fading: "Once again midday sickness and languor. Huge swarm of emptiness and weakness, of rotten thoughts and fruitless plans. Persistent tiresome desire to pass through life and die at ease. What a nice mental mush... I think, best time to look for noose. How dark are mornings, when you're lonely. For me it's definitely usual, I've got quite used for past vain years, but still feel regular pain's presence. How inexcusable is being, how deeply aimless, dead and wrong. And even radio can't help me, can't kill this bottomless upsetting. But I have need to cheer me up: to take brief voyage to somewhere - to find emotions and new plots and to disperse this dumb dispassion. Well, I'll get dressed and take my path."
Has got dressed.
Full of abruptly sobering dampness chilly worrisome air, unsurely and coyly saturated with shrilly bitterness and sadness, has amply flooded and enshrouded long faceless vastness of nude land with sharp keen fearfulness and silence. Full of hungrily boiling confusion, shyly deserted colorless streets have meekly sunk in reigning sorrow. Deep gloom, diluted by bleak shadows, has hugged pale places with cold pain. Faint timid views, depressed and toneless, have started calling in nowhere. Exhausted featureless horizon has calmly fallen into grief, without slightest of regrets engaging faraway locations in common dreariness and dusk. At every step – stern veil of dying. At every corner – tart despair. In every minute – languid illness. And no free area for hope.
Having looked into grocery's walls, the heroine has sat on spacious bench and, having gradually melt in mild and hospitable warmth, dissolved own mind in widely opened quiet friendly bonds of peaceful atmosphere, completely sodden with nice smell of something yummy, sweet and tasty. At distance are indistinct blurred faces, neat round tables with food's mass, cute muted sounds of swift fuss and broad, persistently stretched freedom. The mood is quite predictably not rotten, but still too far from pure delight, smooth thoughts are stably alienated and delved in boundless prostration. Shy soul is caged by perfect bliss. Saint rare harmony. True beauty.
"It would be great to find some partner. To seek with eyes for someone great. Then fate will surely be flawless. At least, for several next hours."
In around is blossoming pluralism: a lot of people of all types, all sorts, all breeds and styles of fashion are nimbly and wholeheartedly involved in fervid process of food's eating. At one of tables, next to entrance, is quietly sitting in serenity and yearning an unexpectedly romantic, embraced in mystical attractiveness free man, who rather instantly has stolen whole attention and turned in object of sharp need.
"Quite rare variant in our meager region. And also proudly alone. It's too utopian to catch him, but it's the stupidest of sins not to amuse myself with trying." - the lady has persuasively concluded and, having gathered with spirit, without doubts moved ahead.
"My best of possible here greetings! I hope I've met you not in vain. I’m Tanya, and I want to know you, to build relations, unity and amour..."
"I am Yegor, such way they call me, but I am also peaceful to nicknames. What has attracted your lost person into mine, what has convinced you in necessity to come?"
"Your sure loneliness, that's all. What are you doing for to live?"
"Behold this world and always wander – from ones of lands to further others. I am a freely working painter. Am changing areas and places, depicting life and getting joy. That's all, what's making my existence – my evenings, mornings, days and nights. I don't regret about anything I know, do not get puzzled or concerned, just gain experience and pleasure, examine people and conditions, I'm truly opened for excitement, for easy luck and lavish chance. I think it's all about me, what has some value, weight and meaning."
"I have to say - not trivial profession. Quite likely, best of occupations. And how does so rare person perceive the prospect of relations with rather average myself?"
"With greatest zeal and fervent passion."
"Indeed? You really agree? I'm even flattering with cheeks."
"For me it's ordinary matter. Each further episode of traveling through world implies sweet presence of new muse. Without such one in addition, any case can provide only boredom, only sadness and gloom. You'll also be the one of these blessed coquettes, we'll look at miracles, at tangible luck's breathing - in every visibly accessible life's second. And then we'll tragically part, with frankest tears and keen sadness. I'll give you week of being happy, and you will give the same to me. I think, it's highest variant of love, of sudden joy and long recalling. Of short bright minutes in time's river, which are undying in mind's frames, in endless memory of past, so motley, tireless and precious. I remember each girl, each of cases, remember clearly, believe, remember all of those meetings – both faces, smells, details of clothes, remember places, words, confessions. They all are pictured and sold. True priceless art, true holiness, not less. You'll also be immortal on my canvas, I'll be the best from whole your fate. Do you like to feel love?"
"And you so calmly and so boldly and with no presence of conscience can offer me to be you couple and then to part and lose myself? Which sort of problems has your head? I have no need in such a rubbish, you're human wastes, low piece of slops, sick nit and never something more." - Tatyana has decisively got up and, having taken route to exit, dissolved away of people's sights.
"Once again one oppressive annoyance in my itself not flawless age. What a kind of society we're having, what a sort of unbearable swamp! I can't accept it, can't excuse. It's lost reality, lost being. Lost aimless universe of filth, of nothing saint and nothing worthy, where my existence looks as torment, as ancient torture over soul. And, alas, no of salvation, of decent reasons to keep fight, to move, to struggle and to blossom, as well as no true desire of to survive and to get saved. On the contrary, time to stop breathing, to become wholly limp, numb and cold and, as result, to disappear. After all, it's explicitly clear, we can't fulfill all our dreams, can't fill heart's gap with love or care, can't get frank mutual response. This world is abyss of life's bottom, of worst, what only can be. And not to change it, not to cancel."
Tatyana Sergeevna has silently and ruefully looked up, then monotonously added taken pace and calmly and with longing into pair, kept joyless wandering to home, with inadmissible despair beholding clothed in sorrow sleepy places: "And again back in walls. In pain, oblivion and grayness. Daily life mostly looks as disease. With bunch of useless expectations and endless bitterness of thoughts. And with no purposeful and logical beginnings. It's hard to be a toy of barren dreams, it's truly hopeless, dark and hurting. And not to break it, not to stop, not to run far away and forever."
Encaged by sadness and distress, Tatyana Sergeevna, having lost last shy drops of past ardor, has looked once more at empty yard, then slowly lowered own gaze and dragged in deathless loneliness to home.

III
In thickly hazed and faceless window, forlornly looking through of pain and calmly spreading own gray pictures, is shyly hiding cold bleak town, downtrodden, clouded and somber, with faded pace of going life and long pale veil of dense fog's cover.
Sergei Grigorievich and Yevgeny Valentinovich, this time without of Tatyana, who is unnoticeably absent, are tying regular oppressive conversation.
"How greatly strong and omnipresent is tart deception of life's taste. How madly powerful and cruel in work with trustful seeking souls." - Sergei Grigorievich has sighed with growing longing: "Why all is always just like that, why any hope is just a rubbish, it's strange, perplexing, sad and wrong. Offensive, pitiless and sick."
"Each true delirium is stopless, aggressive, merciless and vast. We all are victims of ideas, of thoughts, intentions, plans and needs. In lost environment of vices, of hollow values and crooked laws, of rotten minds and pain-filled shares, your blooming faith is source of dying, of greedy harm and huge regrets. Don't hope, that mind can broadly help you, it's made most frequently of flaws, of firm mistakes and false conclusions. World’s kindness always is one-sided, short-living, doubtful and short. This being saves, supports and blesses just those few ones, who're kissed by luck. In hurried living's competition all fate's encouragement gets given by pure random. They don't award the fastest winner, who has accomplished race the first, do not affirm his hard efforts and even don't award and value the last and poorest of runners, declaring laziness' success. They praise occasional score's places – 37s, 291s, 1443s, indeed appointing their owners as final champions of contest. Each winner here, as you can notice, is child of suddenness and only, what means, that you don't even know – which way to live and whom to be – most frank, sincere and pathetic or most dishonest, vile and low, to be most slow and most sluggish or most persistent, swift and prompt. You can't get victory by struggle, by getting better in own skills, such one can be achieved by luck and only. It's main of principles and rules, you cannot change it, cannot cancel, all you are able – just to wait. And all of talents are just burden, just purest dust, which's rid of sense. Without lock your key is nothing."
"It's quite unreal to stay calm."
"True calmness is the worst of fellow travelers: it can get lost at every station, but this is also just a fact."
"I think, in grave is sea of calmness."
"I agree, flawless place."
"At first, your life is slave of fortune, and then the very fortune is its slave. All is strange, dark and shaky. You can't rely on something prudent, as well as can't predict next days, can't aptly guess of purposes of being, of true life's reasons and foundations, can't catch main essence of its days."
"Any future is murk, each further second is unknown, each living's moment carries secrets - each part and period of time."
"It's path in sorrow and horror."
"So, sadness is such kind of river, where path to bottom is most nice. Such thing is understandable and easy. In current frames of sick existence, of lost and hopeless being's swamp all ways perform you one direction – to dreary abyss of soul's rotting, to hugs of evil, lie and filth, to prompt and painful decomposing – of values, meanings, aims and truths. All opportunities are fruitless, all tools are ugly, weak and wrong. But mind is not a firewood, it's stove. The one, which calmly burns all sorts of troubles. Do not forget of such great fact."
"But hopes these days are permanently absent, as well as chances, plans and joys."
"True heights are never visible from bottom. Don't wait for aimfulness from days. In such conditions dreams don't blossom."
"But life is only temporary game..."
"But temporality itself is spring of next eternity, next blooming, of going proudly and far. And only patience can support you."
"Only patience and mind, I agree. And soul most frequently just hinders."
"Soul and mind are not foes, they both are prisoners of fate, where all is made of pure occasion, the very one, which modestly determines – to turn your presence into dust or to delay this piquant act for few of minutes."
And again in inside only sadness.

IV
Along of shyly frozen street, completely desolate and faceless, forlorn to yearn in pain and slush of chilled, depressed and dreary season, is weakly dragging through of bleakness faint timid silhouette of wandering ahead, engaged in thinking and distress dispirited and quiet Tatyana Sergeevna, indifferently smoothly contemplating free space of vastnesses' encircling, dissolved in tearful languid river of static hopelessness and murk. Lost mood is patient, coy and passive, slow pace of gait is leisurely relaxed, and mind is cleaned from slops of joy and plunged in tragedy of shadowy prostration. Meek soul is staying wholly limp, confused and opened for oppression. And blooming apathy is obstinate as never.
"Today I've fallen into anxiety, in horror. Autumn days make me dead, they're built of gradual extinction, of grayness, withering and longing. In such a time you're truly broken, upset, downtrodden and perplexed, involved in inner decomposing, in getting pensive, wretched and sullen, in hurting losing of past self." - has humbly sighed sad dismal lady, numbly staring in strengthening dusk, encaged remains of thinning foliage: "I have to find some decent place. Then I'll enforce me to get pleasure."
The role of suitable location was given to occasional small bar, quite scanty, featureless and slummy, reliably hidden from pedestrians and views in tight and weighty stony arch as inconspicuous addition to its unfriendly breathless hugs.
In the midst of smoke-filled tiny hall, dedicated to absolute longing, are standing clumsy, as life's burden, exhausted tables and low stools, steadfastly plunged with askew legs in worn and doleful floor's surface. Completely moderate shy holes of narrow windows' expanses, with productivity of cripples, are showing silent somber light, appending up infirm and feeble lamps, attractive as a pair of rat eyeballs. In thick and static air's mass, persistently and broadly reigned around, is slowly hanging fetid smell, of course, entirely expected and rather relevant for local filthy frames.
"Pretty dungeons, I'll say, flawless horror. It's not a sin at here to die." - has shyly sighed dejected lady without slightest shade of hope and then proceeded to examine disgusting muzzles of few visitors of chambers. Imputed choice is surely not great: fat ugly faces and disgraced and grotty bodies and faceless shadow of waiter as pure ghost.
"What a desolate deserted desert, best place for decomposing soulless wretchers, true church of vice and deathless pain. And no right person for to choose."
So, having waited for next minute and chosen tolerable man, sad lady's soul has managed with confusion and she has moved to build acquaintance.
"Let me join your life this nice time..."
"What a sheep do I see? I calmly drink my glass of vodka, and you – lost trash and piece of bottom, are clearly trying to disturb it! You think I really need a woman? I have no work for half of year, I hate myself, my wife and childs, I love to drink, that's all I'm made for, and you, dull scarecrow, disorders. You want be beaten in your face? Get off, until I didn't smash it."
"Fantastic scoundrel and nit, offcutted sediment of filth, most perfect incarnate of slag, of purest idiot and shit, but nowadays, what's truly awful, a half of country is like that. But no one reason for my sadness. What's the main? Not to pour useless tears. And now it's time to go to home. At there it's season of deep dialogues, the ones, I greatly wish to heed."
And indeed, in apartment are talkings: Sergei Grigorievich and Evgeny Valentinovich, in changeless tandem, share thoughts: "This world is made of vast deception, of maddest falsehood and betrayal, of endless evil, dirt and sins. And the more popular is route, the more often it leads to omissions, to huge regrets and strongest pain. Why logic's voice is so much weak? Why all is purposeless and mindless, why any road is path to death?"- Sergei Grigorievich has yawned.
"Any logic has sense for itself, not for boiling surrounding madness. Mind's fire never burns for fools. It's wholly aimless and unneeded."
"It's deeply scare and exhausting to look at storm of people's madness, to see their swarm of stupid deeds, of wrongness, vices and deception. And so uncomfortable feeling takes place in worn and hurted soul, it starts to seem, that brain is wholly needless, that its presence today is a sin, that all you do is deeply vain as well as anything you cherish, that you're an an idiot, a fool."
"Each doubt by itself is two-way ticket: either straightly to God, or directly to devil. The last of variants, of course, in much more frequent. True evil is too powerful, too stubborn. Its nets are almost everywhere, you cannot cancel them, can't kill."
"All is drearily wrong and deceptive, all is crooked, dead and lost..."
"It's hard to guess, where you are moving, both God and devil look the same. But kind of difference still presents. God's essence never can be hazed, it never brings you hesitation, it's always totally transparent and understandable for head, what is, apparently, most excellent of features."
"But who of them is more important? If God is rid of any rights."
"True God is independent on the devil: the last one's force has danger just for humans, for our shaky earthly fates."
"And people, I remember, are pure rubbish..."
"So it is. And poison is not poisoner's sweet fetish, but just a tool of his shy work. Believe in thought, in rightness' blooming, in better days and greater times. But ones, who faith at here in darkness, are also certainly not mad – in current days this hopeless world is fullest prototype of hell."
"And no confidence, no strength."
"I know, no peace, no mind, no firmness."
"We ourselves are slaves of life, of endless heresy and falsehood."
"This life is close to touching of a hedgehog. It can't be cozy or secure. Moreover, threads of plans are weak. Each chance is dust, is doze of nothing, of pure void. White canvas is not equal to next painting, it cannot promise masterpiece, can't bring huge influence in drawing, as well as plans can't gain fulfillment, it's just impossible and funny. And we are stupid, if can dream."
"And so much easy to get lost, to die and simply disappear. Especially at right and decent path..."
"The more high is your inner uniqueness, the more fragile is route of fate. True greatness is a soil of deceit. The more exalted is the sphere, the more sophisticated, deep and saint, the more it's stuffed with cynicism and evil. Triumph of fate is victory of human, even if just straightforwardly over of the very this dubious fate. In school of life the time of death is nothing more than end of lesson."
"All life is chase for empty abyss, for wholly fruitless breathless void... Where your horse race takes place without horses. Mind and soul are not friends and not lovers. And any flame of heart's efforts can warm one vacuum and only."
"Each bonfire of life gives birth exclusively to ashes, to smoke of hopes and nothing more."
"World's creator was mad, this is clear. Each match is equally strong source of flame for candle and for fire. Both ugliness and happiness and pain are fruits of life and its beginnings."
"World's maker weeps, regrets and squeals."
"How close these statements are to me, to my own thoughts about being." - has joined to discussion shy Tatyana: "All is wrong, vain and terribly stupid, useless, broken and killed. No inner clarity, no firmness, no right goals, no decent startings or rich chances. One pain, stagnation, aimlessness and shit – at every step and in each corner."
In role of shit, of course, was breed of humans.
"I repeat it each day." - Evgeny Valentinovich has stretched: "Being's frames look as hell. All is filthy and crooked, lost and barren. At here all confidence is foggy, short-living, pointless and weak. Each day performs one dirt and madness, one vices, errors, losses, sins. And only grave can fill with calmness, can save and cover with true bliss. All is primitive, wretched and deceptive, all is killed – all we have."
"I do not faith in something after death, but even nothing is still nicer than this world."
"Yes, every finish tastes quite sweety."
"Believe, this life is worst of tortures." - has coyly commented Tatyana.
"I know. I definitely know."
At here dark thoughts were slowly ended.

V
Dim standard quarters of pale town, exposing yearning vacant length, are powerlessly plunged in dreary fading, encaged by growing river of full silence, unhurriedly and fearfully extended by numb and scanty darkened places - oppressed, dispassionate and cold, limped from greedily countless rains and firmly chained in faceless fog, in autumn pain and sharpened devastation. Along of wet uneven pavement is quietly dragging step by step bleak vague silhouette of wandering Tatyana, attentively and timidly observing vast wilted latitudes, undressed by gloomy season: "What a reality indeed, annoyance, worthlessness and hatred, disgust, strong agony and troubles. This world is variant of hell, of fatal swamp - distressed and broken and opened for one problems and defeats. And life is simple, if to learn – as well as nuclear reactor. Luck and chance aren't my friends. One bitter abyss is my partner. Without passions, joys and rights. What for to live, for what to cling? If all, what's given – bunch of flaws, of heavy losses and omissions. And again I'm completely alone – at dark stage of world's funeral circus."
The heroine has quickened taken pace and, with pure absence of mood's brightness, trudged further, melting into distance among of houses and murk. The walk has slowly continued and soon got frozen at cute building of friendly spacious cafe, this time much nicer and much larger and in addition decorated with fresh long ribbons and balloons, explainable by very simple reason - it was first day from start of its existing.
Approached this marvelous location Tatyana Sergeevna has sharply stepped without doubts in calling into idleness vast walls. Amid of motley vivid looks of tartly colored interior's expanses, in strong excess of briskly screaming tones, is crowding flock of cheerful people, attracted by bold advertisment inside. Pot-bellied lampshade under ceiling is looking endlessly appalling, of course, it's inappropriate at all, but by unknown hidden reasons still fixed at own ill-faded place. In distance, at the end of wall, is meekly standing carved oak statue and lifeless worn acacia in pot. In the space of the bar are swiftly swarming two tall waiters, with all possible strengths persistently and obstinately trying to grab attention of the crowd. Quite soon from abyss of glad faces has rather suddenly appeared quite young and accurate thinned boyfriend, in long tailcoat and in gloves: "I think to celebrate this evening with your person, to discuss our lives and hearts' harmony."
Having caught this great phrase, the heroine, with zealous attention, has promptly nodded and proceeded to understanding of his words.
"If you'll let me, of course, I'll stay here. We'll talk of everything and all. At first, about of each other, about path of next relations, of feelings, prospects and best dreams."
"I agree. Start describing yourself."
"Well, I am sitting next to you. You can see, who I am, with your eyes."
"I need details, need your fate's plot."
"If about myself and my share - I'm from Altai and work as locksmith. It's strange to see a locksmith in tailcoat. But I am also kind of human."
"My dad is architect, I'm perfectly accustomed to be respectful to hard labor."
"It's nice. All good takes roots from understanding. And now report me of yourself."
"I'm rather modest - as all others: am studying my first year as a linguist. Madly boring and trivial constancy. As well as any other being."
"Do you want something else? Some fun or pluralism of perospects?"
"I want full comfort and true feelings, fixed vast stability of route and broad embodiment of dreams."
"This is cute. Let's order fish? It's, maybe, tasty."
"Rather hard to refuse."
"Well, that's wonderful. Waiter!" - has called the hero with briskness: "Give me fish."
The order was quite quickly brought and the course of discussion was strengthened.
"I'm just trying to find some intimacy, some doze of happiness and love." - has carefully sighed exhausted lady.
"Please, go on, I just heed."
"I look for miracle, but sadly cannot meet it."
"Okay, okay."
"But I am looking anyway... Of course, without of result. All I see – dead thick walls of tart longing, of sorrow, aimlessness and fuss."
"Well, go on, I just heed."
"I am looking, am stubbornly trying, am neatly seeking for good chance."
"You are priceless, believe. Success to you. Success and patience. Forgive me later, if you'll can. I hope you have enough of wallet." - the hero has quite abruptly got up and deftly rushed to space of exit.
"Wow, this is true obscurantist! What a fool still I am. He has listened and left. And now I have to pay for my great stupidity and for his f*cking eaten fish. Lost bitchy idiot, real monster."
"Madam, a young man was with you." - has unexpectedly turned waiter.
"Yes, was sitting, but what?"
"The police now is looking for his person. They say, that he has stolen a tailcoat. Directly from the atelier across."
"What a..." - the poor lady has with weakness sadly sighed : "He has eaten the fish. And I'm having to pay. Invite the police to my table, I'll describe him by signs."
And now, after giving full description, Tatyana Sergeevna has leaned back in her chair and closed eyes: "Despair. Longing. Failure. Shit. Incredibly rich pessimism, dramatic. And again into emptiness back. What for do I exist in current hell? In pain, oppression and murk's blooming. What for to be? Why not to die? All is wrong, world is lost. Damn it. F*ck it."
The heroine has sadly sighed again and, having coped with flock of hardships, moved forward in new searching of own partner. This time among of empty street.
And trick has turned to be successful.
At small and featureless gray arch was noticed strong and slender stranger with thin briefcase and roll of papers.
"I want to stop you, to make mine." - without modesty has chattered girl's voice: "I really need a pair and right now."
"What a wonderful race. I have to run till final ribbon, till sure finish line, not less. Who you are? What is the name of such a coquette?"
"Tatiana... Tatiana Sergeevna."
"And I'm Gennady Olegovich. But you can easily call Gena. Where from did you come and appear?"
"From emptiness and hopelessness of life. Now I beg – take my hand. I so ardently want be needful, to be totally yours."
"Already taking. Let's go up."
"Yes, let's. And I'll tell everything of me."
And again dreary story of torments, of dismal share and deceit.
The hero has sighed and hugged the lady: "And I'm geologist. I also always wander. Just like you, but by countries and fossils. Come to me, I have wine."
"I don't drink..."
"This is great, I'll get more."
"Then it's fine, let's keep route."
The route has slowly continued and led to small and modest building.
"And here my beautiful sweet home. Wholly scanty, but really cozy."
"Lead me up. I am aimed to be yours."
"Let's go, the stairs are at place."
"I would be going even by mine field."
"You are quite desperate, I'll say."
"Day is so. Not too much generous in love."
"Now is evening. And very soon - the time of night."
"Our time. The best one for adventures."
"You parents will apparently be worried..."
"I'll go back at young midnight. So, we have just an hour."
"Then sit and I will get my mug."
"Tell me all."
"What do you want at first to hear?"
"Of you. Your personal life story."
"Then I start. As you can see, I'm wanderer by lands. I ride, do work and go back. I work - with hummer, map and glass. And then I'm writing a report. We have enough of useless papers. Describe each single tiny stone, take few pictures and many times measure. But my profession seems me great. It always brings us something new. New landscape, sound of wind and pure freedom."
"And I am a linguist. More precisely, a student - at this concrete unlucky moment. La soledad es peor que la muerte."
"What a funny word mash. What does this cacophony mean?"
"It says, that loneliness is terribler than death."
"I agree. Where you've find such reflections?"
"From fate. From canvas of lost being."
"How deeply you live. It's very fine, that such of thoughts are still existing into minds. What else can you report to my shy person?"
"I'll report that I'm pleased with acquaintance and that I certainly want more."
"Good deed. The closer is your soul, the more it's better."
"Not only soul... My body also wants to be desired."
"You are great. Great and funny. Very rare today, I will say."
"I'm wholly average, just absolutely lonely."
"You believe into fate?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, me too."
"Priceless thing."
"Let's be cheered."
"I'll try my best, if I will manage."
"Well, it's endlessly nice. Do not forget, that sadness is huge vice."
"Vice-filled girls get more easily loved."
"Prudent step."
"You have considered me cunning? Not feeble-minded, primitive and stupid. This is really strange."
"Should I think otherwise?"
"If to judge by all others, then - yes."
"We are unique. Remember this as firmest statement and be entirely relaxed. I have finished my wine. The dial shows me time of midnight. It seems, that someone will be scolded."
"They will not scold me, I'm assured - will understand and nothing more."
"True understanding is soul's honey. Compassion – soil of heart's bloom."
"I'll come to you tomorrow again. You'll allow?"
"Can I refuse? But do not come in early morning, I have to sleep for sober mind."
"I'll come to you in afternoon's late finish. I go to university in morning. When I'll get free – I'll rush back here."
"Don't fall in madness. I am not an idol."
"Are you talking of wine?"
"And of face. A week as I'm not shaved, my clothes is shabby, my haircut is also far not neat."
"It doesn't matter for my person."
"Then I will wait you with whole heart."
"And I will come, as I have promised."
"See you tomorrow, my joy. Run away."
"Goodbye, my dear no-idol."
Tatiana has deliberately winked and briskly walked by way to home.

VI
At round face of small wristwatches has shyly frozen early evening. On meekly waiting for delaying, but frankly promised loving visit outworn unremarkable porch has tranquilly and timidly appeared the very needful blurred girlish figure.
"Here I am. Meet me, take."
"I am already passionately waiting. And even am quite worried in inside."
"Till huge goosebumps and trembling into elbows?"
"Till highest measure and degree of possible for heart anticipation."
"What a sweet lovely fact."
"Come in, let's spice this fact with flavor."
"Yes, gladly. Very very well."
"Oh, you my precious wonderful invention."
And again conversation and wine.
"They haven't killed you yesterday for lateness?"
"As you can see, I'm quite alive. They've shown compassion and forgiven."
"Then broadcast me your talks."
"With greatest ardor and vast zeal." - has charmingly and adorably smiled pleased vivid lady and started to describe her day's details.
"Nice pretty manner of existing. Insistent study every moment and full devotion to its depths, what else can cope with being better. Each lesson – sea of information." - has fervidly recalled excited Gena: "You are great, it's sure feat to work so hard. Not everyone fulfills own tasks so neatly."
"For me it's certain source of joy. I really love my studing routine. Otherwise I would skip every lesson."
"What a crazily ardent tenacity! I'm fond of having pet like you."
"I want to be here every evening."
"Then I'll perceive these joint moments as best of periods and times. In our sinful petty world such common comfort is true treasure."
"How tempting you are..."
"You too, my honey piece of heaven. But I have news I have to say – week later I am going into voyage in Philipsburg to island of St. Martin. For half of month - in winds and cruel coldness."
"What is there?"
"Again my work. This time exploring of relief. Then month of rest and new hazed route."
"How destructively tragic it is, how greatly bitter, inconsolable and painful for acceptance by breakable soul."
"This is life. The very one, which I have chosen. It's highly dark to be apart, but good adventures never harm you. We have no reasons to be sad."
"Is it dangerous there?"
"Most far north. Extremely difficult conditions. But death can find at any step."
"You plunge myself in paranoia..."
"It's not for long. For two weeks only. And then again to breath together. Again in frames of your sweet bonds."
"Then do not waste so precious time and let's devote own passion to each other."
"And you are stubborn sort of human. In good way, do not doubt."
"What for to hesitate at now? I believe into feelings much more than into mind or brain's convulsions."
"Unique significant position. In any aspects weighty as an elephant."
"That's truly wonderful opinion. Let's mix emotions, flesh and shame."
"What a paradise, yeah. Then let's delve into bliss. Till highest peaks of carnal pleasure and most incredible of dreams!"
"What an excessive storm of boldness! Let's start from hugging me at first. And then in sinful tart impudence, but now with innocent shy tenderness and care."
"Then yourself take control of permitted."
"We have boundaries, don't shy, but let's preserve plain principle of smoothness."
"I'm not in hurry, all is well."
"Then begin. Console my delicate awaitings."
"I flamingly agree. Your crazy harmony is priceless."
"Come on, endow me with impressions." - Tatyana has decisively got up and, after taking half of step and sure killing of own shyness, succumbed to mighty rule of lewd intentions. Having instantly tightly united by unlimited sweetness of kiss, the heroes have let their thoughts away and calmly sunk in hot and pleasant. The lady has got filled with heavy lust and with deep eagerness and favor proceeded to perversity of wishes. Having promptly and endlessly melted in fervid feast of blooming flesh, young lovers have exuberantly twisted in firm embraces of keen contact. Tatiana, who has entered in courage, has spreaded thirsty piquant body in front of reciprocal neat attempts and, having finally caught madness, the one, which has removed all frames, moved apart her admirable legs and opened secret yummy zones for getting of most bright of types of bliss: "Taste me there, absorb my lavishly wet sweetness."
Gennady has unhurriedly got down in nice aroma of alluring slippy dews and zealously deepened in fresh flesh, nimbly smelling her blossoming incense of amply leaking sacred places of selflessly accessible girl's crotch.
"You are so wonderful, delicious and honey!"
"Don't stop, I order, keep your going."
"Don't be afraid, I'll never dare anymore."
"I'm getting definitely better! Speed up, I pray you, please speed up!"
"Just as you wish." - the hero has increased in taken pace and monolithically merged with moisty body. The tone of moans has turned in clear scream.
"More, more, more! And strictly with no slowing and no pauses. I'm craved as never in such times."
And again rhythm has added own deftness. And again fast repeat of sweet slidings and loud sea of trembling notes. And now, few tender movements later, hot action has attained own final and finished with immaculate release.
"Don't go away, please cherish minute more." - the lady has exhaustedly exhaled: "Oh yes, uniquely darling languor. What a pricelessly marvelous miracle - sex! And then my lot of degustation - I'm greatly hungry for you too. Come on and take my throat by force. And do it roughly, I am begging."
"Without even chance to take a breathe?"
"Without, yes! Like that and only!"
"Prepare suitable position and do not wriggle, my saint witch."
"Already ready. Act, my boy! In wildest way and rudest manner."
"Then get own pleasure and endure."
And again flaming violent contact with huge denouement in sweet mouth.
"I have eaten you too." - thin squeaky voice has coyly squeaked: "You are great. You've brought me pleasure. I'm feeling absolutely good. Thank you, baby."
"You're incredible too."
"I agree, you're the same."
"Will you feed me again? I've got addicted to this taste."
"Yes, come on. I’m just flooding with rivers – in madly zealous excess."
"Oh, beauty. Feed me, my lewd dream."
And again vast palette of sweet sounds and identical flavorous tastes. And then short parting till tomorrow, till new fantastic holy times of blooming juicy bodies' dishing.

VII
And now, sweet weeks of contacts later, has come the time of trip to Philipsburg. They've decided to part in quick manner – with no sayings of goodbyes, but with firm promise to be waiting. The hero has departed with north steamer and got lost in blue waves of sea's abyss. And poor troublesome Tatiana has stayed entirely alone – among of strictness of landscape and in tight unity with anguish. The mood has fallen deeply down and then completely disappeared, as well as partner's vague look. And even dearest and joyful university, which has been always the most favorite of places, was now giving zero warmth. All has suddenly faded and wilted, has lost own color, sense and taste. All, what was needful and important, has gone away without warning, having got slowly fully replaced by pain's presence, by dreary thoughts and changeless gloom. Yes, pain... First time completely real.
"How much bitter it is, how hard. As if my heart was torn away and its previous freed hollow space was filled with sharpened broken glass. First time in life I frankly cry. And these aren't vain and useless tears. All heat of our trembling souls, all love, affection and devotion, all this is so much far in current moment. All flawless happiness, all bliss – all of this is away. Those days I've understood, what heaven means – true heaven, priceless, saint and endless. I can't describe how sweet it was, how greatly blissful in inside. And now all instantly has flooded. And not to hide from sufferings and murk. Without him my life is bottom. With only fleetingness, harsh pettiness and morons. With fuss, betrayals and tart lie. Strong ugly cynicism and losses. How good was then, and how bad it's at now. I know sometimes we have to pay. To pay for every tiny moment, for even spark in living's night. What else I definitely know – without him I'll simply die. I'll not survive in separation. And all I want – just be constantly together, be needed, cherished and beloved. And here... Here rubbish and decay. Lost soulless worthlessness of crowd. Of empty idiots and bitches. I believe, I'll be never forgotten and will never return to past life. But what to wait for into frames of being's abyss... El destino no honra la eternidad ni las leyes."

VIII
Through boiling sadness of landscapes, depressed as fate and inner world, among of featureless surrounding of alleys, in sharp and tragic disbelief in any blooming, is slowly trampling own shy route engaged in dreariness Tatiana - again to sacred lover's door. Mood is crashed. Eyes are filled with deep grief, gait is limp. And again shabby entrance is closed.
"Again I've lost my fight with being. What a nightmarish changeless fixity of pain. And where is hidden torments' ending? I was seeking for miracle here... And now I'm weeping with large tears. And these hard tears are not vain. It means, I have to pour them down. Eh, fate, you have imputed me a little... Imputed and again returned to murk. But I have hope and I will wait. And once again will bloom and blossom. Once again will be brighter than sun. But at now... At now, viscous tart grief. That's all. That's all, what's mercifully given."
Having promptly got lost into apathy and succumbed to distressed autumn chill, the heroine has melted in oblivion and then quite hurriedly got carried by its bonds. Till blurred best. Till righteous moment.

IX
All can happen in world - both great pain and its sharp happy finish. Just so in one of silent evenings, having passed through of couple of weeks, cracked fate has gifted time of rescue - indeed incredible and truly long-awaited saint precious meeting still has happened: in shy response on timid knock smooth steps have catiously stretched and door has gradually opened.
"Gena! God! My impossible joy! I'm so happy, so much grateful again. How are you? With what news?"
"With good ones, nice - as long outlines of sea. My duty has been finally accomplished, and now I'm here for whole next month. But at first, what's not new, I have to write a lot of papers. Suitcase is full of mined for journey stones – and I have to describe every feature. And then again in next blessed lands. Did you miss me, my soul?"
"With ample tears each of days. I've been unable to find place, to put myself away from sorrow. I've almost died in my heart's torments, was thinking only of you."
"Don’t fall in sadness anymore. It's wrong and needless for my cutie. Have I sprouted in you so much hard?"
"Till bones of skeleton, not less."
"You are crazy at times. Look at nail onto wall - take off your skirt and hang it up. At now I'll heal you from your griefs – in most straight and efficient manner."
"I'm so happy to do all you want."
"Take off your clothes and kill own anguish. You are sitting with me. Take off your hellish aimless skirt, take off all parts of underwear. You're with me, as before."
"I'm taking off, I'll take right now. Okay, already taken off."
"Well, it's wonderful step. You're not a pair for depression, be glad and glorious – as goddess."
Tatiana has removed remains of clothes and meekly and diligently bent down: "Such way it's better, I am guessing... All is opened for view."
"You are my angel. Let me in."
"Just come, I've spreaded all of hidden spaces."
And again flawless unity's act. And again filled with love conversation.
"And how much frequently are happening such journeys?"
"You know - six times each single year. Quite uneasy, of course. But I've got used to such a matter. Year ago, what's most weird, I've met my birthday into journey – 25th, by the way. In foreign lands my holiday was going. They didn't let me, scary creatures."
"It's hard for me, it's bottomlessly heavy. I have been going here each day."
"I've infected your heart as a plague. This is horribly wrong. Wrong and mindless. And now I'll take you once again."
"I agree, take me all. I was waiting, was missing, was madly wanting - as true drug. I hope, your soul can understand this..." - shy shaky voice has broken into crying.
"Don't cry, my marvelous and sweety. You are mad in your love. Let me deep in yourself, kill this pain."
And again perfect boundless contact. And again pleasant talk.
"Please, promise, that you'll surely come back – each time and every single journey. That you will never give me up."
"If I'll not die, I’ll certainly return. Do not worry, my joy, don't be dark. Each parting is just voyage and not more. It's not a tragedy or trouble."
"For me, it's purest hellish grief. I'm so afraid to lose your sacred presence."
"Don't be afraid, my priceless cutie, just be entirely with me. Don't think of gloom of inner losses."
"I've just fallen in love too much hard and now cannot be alone."
"You're not alone, my lovely baby. Come again to my careful bonds."
"Have decided to drink all my juices?" - the lady has returned in healthy smile.
"You are laughing again. This is nice. I know, your juices have no limits."
"I am going, my heart."
"We need one happiness, remember."
And again magic glorious act. And again its haphazard repeating.

X
So it happens at here, that after autumn goes winter. Or spring. Or even blooming summer. In our case one frowning autumn has got changed on next similar one. Full year of mutual relations, of fervid meetings and dark partings, has rather hurriedly passed by and brought quite short important lesson - what it really means to await. The lesson wholly painful and exhausting and, what's most sad, quite frequently repeating. And now round solemn date - 12 months of life together. Tatiana's soul is gathering for love. Sergei Grigorievich is sitting and beholding: "Once again to Gennady till morning?"
"Yes, again. Today is anniversary, what's awesome."
"Then best of my congratulations."
"Of course, I know, you're also glad."
"But why he doesn't come to us? I've not been seen him for year's half. How is that?"
"He was promising me. But, probably, was frighteningly busy. You know – long journeys, me and papers."
"I do not like these hellish journeys. Such context seems for me not good."
"I hate them too! Till dreary shouts and vast tears."
"It breaks your unity, your spirit. I once again invite him to my work. They pay a lot in our sphere. Plain builder can afford a car in term of only two years and with no serious of changes in style and pace of daily life."
"I know, I'll say. I hope he will agree. He truly loves his restless job – new stones, old maps, and soil cuts. He is discoverer and dreamer. You cannot blame him for such choice. As well as can't reproach me for my tears. "
"I don't reproach, just pay compassion. What's new in university and books?"
"Todo esta completamente es genial!"
"I did not understand at all, but I'll pretend, that I have heeded – for to look smarter in your eyes."
"I was repeating this short phrase a lot of times."
"And I was stubbornly repeating of materials' form and resistance. But you'll unlikely write me formulas of this."
"Again eternalest misfortune: each one can study something own. One-sidedness is similar to poison."
"I agree. It can kill."
"I ran away – goodbye, till morning!"
"Do not forget of being smart."

XI
In tight captivity of hope and tender hugs, after multiple sex, are meekly lying two of bodies. Tatiana looks at faceless ceiling. Gennady looks at pale Tatiana.
"You're going overseas again?"
"Yes, I'm going, you're right – after couple of days. This time to north. In far ice abyss."
Tatyana has involuntarily limped: "For how long?"
"Two weeks, as always, you're aware."
"I will wait – every countless minute!"
"And me too. Don't be sad. Let's repeat our bodily joy?"
"Let's repeat! I will wait - every moment, every breath and each step. I... I'll..."
"Don't Cry."
"I bottomlessly love you. Please, know it. I love you! Love too much."
"You are my angel, let's build passion. Don't cry, my dear priceless pet."
"I'll try, but barely will cope."
"Do not be sad."
And again flaming idyll of contact and trembling farewell phrases. And again new inglorious parting.

XII
How long does two weeks always last? About 14 equal days. But it's in theory and only. In fact, it goes differently, freely. First month has passed, then passed the second, then one month more. But Gena didn't come from voyage. Worn door was staying statically empty, collecting dust and threads of cobweb. The porch has grown with rare moss. And shutters slowly have weaned from any glow into house. Completely faded, shriveled Tatyana has finally got rid of any strengths. Her days have turned in sure torture, and life has turned in purest dust. The university, so loved by her before, was very promptly given up, long vacant days at first were filled with sewing, which soon was drearily replaced by ceiling's viewing. Brisk flawless silhouette has darkened, got stooped and absolutely weak. Dejected look has lost last beauty, dim eyes have sunk in endless sorrow, fresh blush of cheeks has tracelessly removed oneself away, and heart has overgrown with immense sadness. Her fate has powerlessly stopped, unable to get used to loss of meaning. And now, resting onto bed, she was helplessly looking in dusk with slowness trying to restore sweet frames of past.
"What for this all? What for and why? This world has warmed me for a moment and sharply frozen for whole life. Why should I try or be at all? For this depressing aimless routine? All best is definitely over. All is finished and smashed. Who I am here and now? Lost petty likeness of myself... I've been so boundlessly blooming, so highly burning into love, so frankly rushing and awaiting. I'm timeless prisoner of love, of those precious tender moments. All time I have been keeping faith. All time was trying to stay stronger. Where is my miracle right now? Where is Gena? Where is he? Where he has disappeared? No news at all for all the term. He's perhaps far in hugs of ice and whitish bear gnaws his bones, but he already does not feel. Or maybe drowned in one of seas. Has got stumbled on rock and gone down. Or maybe... Does it really matter? All is broken at now. All is lost. And no meaning, no reasons. Only calling of grave. That is all. I've stopped to faith in paradise, in God. At now I'm absolutely finished. And that is all. I know, that's all..."
Thick clouds have got stretched in window's frame, perplexedly beholding through of grayness. Landscape has wrapped oneself in fog. Cold nature has dissolved in growing fading. The life has visibly got stopped, as if indeed so clearly understanding till every tiny shy detail.


AFTERWORD:
What do you know of geography? If you have learnt it, then a lot. Can you show north on map? Will you find it? I am assured you will fail. In some strange miraculous way earth's north has meekly got located into wholly non-northern latitudes. Into city Tambov, where our wanderer Gennady was freely building own quiet days and where before he's calmly found the second one of his two wifes, who has been knowing sure nothing of the first one and even less of sudden far Tatyana. Eh, globe, you're truly ugly thing. Both modern transport was invented and any variants of personal connection, but it's still greatly easy to get hidden. And what can our globe to do with such lost creatures – to bury them in own vast ground, having got only drearily filled with worthless litter of their corpses, not deserving its righteous soil. And Gennady... But what can happen with Gennady. Again drinks wine and stays unshaven. Again tastes girls, but only others. No one of genocides can crush such breed of people.
******************************************************
A barefoot and hunchy beggar is walking near of cemetery wall.
"Oh, true, sadness, true grief. I had no food for two last days. God have to help me, I'm believing. At least, with tiny crumb in mouth. Although... I think I've found where to profit. Thank you, God, for your deeds. There is one grave behind of fence. Suicidal, they say. I even frankly do not know - to pray or not for her salvation. There always lays some food and flowers. Either candy or loaf. I have to find it for my sake."
After quarter of permanent searching, he has weakly sunk down at gray plate: "<Vosnetsova Tatyana Sergeevna. Twenty-one years old.> Sadness, grief... Bless her, God! Or not bless..."
Has delved in temporary thoughts.
"Let God will choose it by himself. He knows much better, I don't doubt. And thanks you, God, for helping me - the bread is lying and I'm pleased... Still, bless her, Lord, if you exist. And thanks once more for this bread's piece."
The barefoot has eaten shy God's gift and, after pause, his silhouette has left, having slowly melted with time in hazy darkening sunset, the very one, which hugs whole world - with any latitudes and places, where surely there are both farest north and so not similar Tambov and even, probably, true love, which, seems, is not for all, as you could notice...





Perceive me as a miracle, I'm begging.

I
In shy and wholly average small bedroom, amid of grayness and severity of things, is sitting in impassive set of walls distressed and lifeless pensive lady - Elena Vasilievna, a person, absolutely dreary, all time unbearably depressed and always permanently hopeless, engaged in irreparable conditions of changeless gloominess and pain, of constant wistfulness and daily hurting thoughts of something joyless, wrong and sullen. The time is noticably static, involved in laziness and similar oppression and tightly filled with bottomless forlornness. Window's frame is invariably hazed.
"Once again evening's dusk, once again thick and tiresome darkness... People's breed will unhurriedly go to sleep, and lost poor me without rest will sadly think of hateful being, of my eternal griefs and sorrows, which are inseparably nailed in each of days of dismal share. What for do anyone exist? What for, explain me, do I live here? For which of purposes and prospects, for what a sort of future days. We cannot surely predict them, can't change, make better or rebuild. In fact, we're able just to wait, to wait and to get slowly accustomed - to troubles, sufferings and vainness, to constant aimlessness and murk, to lack of sense and growth of losses. It's truly scary even just to be - to breath and to belong to local basics. All world's envirinment is fruit of sick ocasions, of circumstances, sudenness and fortune – of something definitely wierd and unreliable. We live in fog, in timeless gloom, where all of routes are made of dust, where nothing can be certainly determined. We live in wrongness, in pure hell, in swamp of dreariness and horror. And these mad frames and scales of life, so unforgivably and zealously immense, are wholly mindless and exhausting. The only common is your pain, great pain of anyone, who lives here. Its taste has poisoned every brain. And not to pass in decent days, in brighter variant of being, if only hopelessness has weight. It's hard, it's dark and straightly killing. And this is deathless in new world, in cage of rubbish and deception, in long and boundless nightmare, which blossoms, deepens and gets strength. Too thin are sanity's embraces, too thin are faint and vague lines, which border realness from fiction. Where to go... What to do..."
Outside of wide colorless window has coyly hung vast blurred veil of perceptibly thickened evening. Have crept hazed silhouettes of shadows. White lanterns, mixed with growing night, have let own sparkling into darkness. In peaceful sleepiness of places has shyly risen grayish moon. The day has joylessly got ended without saying of goodbye, and strongly tired of thoughts' noise Elena Vasilievna has cautiously moved away of glass: "It's time to sleep, to lay in hollow bed's shelter, in new oblivion and silence. In dreamings, sweetness and best hopes."
Lady's pensive and desolate figure, having made few of short shaky steps, has humbly landed onto bed and then unhurriedly leaned back – in hugs of sleep, tranquility and future.

II
"Don't sleep, we're riding to last station – the very one, which's equal to deadlock."
"I guess, they have announced my own life." - has sharply thought in frank surprise rather startled Elena Vasilievna: "How greatly quick is modern time! As if less than a minute ago I was sitting in bus. And now I have to leave it back."
The heroine has said goodbye to voyage and weakly moved in trickless path to blurred space of narrow exit and not without of deep skill made long and nimbly abrupt jump from shacky stairs to cracked pavement. And here it's chance to take a walk. Way's plot alluringly gifts promise to be quite peaceful, smooth and light, step by step leading forwardly up to pretty tempting destination – to long-acquainted heartful friend, Lydia Andreevna, lovely marvelous girl, who for immodestly huge bunch of fleeting years was irreproachably fulfilling own unremarkable shy role of most like-minded sort of person. By this completely clear reason, it's not a sin to speed gait's pace, with each unnoticeable second slowly deepening gradual delving in pale dispassionate views' cage. Elena Vasilievna has got perceptibly much swifter and coyly payed pleased vivid look. Calm lonely outskirts of town, with dreary scraps of dim landscapes, are unemotionally meeting with tart and thick dilapidation of shabby buildings and worn roads. At any side and every corner – backwater of tranquility and gloom. The last inhabited of quarters. Directly deserted and empty. With faceless houses and lifeless naked walls, dumb endless sadness and hazed outlines of heaven, torn of and bottomlessly weightless. Brief voyage is familiarly plain and freed from visible excesses, involved in apathy, dark thoughts and devastation, with decent ampliness and lavishness of scales so richly boiling right in air. Time and mood are in equal stagnation, in ruling drowsiness of will and reigning dominance of boredom. Vast fatal constancy of faintness, dead dusty oldness and ruining, bleak bloodless withering and desperate forlornness – that's all, what's carefully given for meek consuming and acceptance within of weary meager frames of promptly fading helpless season. Meeting's place, as before, is pacific, wholly quiet and appallingly hidden - far coastal cradle of small arbor, few times encircled by trees' thickets. Frail twistful route to such location is running up through of narrow rocky path, embraced by bushes and tall weeds, inseparably joint with each other. Exhausted look of sleepy nature is staying frightened, numb and nude, perplexed and catiously fearful, reliably purified from brightness and filled with wistfulness and dusk. In such fragile and keen conditions you feel all unity with world, all priceless harmony and bliss, imputed, probably, from Eden. And now the point of denouement - bent rusted roof and waiting lady.
"Best greetings to my wandering cute stranger!" - has deftly noticed shy friend's figure inspired and perceptibly cheered up Lidia Andreevna: "And which way have you coped with your laziness for to come in this desolate wilderness."
"Nothing strange. With bus route it was easy."
"Nice to hear so assured position. And let's spend time - with use and pleasure – at first, we'll sit at cup of tea and then, when day will pass through evening, I'll gladly lead you to build rest: we'll visit walls of local tavern."
"Not bad, I certainly approve. And what about textile shop? Have they opened its doors?"
"They didn't even try to do it. They've nailed the title, that was all. At here all needful is postponed."
"Such type and sort of situation is greatly popular today – in every sphere and beginning and at each ever trampled land. What do we have in new existence – vast losses, freely growing troubles and greedy bottomless decline, as main distinctive dignity and feature."
"Backyards of being, you and me... Sad, dreary picture, if to look at..."
"I'll eagerly and endlessly agree, the picture is exactly not of oil. As you see, all is equally wrong – both frozen moving of life's action, low fallen souls and rotten minds. At here it's changelessly immortal."
"I know, and darkness of world's dying is much more black than any soot."
"We live in truly dreadful place - more lost and horrible, than any hellish abyss."
"And not to stop it, not to break, not to repair by some magic."
"Yes, it's utopian idea. It's madly hard to fix all flaws. And flaws are almost everywhere."
"I spend my days and each of them, in any tiny fleeting second, I try to contemplate this world, examining and studying its strange laws and always seeking for some logic, for right and sober purposes and reasons, for any shy and weightless drop of willful sanity and prudence. But all I obviously meet – one total aimlessness and filth, strong heavy emptiness and sorrows, deep vainness, uselessness and fuss. All I see – just distress and disorder, exhausting hopelessness and gloom – with nothing meaningful and great, indeed immaculate in essence or frankly innocent and pure. We have no fruitfulness, no prospects, no even single faithful source of wide success and timeless values. Only hatred and dirt, pain and vices, cold scary vagueness of future and boldly blossoming deceit."
"I can proof, current model of life is most cheap and most confident ticket to dreary hugs of always hospitable noose. All we do – just gain resultless expectations and keep own suffering and weakness. I've never felt my person happy. As well as never was in luck. But I repeat my shy attempts and pay whole passion and persistence to speed embodiment of hopes. What's sadly tragic, all efforts are fully barren."
"I'm also far from optimism or joy. I know this hurting feature of desires – to stay torn off from own implementation. I know this burden, know this pain, but still believe in something better..."
"And I am far from such sick faith. We're born for torments and omissions. But I still want to hunt for love. This poor evening, for example."
"True fortune works as average casino – makes you moneyless, bankrupt and nude with priceless generosity of roulette."
"Looks like you bet on wrong of numbers."
"But who'll suggest me names of correct..."
"Throw glance at horoscopes and magical predictions. But if to say of me myself, I don't believe in any forecasts."
"Me too. As well as don't believe in God."
"I've gone much further in depression - I don't believe in me myself."
"It's broadly worse than clean atheism itself."
"My soul is evidently so – too much unsuitable for gladness. I can't be different, you know."
"My soul is equally the same. But do not lose your inner thirst - for bright, remarkable and graceful. Our street, after all, one day will also lit new lanterns."
"It's inappropriate comparison, my girl. All of lanterns at here were long ago completely broken. Such ones in workable condition are much more rare and infrequent than forest spirit, passing by, or ancient evil, playing tennis. Extinction is most notable of states, most obvious and visible of features."
"Main grief is hiding not in this – heart and soul aren't alive, exhausted, deeply spoiled and killed. That's why it's easier for brain. And if to say of broken lanterns – I live with them since early childhood. In town's center – vanity and fuss. For us, the ones who spend own lifes at home, there is no difference at all."
"If to be absolutely honest, I feel more comfortable here, more cozy, blissful and relaxed. In local cradle of oppression, it's even nice to fall in sadness, to have dark thoughts and breathless mood. You look at general distress, and thought of suicide and death does not seem so straightforwardly stupid."
"If to die and get inwardly lost, then with unshakably fixed smile and full of ardor loud music! Come on, let's step in way to me – just for to listen to some lyrics, I've bought one interesting cassette – with blessed voice of Valeria Tayskaya. She's also child of life-long longing."
"Let's go, for me my grief at now is kind of basic daily food."
In wholly deserted and colorless small room of Lydia Andreevna's apartments, is meekly reigning static peace. Directly modest and impersonal ensemble of shy interior's background is neatly framed by faded walls, enclothed in faceless old wallpapers. Under bottomless grayness of ceiling are pensive eyes of old huge lamp with one unworkable plafond and two reliably working others. At window – fully wilted flowers. Behind of sofa, right in corner - encaged by lavishness of dust forlorn voluminous torchere. On table - heavy tape recorder with pretty heap of various cassettes.
"Come on, proceed to making disco."
"Okay. At least, we're having electricity in house. It's truly awesome in such region. The last of pleasures, I will say."
"As at best factories of distant 19th century! Triumph of progress and not less."
"Pure piece of greatness and development, be sure."
Have slowly chosen needful composition and promptly switched the music on. Melodic notes of loving sadness have swiftly leaked from weakened speaker.
"You have given me roses, I have given you heart. Your roses have wilted, sorry. My heart has got broken in parts." - shrill female voice was piercingly repeating.
"Your music box is realist, I'll notice." - has quite regretfully remarked Elena Vasilievna: "Each search for unity is path to certain sorrow. We have no happiness at planet, no place for blooming and frank joy."
"Maybe, places still are... But again not for us."
"You are my pessimistic optimist, my rescue. I am of similar of thoughts. We both are totally unlucky..."
"But who is lucky nowadays? Each one is running, hastening and rushing, supporting quarreling and finish-less betrayal. There are no happy ones at earth. Only skillful in shows simulators."
"It’s madly scary to admit, that our rotten filthy world with all of endless flaws and horrors will stay securely alive for pure eternity of years – without ending and time limits and any possible escape."
"But this is only for world. For us – shy half of century and only."
"It's even better, I'm supposing. Longevity is equal here to curse."
Music session has slowly continued and then unhurriedly got paused.
"Eh, now I'm feeling even drearier and sadder." - has coyly and indifferently sighed Lidia Andreevna: "What a terrible sort of machine, what a joyless and mournful invention! If it will suddenly stop working, I will be definitely glad."
"Don't be angry at things, they are friends. We ourselves have chosen and selected both mood and essence of the songs."
"I can't retort, it's truly so..."
"Where are you going me to drag?"
"In hugs of bar – the first of places, among of which you always know, you are exactly at life's bottom."
"You mean old tavern's latitudes, I'm guessing."
"As lots of times in blurred past I mean right them, my dear cutie."
"Let's move and taste all tastes of shame."
Lydia Andreevna has gradually coped with plain makeup, then carefully gathered small bag, pulled on new branded pantyhose and skirt and, having made few pirouettes and bends, majestically frozen at hazed mirror: "What a shockingly marvelous beauty!"
"Let's fall in fairy tale of route?"
"With sure briskness and swift fervor."
"For heavy piece of rare luck?"
"Who knows... But trust to my efforts – we'll try to get each given pleasure."
In dark and tightly crowded bar, in reigning idleness and vices, is freely getting rampant rest unconstrained and unbridled cohort of deftly whirling merry people, nimbly swarming in turbulent dance. Thin floor is suffering from heels, dense air's mass is eagerly obeying to harshly dominant thick smoke. Just ordinary classicism of swamp. In great degree of scales and force.
"What will you say of such a horror?" - has asked with interest and fright Elena Vasilievna.
"Not so disgusting, even nice."
"What to do in this blooming of flaws?"
"To correspondent to all others."
"To pour own flesh in human flock?"
"At least, to try, to take such risk..."
Having mixed with vast boiling of bodies, the heroines have clung to common rave, but being rid of large and hefty luck, were left without trophy of acquaintance.
So, at unfortunate vain now, after hollowly ended feast's time, two upset disappointed ladies with tons of apathy is hearts have meekly gone away through narrow exit. At shaky gates of fruitless institution, was noticed small strange company of youths with separately standing lonely young man.
"I see, that someone is alone, it means I have to come and try." - has vividly reported Lidia Andreevna.
"Okay. Success is full of waiting."
The heroine has proudly stepped forward and gingerly proceeded to shy dialogue.
"Hello, free boy, my sudden comrade. Are you also alone – just like me? What's of relations, warmth and love?"
"Oh, bliss, new dose of thirsty meat. Where are you from?"
"From Zamalininskaya station. The last one on bus route."
"It doesn't matter in lewd deals. Say me better, which sex will we have at this evening – what sort of lust you're going to perform?"
"Which way to understand your set of words?"
"Most straightly, easily and simply. Pull up your skirt – I will evaluate temptation of your charms."
"Pay visit to whorehouse with such wantings."
"We'll calmly cope with this right here – in lavish plenty of thick bushes. They will reliably guard all secrets."
"Priceless offer, I'll say - rare, fat, but I'll regrettably refuse - I am good actress, even flawless, but role of slut is not my choice."
"Then move away and don't look back. I'll find some other holdtress of free holes. You're not unique as well as not most perfect."
"F*cking bye."
Elena Vasilievna has hastily and fussily approached her offended and wounded friend: "How did you manage to endure, to overcome this storm of dirt?!"
"What else had I to show him and to add? To spice his mockeries with arguments or hatred? For only to amuse him with confusion and to waste last of weakening strengths? Do not mind. Nothing hurting at all. Just ordinary little vain misfortune."
"You are surprisingly strong woman... I haven't even drop of your steel patience."
"But what to wait from current people... Such ones have turned today in shit, in worthless rubbish – vain and empty. Disgusting, valueless and dead. Torn off in equally sad measure from even partial possession of sober head, wide heart or blooming soul. At now it's frighteningly normal, albeit still nasty each of times. And in accomplishment of happened, as most enjoyable result, I'll really just pull up my shortened skirt – at least, for pleasure to admire with myself in bleak reflections on shocked surfaces of puddles."

III
At thoughtful canopy of heaven, among of shyly thinning dawn, is carelessly brightening neat flame of growing morning. Sadly colorless watery clouds are weakly trudging through of haze into sleepy and passionless distance. Lonely doleful views are slowly getting filled with rare tints. Unnoticeably freeding with each moment from previously reigned pale grayish fog, cold faceless streets of yearning quarter, reliably hidden in vast dusk, are powerlessly sinking into silence. First blurred silhouettes and muzzles of pedestrians are gradually starting to appear, unwittingly and tiredly upcoming from liquid border of bleak featureless horizon. At small and cautiously crowned with cloudy shawl narrow space of old blackening cage of veranda is peacefully and purposelessly sitting in predictable hugs of depression forlorn and pensive girlish figure of reflecting Elena Vasilievna: "How much disgusting, filthy and annoying was that yesterday nastiest case with my dishonestly offended, failed in heartfulness Lydia Andreevna... How greatly harmful, low and hateful can be moral-less essence of human, how much stunningly soulless and rude. It's rather painful to accept this, to see in highest of degrees at every step of new world's cradle, to meet in millions of copies into countless faces of strangers – the ones, you'll never understand. We're made of vices, flaws and dirt, of sure wastes and purest rubbish. We're born in uselessness and fuss, in total absence of true values, of weighty aims and fair tools. It's sad – we're unfamiliar with better. I know, each hope is madly vain, each further trying and attempt is nothing more than source of sorrow, of bitter crying and regrets. And even easiest and smallest of desires will never ripen in fulfillment, in right embodiment and plentiful results, in precious reason and ability to blossom, to shine with grace and bath in joy. I want one simple happiness and only, one ordinary tenderness and warmth of inner mutual devotion, of saint captivity of trust, of blissful reciprocity and frankness, of fondness, unity and love. I want this life-affirming expectation of something deathless, deep and tart... Of course, it's frighteningly mindless to ask for fire into cold, in place for sufferings and fading, for torments, losses and mistakes, but thirst for fullness of existence, of pleasures, victories and heights is much more stubborn, vast and strong, than any straightness of head's helping. It's certain rarity and luck to be in constant timeless need, to share care and support and to rely on days of future. We wait, believe, gain dreams and wishes, change routes, taste paths and hurry up. And then... Then passively admit, that term of fate is practically finished, that only emptiness and grave are left by previous beginnings. And world keeps moving, rolling, rushing. With being arguments are short. Life's river never lose own water. Swift days, renewing own hazed pictures, deliver us most eagerly one murk, one killing barrenness and tiresome addiction to global aimlessness and limitless omissions. What do we really acquire with every coming of next morning – new list of meaningless concerns, of greedy grayness and closed prospects. True role of zeal, delight and ardor is something similar with dust. These ancient qualities have turned in sort of burden, in kind of personal damnation – most dreary, hindering and vile. And dark as instant thought of further being."
Perplexed and featureless landscape has amply stretched faint joyless fullness of pale and tiresome palette of weak infrequent ashy colors, dissolved in smoothly faceless boredom of vastly frozen meek pacification. Enclosed in static hopelessness and fogs thin liquid spaces of shy nature have slowly started to get lost in thick forlornness, encaged in breathless strictness of nude season. Cold meager winds, exhausted and unfriendly, have wearily and wistfully proceeded to dismal song of sharp and restless howling.
"Eh, pain... My satellite and partner. You are the last of given feelings in current tragedy of world. In frames of dead and rotten now, each one of us is neatly alienated from even tiniest of hopes. Such ones at here are dangerous and stupid, short-living, hesitant and false. In modern swarm of empty living they serve as irreproachable example of free and easy fishing rod for sorrow, pain and inner wilting, for fresh frustration of sad lessons and for eternal heavy grief of unbearably hurting admission of deepest rightlessness and weakness. What for to wait from being's fuss, if even God will never answer, which sort of happenings, occasions and events will be demandable and needful at shaky path to vague luck."
The heroine has dolefully sighed and humbly looked in pensive haze of window: "It's time to go for some walk... At least, again in outskirts' embraces. In some new hospitable bar. It's still quite better than my loneliness and languor. Of course, much more disgusting, sick and loathsome, but undeniably more amplified with fun."

IV
And into midst of central quarter, remote from outskirts' forlornness, in identical small faceless flat and in repeating separation from world, its principles and members, is sitting modest pair of good friends – Arseny Dmitrievich and Viktor Anatolyevich, two young intelligent employees of local plant of building of machines.
"So sadly rare, faint and scanty are all of bright and purposeful beginnings, of pure and sinless aims and startings and high and honorable routes. In scary practice of today, we have one darkness, dirt and longing, vast painful barrenness and murk and greedy bitterness of losses. Of flaws, omissions and regrets." - Arseny Dmitrievich has tragically sighed, pathetically frowning dim numb eyes.
"Life's plot was never rich on faces, in all of periods and times it stably shows one flock of masks, of amply blooming hollow dummies. The ship of fate is made of holes, of cruel boiling of tart wrongness, of empty aimlessness and lie, so madly dominant and frequent in new broken and pitiful frames of this lost and inglorious being. At here deception is main winner. True madness always stays too friendly, too much alluring for raw soul. We seek for truth in cleanest falsehood, in cage of vices, sins and gloom. In such conditions all is vain – each sort of actions gains one rubbish, each next committing brings regrets. With headless people, brain is needless. As well as hopes in world of fuss. What's most sad and most hard for acceptance, human mind is fulfilled such a way, that its shy and unsteady positions each of times are completely defenseless in front of fooling, tricking and bemusing. This fact, quite heavily determines, why life itself with all own splendor is nice and pleasant mainly by next death, by chance of throwing your past chains, of getting free from pain of presence."
"And so much meager, insignificant and rightless is each flame of mind's shining and progress, so unbearably faint, far and blurred are all high and magnificent goals, all tangibly immaculate ideas and inexpressibly profound weighty thoughts. In daily cage of restless ruination, in hellish ring of certain horror, in constant uselessness and murk, in vast indifference and coldness, in stopless storm of stubborn hatred and dreary permanence of pains, you cannot live with something prudent, with something worthy, prominent and bright, with something flawless and majestically blessed. It's too utopian, too great for being real."
"Life is perfectly good as controller, but as creator it's defective. It has definite rule over troubles, over countless griefs and destroy, but for thin gracefulness it serves as slave itself. Our world, so imposingly huge, so frustratingly freakish, is not an owner for own virtues. This life is game, which plays with all. And chance of losing is too high, too frequent, frightening and scary. That's why it's better to stay far, to be torn off from living's horror, from tons of madnesses and fuss. Such state is source of hope and independence, of eternally working protection and unshakably sure success. After all, new existence is dungeon, dark murky cage of sins and dirt, where mind and brain are toys and victims, weak helpless ghosts and not much more. Therefore – rejoice with what is given, catch luck and use it as last bitch, climb up and never gain regrets. True joy is utterly short-living, fragile and breakable as glass. You'll never see its presence twice. Be prompt, if you have plans on happy future, be apt – such opportunities are small."
"I also deeply understand, that life is not a lesson, but an example of exam, that luck is clothes without buttons, which always tries to slide away, but at identical time's moment I'm rather painfully admitting, my heart sincerely believes in feasibility of better, in hidden ways and secret methods of getting inner consolation and gaining faith in soonest peace."
"I'll support, it's quite right to keep hope, to feel some optimism and warm oneself with joys. Without tartness of emotions, without shining into eyes and with extinguished lights and flames of expectations, you live and stretch not life, but pure nightmare. You have not even bad and broken copy of full and proper variant of fate, you have just trashy piece of rubbish. Without plenty of bright prospects, we are not more than corpses' mass. And world itself is not a stumbling block, but true springboard for dreams and startings. For real miracle days' chaos doesn't matter. Vast luck is such an elephant and monster, which is indifferent to circumstances' trifles. Don't be afraid to fall in happiness' embraces. Hope, believe, wait and think. When you're lost, you have nothing to fix, to save and cherish through of hardships and to encircle with own love. There is no sailing after bottom. With cutted past, you'll never delve in future. These laws are mercilessly stubborn."
"In such frames, we must constantly hurry..."
"Do not hurry, it's vain. Just be in time, that's all what's needed."
"But what for do we live in new basics, in harsh lack of right aims and ideas, in swirling swamp of teeming vices, of deepest vanity and fruitlessness of being and total emptiness of any local plots. It's greatly sad to get acquainted with such prospects, with killed affairs and dead plans."
"Such state of limitless despair depicts most correct portrait of new time. Without tasting of pain's plenty, you can't conclude, that you're alive, can't say, that you're involved in living process. It's sharply wrong to think of good. The more large and important is battle, the bigger volume of own losers it will bring. The more hot is saint flame of your life, the more small and more rare are chances to get really decently warmed."
"All warmth today is property of dreams, of something stupid and entirely mistaken." "Each dream is shy example of escape, of short salvation from realities' conditions. Such tool is bottomlessly precious, indeed unique and doubtlessly filled with certain part of pricelessly sweet magic. It frees from emptiness, from chains of incompleteness, from daily hell of flaws and fuss. Of course, you'll never touch dream's essence, as well as evidently never will be sated with last one's promises and fruits, but you, at least, will have some period, some term of warming positive delusion, of pleasant faith in simply feasible perfection and promptly ripening success. True sky is place for birds of angels. For us, inglorious lost creatures, this world has given only grayness, only tiresome vanity's cage – with constant uselessness and countless regrets, thick piercing hatred and vast dominant oppression, nude mighty violence and heavy timeless absence of any signs of soulfulness or mind. The end of problems in such cradle can come exclusively with grave, with last weak breath and final trip to hugs of heaven. But don't give up, don't sink in sorrow, climb up and always keep resistance, keep firmness, willfulness and confidence of views, maintain heart's calmness and serenity's endurance. I'll say sad thing, this barren world, both broken, sinful and dishonest, in its currently actual state is greatly far from even minimal God's presence, but what's much sadder it's identically far from sure having of persuasively pure people, of frank and spotless human breed, which members aren't familiar with dirt, with meanness, lowness and betrayal. It's madly hard to see such wrongness, to feel its blossoming and growth, to be in pit of decomposing, of inner dying and destruction. We are pets of surrounding horror, of its nasty and frightening tricks, we haven't future, haven't rescue – just shit of now and pain's blooming."
"This is sad..."
"This is true..."

V
Forlornly deserted and formless, completely joyless painful look of involved in extinction landscape, overfilled with thick flocks of long shadows, was weakly staring in nowhere with numb unlimited cold longing of quietly shy and inconspicuous pale places, reliably chained in dense gray gloominess and vainness, so much dimensionless and deep in own degree of boiling sorrow and dispassion. Insensitive and torn away of beauty, exactly purified from picturesque details broad endless vastness of pain's plenty was catiously losing last of tints, dissolving in embraces of confusion. Amid of carelessly trudging lazy wind, into ring of exhausted nude nature, were meekly standing clumsy weary facades, engaged in yearning and thin silence.
Looking up at oppressed ashy morning, initially most totally distressed and firmly rooted into hopelessness and sadness, directly tired from pernicious world's frames, from rotten basics and sick givenness of present, Elena Vasilievna, quite glad with lack of any worries and disappointed by cheerlessness of time, was coyly meeting day's beginning with tartly reigning lavish boredom and steady dreariness of mood:
"What do I have except of pain - small right on thoughts and understanding, on bitter learning of existence and shy acceptance of its flaws. What is life – hateful cage of habitual void, of blooming burdens and regrets. Lost me and close captivity of walls. We're born for sufferings, it's evidently clear. We live for nothing, for death's moment. Not a fate, but an illness, a curse... And at now, with such sort of conclusions, I have to move to outskirts again. Otherwise I'll get sunk in depression."
The lady has decisively got up and, having covered own flesh with modest clothes, without flame, but with persistence involved herself in length of plain and faceless way. At empty stop of daily buses, neatly plunged into vast shadows' flock, is staying perfectly pure peace. No even singly walking soul from all wide territory's plenty. One gloom, forlornness and dispassion. With speechless time and wistful views. The highest peak of world's indifference and vainness. Soon smooth hazed line of gray horizon has given birth to loaf of bus. Sleepy looks have unhurriedly swum into windows, with regularity of pace humbly vanishing far in oblivion's thickness. Pale forgetfully muted landscape has with unwittingness completely disappeared in pallid ampliness of fog, drowsy mind has got used to sweet noise of enjoyable rustling of wheels. One unremarkable short hour's plot of journey – and final station with whole loveliness has opened last dose of steps to waiting abode of friend's house.
"Warm greedy greetings to my changeless sorrow's partner. Once again my shy room keeps us both."
"All is certainly so, I approve, your words are bottomlessly fair. And I'm terribly pleased with this state. Such precious unity itself in fact is easiest of rescues from inner murk and daily fuss, from being's madnesses and flaws and unforgivable life's fading. What's more – you'll maybe also will replace me to some bar – in shameful blooming of impudence and lavish blossoming of sins."
"Of course, bar's horror is prepared and firmly ready to impress, but not at moderate today. Believe and rid yourself of doubts, lewd places are accustomed to postponing. And what of share of today – today it's time of exhibition – of glass and porcelain from India and China."
"Nice pretty offer, I'm surprised, wide charming prospect - fresh and merry, the one of most sincerely demanded."
"In our desolate existence each cause for joy is more than gift, than rare present – from infrequently generous fate, from its impalpable luck's soaring."
"I think, it's moment for to start – if we'll move into voyage right now, we'll cope not quicker than at midday."
"It shows whole beauty of this region: as soon as you have only got up, you have already to speed up, to build your route and be in hurry. Not for fun we are made, not for calm... At here, in reigning devastation, in bonds of poverty and pains, in never ending growing row of empty paths in vainness, aimlessness and longing, it's silly step to wait for good."
"This static constancy of flaws gives chance to rid own mind from fears, to forget of fragility's curse. True despair is deathless, we've learnt it. As well as wretchedness and gloom."
"At least, some bright longevity's example, at least some space for positive and faith." "Fantastic case, I have to point. Purest mix of best feelings and hopes, so much unlimitedly leaking from any crack and every hole."
Having stopped hard and stubborn consuming of immaculate irony's fruits, the heroines have gathered own bags and proceeded to measured journey, having tricklessly wandered up.
And again boring bus and long ride and again peaceful finish of voyage.
In the midst of perplexed city's square are meekly yearning in festivity and noise vast gray pavilions of swarming exhibition. Above of low and narrow entrance is shyly hanging motley poster: "The newest Porcelain and Glass." Well, chosen target is already overtaken.
Inside, in ordinary boredom with decent admixture of crowd, are neatly standing wooden shelves, thickly crammed with most different plates and decorated cups and bowls, diluted by few rare installations of timid painting, depicting short and skimpy plots of accomplished historical times. Among of flock of faceless muzzles, sticking out from general herd, it's madly difficult to notice and distinguish so much annoyingly infrequent indisputably suitable for love. It's not surprising and not new, humanity is picturesque at now – one freak is walking next to other, with the third, early one, onto hands. We have great lack of real people, of flawless natures and frank souls.
So, now, having sorted people's garbage, quite tired and exhausted with such deal, Lydia Andreevna has sharply dared on straight actions and, having abruptly moved forward, with usual easiness and flame and into sure inward ardor proceeded to erecting of acquaintance.
"I'll allow to my violent soul to risk and occupy your time – with my own person and attempt of new relations."
"Fine pretty business, I will say."
"I know, it's average I'll answer – completely trivial, but cute."
"One little tragedy – I'm having to refuse: by will of being and fate's plot, I'm married for not less than than ten of years and even have one lucky pair of promptly growing little childs. For you it's, maybe, piercingly annoying, but world is made by someone else and not each day fulfills all wishes, as well as not each day involves in joy, but I heartfully want all the best – both for you and all rest of warmth's seekers."
"Goodbye." - has numbly uttered perplexed discouraged woman and with fresh feeling of upsetness returned again to guarding figure of own timidly waiting companion: "Let's step. The play today is over. As always with one void into hands. New time to cry and to regret - life's feast was mercilessly cutted. Swift attempt, swift defeat. Just as usual."
And now, with deariness in eyes and on unreachably long distance from any previous delight, two wholly fortuneless doomed ladies have humbly trudged in gradual retreating from failed and finished loving hunting.
"One bare apathy, one pain. The only sediment of living." - has feebly sighed failed poor creature with disappointment in voice, without last of melted hopes refilling heart with usual sorrow.
"Once again new dramatic refusal?"
"Most straight and doubtless, than any. All meets and choices in this case were unpreventably completed, and not just recently, but firmly long ago. True luck gets occupied in seconds..."
"One nude futility, as always, one tart vexation, vast and deep - as main of fruits, results and feelings in current tireless reducing of daily vanishing fate's weight, in swamp of uselessness and grayness, of reigning barenness and flaws, where joys are alien and needless, as something shameful, weird and wrong."
"Come on, such tragedies are endless. What's more, this state is rather old. That's why, let's step in walls of home, in inescapable sad hugs of timeless emptiness and languor, the only waiting of locations for undemanded straying souls."
"I'm still appalingly amazed with your mad limitless persistence, with unbeatable bottomless thirst for new adventures and relations."
"I've just got used to life's conditions. This world is something made of shit, of decomposing hellish abyss, what shyly means, at least for me - don't hope and stably strive ahead."
"Anyway you are stunningly strong... I've never been so obstinate and willful – for me it's surely unreal with my depression, timidness and fright."
"We're born for vanity, for nothing. Such coy acceptance saves from pain, from stupid deeds and expectations, be more free – all is killed. Killed or spoiled."
And again dreary trip into void. And again greedy bitterness' bloom. All you want – just to cry – more and more. But taste of optimism is deathless and, having fallen into pit of fresh rejection, full of sufferings Lydia Andreevna, with morbid stubbornness and matchlessly brisk ardor, so deftly seasoned with returned immortal craving for tempting dreams of cherished love, has easily forgotten of all doubts and, having masterfully noticed at own distance first vacant guy in huge brimmed hat, without hesitance in pace and with great readiness for chatting in fervid speediness involved in conversation.
"Good day and tenderest of greetings – with sweet infinity of warmth and keenest sea of frank affection, the very one I'm shyly wanting to get in order of response." - with leaking heartfulness has stretched soft trembling voice.
"Not bad, quite skillful undertaking. Rich, nice and flawlessly amazing, but I don't like your tawdry muzzle and don't appreciate such trash, what means shut up and go away. Leave this place and forget of returning. As soon as possible, I'll add."
At here confused dumbfounded lady, bemused by harshness of plot's growth, with hurting ponderous oppression, has limply and impassively retreated, having stopped next to shocked scared comrade: "Quite predictable scene, I will notice. Not my day, not my play. Nothing strange."
"Why are they all so madly cruel, so madly violent with you?"
"Believe, they always are the same - with all and everyone they know. New days are filled with human rubbish, new lost and piteous society is elementarily sick, it can give you one pain, one regrets, one pit of endlessly deep horror – without bottom or escape."
"Eh, fate, ill festival of losses. Eh, world, dead factory of grief..."
"Each life has taste of tragedy, of burden. In dreary hugs of damned modernity's nightmare we spend own shares just for fuss, for purest emptiness and void – with tons of bitterness and sorrows, so amply blooming at each step, and with frustratingly firm wrongness, the only dominant at now."
"So it is, I accept your concern. All of basics and laws are just broken, greatly crooked and transformed in disease, in hellish swamp of gloom and vices, so sternly chained by reigning fading and inappropriate for good, for inner blossoming of soul and sure easiness of thinking."
At this meek route has finally extended and fixed itself at gray bus stop. Few static minutes of calm waiting, and modest voyage has invited back to home. Pale boring city, weak and tired, has unhurriedly started to pass into faceless and dim square window. Lonely time has effortlessly stretched and got timidly lost in weels' rustling. Not the best of life's days, not most fruitful. Just the same as all rest term of fate. Unforgivable, vain and resultless. What for it moves, to which of hazed and distant prospects... Each day performs new dose of war – between reality and wishes, new dose of hopelessness and murk. It would be excellently nice to give free noose to every human, as most demanded and most kind of any types of help and care.

VI
And again coy and silent apartment with wistful pair of two friends and drowsy measured discussion. Arseny Dmitrievich is sitting next to wall and, feebly looking right at Viktor Anatolyevich, without passion in own voice describing flawed and barren being, exposed as root of all worst griefs: "Still how much meager is true meaning, true weighty purpose, aim or sense... How sadly rare, shy and will-less... How unbearably far, torn and splitted from current course of our living, from daily deeds, events and matters, which form main volume of existence and serve exclusively as freely opened source of unrestrainable soon fading of any prospects, plans and goals."
"So it is, such affairs are timeless. Do not be fooled by expectations, this life is painful type of circus – without any of sane laws and with full bunch of hardest problems. We're left in chaos, in pure abyss – with endless permanence of vainness and deathless dominance of fuss, with taste of incorrigible despair, of heavy bitterness and absence of escape. But even here, in bloom of horror, we have to hope and to survive, to move ahead and fight with wrongness. Each fate at now is heap of losses, of swarming troubles and omissions, so madly lavish, tart and strong. It's inconsolable to feel it, to pass through thinking and through heart. But seeds of reason, mind and progress can ripen into any of conditions, even right into vacuum's thickness. Do not look at surrounding wrecking, at restless agony and merciless destruction, at amply blossoming mistakes and growing prevalence of evil. The more dark is night's murk, the more rare are lanterns. If you've indeed got truly lost, you'll never get returned to past existence, as well as never will be healed from curse of doom. Whole life is just an average delusion, just an uninteresting primitive example of not so skilful and believable deception, the very one, which, by the way, can be quite doubtlessly beaten – by force of friendship with own brain."
"What can be chosen as salvation, as key to personal perfection and path to harmony with fate, with course of days and play of fortune, so greatly alien and hazed at unpredictable crooked now, both shaky, valueless and dead, where faith in happiness itself is just a vague breathless ghost, completely helpless, frail and barren..."
"Do not be puzzled or afraid, if you're unable to believe in being happy, such joyless manner of perception is rather natural and normal in newly actual world's frames. What's more, for chances on luck's presence, you don't have even minimal need in beliefs into pointless better, all you really need for success – to believe in yourself and stay free – from sick and purposeless life's swamp, so tightly holding our shares in ring of uselessness and shit. That's why stay far from pit of living, from chains of grayness, dirt and hatred, shy away and maintain longest distance, be ashamed to belong to this system, to be imprisoned in its hugs and filled with common decomposing. Leave away any bonds of existence, slip aside from environment’s rave – prefer coy cradle of uniqueness, most pure, immaculate and sane from any methods of own rescue. Don't forget, any globalism's coffin gets fixed by nails of independence. Cheap mindless unity with bottom is path to dying, to self end, to inner perishing and wilting, to slow transforming into dust, disgraced, dishonored and empty in any stories, twists and plots."
"It's rather difficult to sharpen awl of self in bag of commonly impersonal days' routine..."
"At here rely on own soul's features, on individual addictions and inward qualities of heart, on mental strivings and mind's weightness, on saving features of its essence and meaning's heaviness and strength. With truly decent needs and wishes and high impeccable requests you'll freely reach all possible of prospects. In such affairs, as you see, luck's scale depends on single firmness, on depth of zeal and width of plans. That's why be stubborn and stay calm, preserve tranquility and prudence and always move ahead and up. Each storm, as well as any frenzy, brings good fruits and results for emotions, for flame of fervidness and passion, for head it works as sure poison, most fatal, merciless and tart."
"Peace is weak, sadly short and deceptive..."
"What's more each longly lasting peace by some of bad offensive reasons one a day gets transformed into anxiety's bloom."
"But where to get at least a particle of chances, where to buy this saint marvelous ticket to further blossoming, prosperity and bliss..."
"Any chance gets own roots from life's thickets, from rave and chaos of events and from diverse and motley heap of rambling occurrences, meetings and occasions, by random gathered in fate. But mind sometimes is also rather helpful – in role of catcher of sweet luck. Whole task is absolutely simple and unambiguous in primitive insides: all you have – to be straight and persistent and to stay undebatably ruthless to any falsehood, negative and wrongness. The thinnest harmony is needed not for figure, not for waist or details of your style, but for mind's working and for ladder of ideas. But brain is also shaky helper, as well as thought in own shy turn is such an awful irksome lady, whose moral principles are rid of any brakes. Good sense of measure, by the way, is at all something fully illusive, directly fictional and sorely unreal. What's inexcusably depressing, all other qualities are bottomlessly trifling."
"For me most sad is fact of vainness, of tragic absence of wide hope: the more experienced and prudent you become, the more dramatic are your cases of confusion."
"All is so."
"Such state is killingly offensive – till morbid trembling and hysterical attacks, what's else it's madly lavish and prolific on painful consequences, outcomes and worries, which so much frequently can butty all your prospects."
"Once again you are right - all is vague. Each fate is owned by one nude fortune – quite trashy instrument, I'll say. And only troubles are sincere, are pure and honest in own acts – much more than any ones of virtues."
"I know, here tragedies and griefs are not just spices of this being, but its most main and heavy dish."
"What else to take from living abyss, from pit of garbage, fuss and sorrows, where any single seeking share is nothing more than pass to road in vast obscurity and murk. Such route through hardships and omissions, through fading, blossoming and mist of expectations is not a source of opportunities and progress, but vice versa just an endlessly hard burden. You can't replace sky's dome by scope of roof, as well as can't explain life's essence, can't detect all its genuine truths, can't curb with storm of centuries and seconds, which are unceasingly composing thin muted tissue of time's curtain, so deftly stretched to long infinity's horizons. Without lenient and hospitable share, profusely seasoned with great measure of thick luck, you'll never reach the best of treasures of fleeting cradle of earth's stage, as well as never will attain right understanding of even particle of previous events. But life itself with all own amply growing plenties is rather primitive and gray, it lies of miracles and heights, of real volume of true values, of promptly doable success, its inner principles are frighteningly simple, extremely meager and mechanically dead. Life's problem is a problem of big stone – it's hard to roll it, if it's lying, and even harder to stop down, if it's already full of rolling. You'll never change it, cut or fix."
"It's sadly hurting for acceptance, for humble packing into mind."
"Bright mind is medal of three pounds. For reckless birds, as all we know, even sky is not more than small cage. If you will guess of all of secrets, you'll rid oneself of last desire to exist, it will be interestless, tasteless. Both life and death are sorts of product, sometimes quite needful and expensive and sometimes fully trashy and vain..."
"How much bad is this lost sinful world..."
"This all is only for better, I'm supposing. World is not simply bad, all is deeper, it's straightly horrible and scarily disastrous, illustratively wrong and unfixably broken. Life's frames will barely be worse, such ones are spoiled so much firmly, that no of possible nightmares will ever shake some local basics. Here pain and emptiness are air of existence, you cannot skip them or ignore, can't chose some other living soil. In such regrettable conditions you have no reasons to expect, to bloom inside and build plans' towers, you vice versa try to be most fully ready to any sorrows, injuries and losses, but life is outstandingly neat shooter, who always staying tightly close, in tiny seconds masterfully burying all rests of splendor and success. At first, you wait for something worthy, preserving heart in keen anticipation, and then your plans in one of days get transformed into average rubbish. All things are cunningly two-faced. All steps are dangerous and vain. Each truth is doubtful and foggy. For poor citizens dried river is a grief, and for geologists – a present..."
"But it's so tempting - to believe, to wait and hope with whole soul's force..."
"Each hope is quite experienced seducer. It works as magnet into abyss, in tart and crazy pool of rave, which's always watery and barren. And then one emptiness... One sadness. With finished fate and wasted time. We all drag paths by single scheme – from small till great and back to nothing. Such a course gets disturbed by one death."
"It's madly scary to behold it, to stay in thickness of surrounding you gloom. To see all monsters of reality's performance, to feel all wrongness and all risks. To know, that any of short moments is terrifyingly important and full of influence on fate. It's so unbearable and painful to hold this overwhelming dreary burden of everlasting timeless duty, of sick necessity to act, to move through river of new hardships and breathe with morbid bloody spirit of constant readiness for struggle."
"This hellish presence of importance is fruit of inwardly formed faith. At here you ardently get called to keep own rightless forced involvement in one or other fatal play, you're called to suffer from compassion, to take new risks and sacrifice your life, to give free help to lost in troubles and to ask to pay help for yourself, you're called to die at needless war for fates and happiness of people, who have themselves arranged war's start. They call your will-less trustful soul to gain fresh pointless beliefs and spend all strengths, efforts and strivings for wholly false and empty values, for something endlessly deceptive, but mistakenly taken for true. All you have – only bunch of convictions, only vague and breakable ghost of shortly actual assurance, which's always indistinguishably hazed and amply seasoned with environment of crowd, of fully heartless hungry herd of rotten, fallen, crooked and brainless. You have to get quite firmly learned to give most merciless refusals and to be flawlessly equipped with immense scopes of purest hatred. Without talented possession of these majestic priceless skills you'll promptly find yourself at bottom or, what's much sadder, in own grave. Forget at all of any kindness, throw off humanity's damnation. And don't believe in all around. True luck is fruit of accident and fortune, of one invisible nude chance, most unreliable and disloyal naughty from of all world's things, phenomena and spheres."
"But chance is also not too splendid. It can't fulfill all vital wishes, can't please all widening requests, can't make you satisfied and sated, as well as can't protect from griefs."
"It's sense of life – to bring us panic, to tease, seduce and leave in fools. So it works, so it's built, formed and managed. You'll never fix it, never solve."

VII
With sadness greeting homeless winds, forlornly wandering around, were meekly staying tired lands. Thin heaven's veil, depressed and dreary, docily spreading long pale tent of deep and pensive liquid grayness, was slowly plunging in fog's clothes, quite coldly breathing with despondency of wilting, enshrouding nature into morbidness and chill of unemotionally fading spoiled weather, so tartly filled with joylessness and gloom, nude shameless twilight and extinction, encaged all latitudes in pain of unforgivably burned season. Downcastly and indifferently yearning in bleak coy dungeons of small room, right in midst of habitual emptiness, was gently melting in oblivion and thoughts lost Elena Vasilievna's person, exhausted, wistful and unhappy from daily loneliness and permanence of routine: "Eh, being's bitterness, world's sorrow. What for my mortal seeking soul has been so hopelessly forgotten in nasty thickets of life's swamp? What for has I appeared in this horror? In place, which's unfamiliar with light, with pleasures' ampliness and prevalence of better. So much wrong, so much sick is fate's game. So much rude was that yesterday's case with my pitiful Lydia Andreevna, so much filthy and low, I am shocked. Do we have any chance to be happy, to feel own weightness, sense and rights, to live for miracle, for greatness, for something absolutely good, for days of prudence, flight and blooming, for frankness, purity and love, for vast fidelity and keenness, for deathless unity of hearts, for inner blossoming and fruitfulness of plans, for global easiness and brightness. I want some source of expectations, some strong sane reason to exist... At here it seems as certain fiction. As just a set of barren words. At here, in aimlessness and torments, in dirt, deception and distress, we have one dreariness, one losses, one thick and endless sea of murk. And all you're able – just to sink, to turn in nothing and get buried. What's sad, it's really most sweet. I have to cry again, I'm guessing... Eh, fate. Eh, hellishness of world..."
The heroine has taken lonely sigh and finally dissolved in inward languor. Nothing morbid at all, just free thoughts.


VIII
Apartment. Dialogue. Gloomy speech. Arseny Dmitrievich is full of shy broadcasting: "How madly rambling, separated and disjoint is this dead, cracked and alien world, how indescribably divided in disconnected bunch of parts, which are incapable on unity's supporting. Have it sense to exist in such abyss? In so much fatal vainness' pit, which's inexcusably remote from any weightness, depth and prudence."
"This world's disunity, I'll say, is mainest glue of our being. Of course, at first it looks as nonsense, but, if to pay more apt attention, you'll rather easily agree, that such conclusion is quite sober. Among of myriads of splinters, each sort of aim is not for long, each storm, each tragedy or horror is just a tiny fleeting case - the one of many hundreds others, as well as any source of luck is also just short temporary matter, which can't be copied or preserved. And only dominance of fuss, with constant vagueness and hurry, will save own permanence forever, for more than centuries ahead." - has sighed with sadness and dispassion meek and soft interlocutor's voice.
"How to think of prosperity's making in so improper burdensome conditions, how to move and go up..."
"When you are obviously dying, you must be easy and relaxed, be concerned of appropriate music, right smooth background and free mood. If you are sharing being's bottom, you are already rid of future and turned in breathless piece of dust, in something definitely hopeless in stern inhospitable frames of cold and alien life's abode. Be more wise – do not wait for own better. Don't climb by ladder of mistakes, of self-destruction and regretting, by route of sorrows, pains and griefs and row of torments, dirts and losses. Do not rely on nude persistence, do not rush, if it hurts, act by head, faith in mind and deny any madness, shy away from tight brainlessness' nets, bet on growth, on development's treasure. In storm of fate it can be hard, but mind gets used to being beaten, gets used to dominance of failures and lack of sanity and grace. The very marvel of mind's presence is close to presence of umbrella – it can be helpful into rain, in squall of downpour's disaster, but not in period of flood. The only remedy from all is warmth of friendship with luck's care, which, by the way, is also scanty and not each day accepts your prays. But still don't stop and follow further – believe, you'll never end your life by immortality's attaining, what means, that troubles aren't eternal, that any problems will pass by."
"It cannot heal you, can't console, can't fill with light of inspiration, I have one darkness, one despair, one tart and stubborn taste of grief – in all, in any of my moments, and even memories are poisoned, defamed and blackened by decay..."
"Each of things can be easily broken, mixed with dirt and torn off from past bloom, all can die, all can fade and get crumbled. World itself is surprisingly shaky – much more than writings on wet sand or vague figures made of thickenings of fog."
"What's also sad all facts are false, two-faced and utterly delusive..."
"Each calm is leader into storm, skilled cunning bait of next disasters. As well as any flawless kindness is just a wood for evil's flame. Escape's attempt in such a context is nothing more than purest act of brisk flirtation with own chasers. Each ship is lover of sea's abyss, of bottom's cradle and dead depths. Each brain is brainlessness' creator. This fact is terrible and fatal. But true degree of being human is much more stronger than world's cage. Much stronger than your fears or addictions. Be firm and never sink in doubts. Perplexion's winds, as all we know, can blow exclusively in opposite direction. Each fright is deficit's predictor. It comes to rob you, to make rid – make rid of something valuable and precious. It comes to break you, to destroy. Life is tricky and cold, wrong and morbid, its swamp of losses works as hell: if it takes someone’s soul in own ruling, it never copes to leave it back."
"It's rather hard to live and not to shiver, to stay in frames of neat control..."
"Choose priceless principle of inward epicenter - spin whole world's scope around self. Don't look at lost and useless others, stay above of their purposeless mass, don't waste time with this meaningless herd."
"Such herd is measurelessly cruel, disgusting, low and full of hatred."
"Their scale of hatred shocks and puzzles, they hate all visible of objects, hate life, hate presence of each other, hate friends, companions and partners, but in the hugest of degrees they hate crooked valueless themselves. They are able to rot, to get worn, to spend own fate on filth and fuss, they can't belong to something deathless, to something spotless, pure and high, can't feel saint flame of exaltation, of frank necessity in flight, of thirst for greatness and perfection, for new unmatchably magnificent requests and blameless plentiful expressions. Damned people's breed in modern days is irreparably distorted, it's wholly mortified and burnt in every single inward corner, in each small area of soul, they are terribly wrong into all – in any startings, qualities and features, in each of deeds, attempts and steps – in work, in rest, in dreams or plans, in thinking's manner, in relations, in range of aims, demands and needs, in hopes' erecting and in faithings. The last ones are especially depictive and full of brightly picturesque details. God's viewing is the best of any mirrors, of any portraits of your soul. And God of people is pure monster, pure blown up bubble of world's evil, which's even barely not linked with something holy, with something merciful and kind or something innocent and sinless. The very way of God's perception gives most excessive of descriptions of real essence of heart's depths, in term of several short seconds without any of efforts revealing up for vast observing all hidden cradles, gaps and nooks of swiftly parted with all masks true face and width of person's nature, which most predictably is occupied by shit in current century of feasting decomposing. That's why shy off from showing pity, from gifting care or support. Be rude and ruthless as vexed beast with nasty garbage of surrounding society, knead with sole this sick nauseous mass, bring them pain, seed regrets and plant sorrows, gain worst griefs at each meter of land – do all, what normally does being and treat with humans right as life – with greatest violence and rigor, and never justify their flock. They all are absolutely lost – whole immense bunch of endless copies is firmly putrefied and dead. They can't be suitable for good, as well as can't be changed or rescued. They can be buried, killed, erased, but nothing else and nothing better..."
"Quite ugly creatures, I agree."
"Just as life, which maintains thinnest balance – the one oppresses and destroys, the other keeps obedient endurance."
"This world is definitely mad."
"It was the same from first of moments. And believe to my griveous words, its main of basics will stay steady. Here lie and cynicism are firstly meeting fillers of any sort and type of moral. As well as laws in own wrong turn are biggest lawlessness creators. Life's blooming bounty of rights is most abundantly and amply overweighted by lavish prevalence of duties and by thick tartness of sad truths. And God and devil, by the way, are not companions or workmates, but straight contestants for free souls. What's most deplorable, result each time is one – full total victory of evil. So be in always doubtless assurance, that sprouts of vices, sins and filth will calmly ripen and get spreaded at any variant of soil, even deeply in midst of dead vacuum's cradle. And any flawlessly pure heart can be transformed in perfect shelter for worst atrocities and crimes. In fact from all of things of being no one can cope with role of timeless goodness, of final reference embodiment of greatness, of highest correctness and bliss. It's rule of work of earthly cradle and root of biggest of regrets and of most sizable of sorrows..."
"How to hide own shy fate from this hell..."
"At first, at least, do all, what's only able, for not to build this hell yourself. Keep in mind, any possible devil comes here exclusively as guest. As well as God is just a compass, a guide to suitable direction, which into pair with appropriate conditions has chance to lead your fate in better, in precious dominance of luck. If you'll succeed in this small art of daily following for heaven, you'll find own fate at one of roads, which have own finish not at bottom. But swarm of troubles is quite tricky and with not hardest of efforts can grab your share even there. That's why don't waste imputed time and try to stay in constant hurry – in rushing up to new commitments, to new attainments, heights and joys. Don't forget, priceless victories taste after passionless point of death will be left for unstoppable others, you'll never savor it again away of frames of this sinned being."
"It's rather difficult to guess – what's aimed to rescue you and save and what – to kill and to make useless..."
"Each devil has most angelic of features and always carries God-like face. Don't trust to anything you see, as well as never wait for better. Most wise of choices is deep panic, you can't relax here, can't get rest. Each peace is breakable and fleeting, each luck is frighteningly short. All you have – only vagueness, fog. And any sufferings and tears are fruits of inappropriate wrong laught, of empty thoughtlessness and hollow stupid wishes. But what's more funny, time from time griefs' mass is also rather helpful: if you are going just for one – to shoot apt bullet in own head and to let shy brain's drops in swift dance, you'll barely will try to hang yourself."
"But this is horribly not easy to cope with hurricane of life, to find some bridle for its storms and to get marvel of control..."
"It's nothing else than fruit of weakness, of extra timidness and fright, we always lose from own attention, that fate for us is not a player, but an average tamable toy. For smart of people such a state is undeniably explicit. But be more careful and thoughtful, stay cold to any of temptations. Keep in mind, in most deep of its depths, that devil offers you one sweetness, one bright prosperity and peace, the very one, which sows all wars."
"As I have burden to behold, this devil is the main God's child, and people - just miscarriages, not greater."
"I have to greet you with applause, such highly brilliant position is certain rarity and questionless straight treasure."
"It doesn't help to climb to truths..."
"At here you need in positive example. Each eye, which has been pierced by truth, will never look at lie and falsehood. If you've got flawlessly assured in feasibility of joy, of true tart happiness and pleasure, you'll never seek for something else. But into absence of this practice, you'll stay in horror of regrets, in static darkness and oppression. The more small and more shy is your boat, the more devotedly you'll act in bonds with sea."
"World's scales are absolutely endless, life's hugs are bottomlessly vast, we'll never curb this boiling abyss as well as never will get rest..."
"It's true, we're measurelessly rightless and what's more – all fate's plenties are locked. Each path is filled with tons of stones, time's pace is abrupt, rough and risky, all given miracles and heights are wholly valueless and dummy, any chance is forgivelessly short. But we still hope and try to faith, with morbid zeal and needless fervor renewing purposes and plans, which by sad magic of conditions will never manage to come true. We are addicted to be trustful, to be too gullible and limp, to fall in dremingness or doubts, to rush for uselessness and trifles and to get used to lack of sense. Sharp greedy craving for some logic is much more strong than bleak mind's flame. Sick piercing thirst for understanding, for having proper explanation of every moment, step and fact compels to strive for further knowledge, for precious taste of new attachment to being's secrets and days' laws. But last ones never show own essence, as well as never bring you luck. Anyway, if you'll cope with life's learning and get such rare priceless treasure of higher unity with world, you'll never lose this or forget – as distinct scar, affixed in body and glued to surface of its skin."
"I know, that happiness is mighty, but it exists not more than seconds and warms exclusively by chance..."
"Dream's candles never burn for long. That's why soul's dungeons are quite murky, forlorn and chained in coldness' cage. As well as limits of mind's cradle are wholly joyless, dark and strained."
"This damned lost world is just unready to be happy."
"It's not unready, it's unable. We have too much of tools and methods for getting everything we need, for easy, prompt and flawless solving of any problem, need or task. But wrongness blooms at every corner and keeps own growing as before, we are apparently distorted, concretely broken and unhealthy. Or simply primitive and skill-less. Or even absolutely mad. I think, one day we'll find some cause. But do not think, we'll ever fix it."

IX
Among of damp and dreary winds, in midst of gray and lonely vastness of faded colorless landscape, right behind of pale bottomless whiteness of faintly grayish endless sky, so amply filled with reigning sadness, thick faceless heaps of pensive fog are slowly falling from heights' abyss with meek indifference in pace involving coy and sleepy places in static wistfulness and haze. Strict bloodless features of surrounding despair are getting clearer and sharper, encaging wet and murky district  in cold oblivion and gloom, so freely blooming in streets' void. By old and cracked exhausted pavement is humbly wandering ahead through swarms of dense and spacious shadows frail frightened silhouette of girl – of neatly lost in timeless slush, stuffed with boredom Elena Vasilievna, who is habitually walking by breathless boulevard's expanses.
"The weather has unfixably got spent. Eh, autumn, autumn, pain and weakness, harsh speedy wilting and rich rains. With no of mood, or warmth or prospects... And once again I've dragged in wilderness' embraces..."
The heroine has lowered her gaze and smoothly stepped away across of puddles. And at small tiny point of now, few of bleak and unfriendly blocks later, she has approached calm vacant doors of first appropriate salvatory location – not roomy and not glorious cafe, with unremarkable shy pair of two pacific tasteless statues on vast voluminous pedestals of dense and heavy blocks of stone. Insides are hospitably warm, not rich, but pretty and laconic. At low and shabby whitish ceiling are feebly hanging into temperate keen waiting huge nimbly squinted ancient lamps with slightly twisty massive horns, quite gently strengthened and completed by dim and morbid yellow bulbs. Thin nets of numb and moveless atmosphere are mild and pleasantly attractive, time's river is surprisingly distracted, completely watery and far, with immense tons of purest sadness upscaled till absolute perfection in own amount, weight and force. Glad vivid visitors are rare, involved in resting with own food – the most demanded type of hobby in current tragedy of days.
The heroine has promptly gazed around:
"Again it's time of autumn's season. Of rains, nude apathy and winds. Again new fogs and new depression. New slush and old familiar despair – the most devoted and most mighty from all the row of inner states. With one desire to get lost, to melt in murk and disappear. And time predictably runs up, refreshing facts and changing plots, creating goals, requests and wishes and killing hopes, beliefs and dreams. Life's line can be exclusively straightforward – with greedy spending of own warmth and tragic moving in nowhere, without chances of repeating and with no prospect of return. Is this indeed completely real and undeniably most true, that all events of my short being are just a tiny weightless part of endless permanence of world, of indestructibly firm basics of global history of all, of something measurelessly bigger than trifling frames of human fate. Are all vast centuries of victims, of constant sufferings and pain without any greatest error fulfilled for limitlessly long, for whole infinity of future – the very one, which can't be tamed, disturbed or stopped or cleaned from horrors. Do all of deeds, events and stories take place in first and last of times? Have I not been myself before? Have I not spent few hundreds lifes in lots of ways and roles and manners... Have I not trampled this sinned earth in many previous of fates, have I not breathe with its sweet air, have I not look in motley faces of these chaotic fussy swarms of deft and restless swirling crowds... Am I not more than sudden grain among of universe's plenty, is grief quite possible and close, is every moment of mine living prescribed and written not by God, but by pure accident and fortune, am I not more than will-less drop of dead dried sea of this existence, am I not more than aimless flash in common darkness of wrong being, is all it serious and real... Is worst and dreariest just near..."
The lady has emotionlessly shrunk and sadly looked in window's abyss. Behind of thin and trembling curtains is stably reigning  joyless weather, with boring ring encaged damp lands. All is lifeless and wet, all is hopeless.
"New autumn torment gives own nets. New pain is ready and prepared."
Soon faint and calm, but friendly voice has interrupted act of thinking: "I'll let myself to steal your time and to distract your coy attention." - has sighed unknown youthful man with certain shyness in own tone: "I don't believe in games of fortune, but by some reason was unable to pass aside and miss your face... Allow to me to fill next chair and proceed to kind of talk..."
"Can it happen like that, I'm surprised." - has thought perplexed and gladed lady, who with firm blossoming inside has made short pause and then responded: "Yes, sit and tell me all you want."
"I am just sitting."
"All this is shocking and amazing..."
"For me the same. As you can see, I'm also timid, strained and doubting..."
"Well, pretty weakness, I approve you. Nice plot – two lost and needless shares and precious unity for both."
"They'll never break it, never part us..."
"Great, pretty prospect, I am pleased."
"Each soul is madly greedy magnet, most tempting, tireless and strong. If you've got trustfully attached, way back is definitely wasted."
"Cute charming givenness, seems lucky."
"I all my life am vainly looking for simple happiness and joy, for frank and honest reciprocity of feelings and blameless harmony of hearts, but all of times I get mistaken..."
"Mistakes are leaders into order, in next completeness and success. Sometimes we're needing just in them."
"What an infrequent fresh approach, and I was never even guessing, they are so useful for next share. I'll try to count each of them and to appreciate as treasure."
"I think, it's time to get some bliss. I'd like to order kind of juice and I am ready to consume not less than volume of full bucket."
"I would be also greatly glad to have such variant of leisure. Just name your favourite of tastes."
"The one, which's hidden in pineapple."
"For me it's also most exciting, you've coped to copy my own choice."
"What an amazingly cute sameness. Not less than personal fate's blessing of our further heartful plot."
"I'm also pleasurably shocked and even notably dumbfounded."
"In fact true magic is quite near, the only task is just to pay apt and attentive type of glance..."
"All heavy takes own roots from weightless. Without presence of luck's flame, you'll never fill own life with purpose, with real happiness and sense, the only priceless and immortal from all acquirements and states. We need exclusively in fortune, in little drop of being's smile, which serves as key from all of doors and helps to reach all types of prospects."
"Huge mighty matter, even scary... Your words are bottomlessly right. But two forlorn and thirsty souls are themselves stubborn source of keen twists."
"I agree, inward craving can smash, can stuff each nook of seeking nature and rid of every sober thought. And this mad power of involvement is not less dominant than God..."
"The best description of wild passion, you are immeasurably apt. Free soul is able just to love, for other deeds it's straightly useless..."
"It's so desired to be loved, to feel these bonds of pure delight, of shameless unity and soaring – above of everything and all."
"It looks as art – to get succumbed to any call of inner wishes..."
"It looks as happiness, I'll add..."
"Shall we try?"
"Yes, at ease."
"Take me all, tempt and catch."
"With invisible nets of seduction?"
"Yes, with them. And at once."
"Sweet storm keeps promise to be endless."
"Fine lovely story, let's proceed."
"With immense pleasure, let's go crazy!"
And now, in hugs of common bonds, they've meekly fallen into hopes and trudged in fairy tale of dreamings, the only place where all is good.

X
Without fancy fading sky, most thickly framed with deepest boredom, has humbly and submissively enveloped whole space of pale and sleepy vastness of numb and colorless wet places of cold and faceless autumn world, so sadly frozen in despair and amply flooded with tart grayness and painful feeling of alarm, of speedy wilting and nude dying – of all heartwarming, bright and happy. Dense hateful thoughtfulness and sorrow have strongly caged weak breathless days, already ready to be buried.
Among this featureless assemble, in pit of hopelessness and gloom, is calmly walking timid couple – Arseny Dmitrievich and Elena Vasilievna, by fate connected in firm oneness.
"How greatly nice it really is – to be in pair with each other, in timeless harmony and bliss." - has stretched the hero with excitement: "You are my mainest talisman."
"It's rather tempting, that I'm main. But do you have some secondary others?" - has asked the lady with surprising.
"The main and only for whole term of further living. Without copies or replacements and with full dominance in all."
"Then love and cuddle, pet and cherish."
Arseny Dmitrievich has happily embraced her and pulled himself to glad girl's face: "How madly sweet in your saint cradle."
"Just taste this joy, I'm wholly yours."
The man has reasonably nodded.
"Pure flawless paradise, not less." - has told the heroine through pleasures.
And then way back in bonds of home - in bed and mutual enjoyment.

XI
And again tragic passionless picture of old and shabby dreary views of bleak and lonely faceless district of also similarly joyless and plunged in wistfulness and thoughts shy and doleful Lydia Andreevna. At each of gray and modest sides – one sharp oblivion and sorrow. Among of vastly blooming fading – long tired pillars of crooked lanterns, ingrown and noticeably worn, extinguished quarter of this century ago and keeping now not own light, but one nude symbolism of last one. Cold, promptly thickening wind's waves are briefly sending pensive greetings to sluggish watery landscape, so smoothly mixed with inner languor.
All day is slowly getting spreaded lifeless chill.
By pale and tasteless line of street is coyly walking through of darkness faint weightless silhouette of wandering ahead meek and silent Elena Vasilievna, engaged in lazy art of thinking. Strained dead expanses of dim town are weakly opening numb inwards, so richly flooded with dense haze, involved all visible in fading and fearful readiness to worst.
Route's plot is quite familiar and trickless. With end at hospitable door of always waiting friend's apartment.
"Most warm of greetings to my dear. Now you're rare at here, why it's so?"
"It's fruit of being, of my share – the very one, which baths in bliss in these cold days."
"This is frustratingly mad start, so let's continue from beginning."
"I'll try, if I will cope to find right words. Both joys and miracles take place here and one of them has met my life, it's not so easy to believe, but I have managed to get happy, to rise till highest of fate's skys, till hottest point of soul boiling. Whole plot has twisted with great promptness, from fist of seconds having seemed as something magical and priceless, prescribed exclusively just once and for few ones of flock of humans. As soon as I have spreaded my sad wings and got surrendered to depression, some force has broken my upsetness and thrown in paradise's hugs. From lavish bonds of nowhere has come unknown gentle youth and paid me delicate attention, without tiniest of special efforts having instantly fully enslaved all my lost depths of seeking nature and torn in laces thirsty heart, so badly needing in support, in warmth of care and in fondness. We've faithed in unity and built it. And dream has perfectly come true. As if this hidden dose of luck was planned and skilfully appointed to occur from far time's starting and not less. So all of nooks of my soul's cradle are shining - playfully and freely and sternly asking me for more."
"You've coped to curb with sea of passions, today you're owner of this storm. You've got best victory, best present... And I am changelessly alone with only hope in shaky pair."
"Do not belong to cheerless basics, keep flame of confidence in self. Believe, all great is staying forward."
"Cute advice, maybe, workable, thanks you."
"You see, I've also for whole previous life's part been made exclusively of pain, of hard regrets and sad omissions, of daily wistfulness and searching – resultless, tiresome and vain, but world has kissed me with own heavens and put in center of joys' pit, in certain middle of excitement and hottest point of bliss' peak."
"Where all has happened?"
"In cafe."
"You proof, that wonderful is near."
"And free for everyone and all..."

XII
Arseny Dmitrievich and Elena Vasilievna, so tightly circled by home's coziness and pleasures, are calmly savoring each other and bonds of unity and bliss.
"I want to tell you... Want to ask..." - the hero has quite worriedly begun.
"Yes, ask, you're free to do here all you wish."
"Perceive me as a miracle, I'm begging..."
"This is exactly how I do - from first shy meeting and till now. You are my heaven, my saint angel."
"You too. Your love is sacred treasure, you are my bounty, my gift – the only needed and important from all variety of life's play."
"Let's dive again – in hot immodesty of passions."
"In all-consuming holy heat of unrestrained and lawless lewdness?"
"Oh, yes, in restless lustful frenzy."
"Then I am free from any questions." - hero's eyes have seductively blinked and last thin distance has got vanished, with whole obedience devoting to swirling storm of carnal joys. Arseny Dmitrievich has boundlessly melted in lavish reigning of shamed craving for something delicate and keen, without any hesitation and with full willfulness and zeal replacing thirsty greedy lips to most alluring of locations of his awaiting nude beloved, so amply teeming with sweet wetness of freely spreaded blooming flesh, already calling and inviting in keen and rakish piquant hugs of promptly growing feelings' flurry.
"How madly good." - has breathed the lady at denouement: "You are pure paradise. Pure jewel."
"Life's term is period for pleasures, for dashing permanent delight – undying, bottomless and flawless."
"Your truth is sweeter than all sugars. Be just mine, be all time and each second."
"I will, I definitely will..."

XIII
In stern and faceless heights of dismal firmament's expanses, as small addition to despair, are sadly swimming heavy flocks of cold and pensive rainy clouds, so much depressing, faint and lonely at bleak and colorless background of dead and passionless remains of vanished sensitiveness' masses. In thick indifference of dampness are shyly sinking murky pictures of pale and tiresome relief. Deep static emptiness and silence are numbly hanging over city. Large shaky heaps of vague shadows are meekly gathering in pairs, with coyness dragging by dark streets in trickless traveling ahead in hazy cradle of horizon. Through views of featureless landscape is humbly walking coy and wistful, delved in thinking Elena Vasilievna – with hope in heart and into covering of gladness.
"How sharply good to be beloved, to be just needful, owned and noticed in midst of barren living abyss of pains, omissions and mistakes. Without miracle of love, of holy blossoming of feelings, you have one emptiness, one dust – gray tiny handful of vain trifles, completely fruitless, dull and dead. Without unity of souls of two forever joint partners, transformed in monolith of fates, we all are freed from any meaning, from any slightest weightless sense. In daily fuss of rushing routine, in pit of waiting and regrets, we have one tragic incompleteness, one changeless aimlessness and wrongness of any striving, step and deed. But here, in blossoming of care, in ring of fullest understanding and in affection's beams and rays, I'm truly blooming with each corner, with every smallest inner string – till constant trembling and hard shiver, till peak of possible delight – most bright, frustrating and immortal."
The heroine has hastened own pace – it's time to move own route to home – again to pleasures, peace and warmth:"It's even strange, that I'm not single... And my shy Lydia Andreevna is alone... Not all get kissed by lips of God. But stop... I'm having an idea. My dear sugary Arseny has been saying to me one big fact – that he is having one great friend, who is also alone all his share. It's time to couple them in pair, to bring new happiness, new joy... And then we'll certainly be equal – in most unreachable degree."

XIV
Having skillfully skipped over winter, wet vivid latitudes have met with early spring. Green mellow vastness of landscape is gladly breathing with young freshness of new returning back to life, and daily things with zeal and quickness are getting step in outcomes and fruits. Small cheerful company of people is calmly sitting in large room in deep and passionate involvement in swift and active conversation of last political events. In farest corner, on armchair, right next to square window's space - first of two relative of couples: Lidia Andreevna and Viktor Anatolyevich, who both have notably succeeded in gaining unity and love since lucky bringing in together by supportive and careful hand of Elena Vasilievna's will, and couple opposite to them is made of similar shy lovers – of the very Elena Vasilievna and her faithful unchangeable satellite – most close and bottomlessly native Arseny Dmitrievich, whose person has so firmly glued to his beloved for time from point of acquaintance.
But theme of dialogue at this time is not amorous or playful, but strict and definitely stressful – the talk discusses preparations for future laboring rebellion, assigned to occur into April.
"I'll say, not easiest idea, quite dark and frighteningly hazed." - has shared with opinion and mind perplexed and thoughtful Viktor Anatolyevich: "We'll barely achieve some real things. But your mood brings me optimism's seeds."
"You're right, I'm talking not of prospects. I simply cannot sit in waiting, when my thin salary gets cut. I cannot sit and realize, that at one day I'll be unable of to pay at least for single water drop. I can't accept this fact of robbing. I'm tightly filled with disagreement, with cleanest hatred and tart anger, which grow with every working week. I do not want to look in wallet, as in dead wasteland, freed from all. What for I need to keep weak silence, to keep obeying to this hell. I'm sure, that passivity is fatal, that it's straight road to soon end. We'll go and show them all world's shit. And no one force will ever stop us. We go to struggle not for gold, but for bread's piece and cup of pottage. And I am ready to next hardships, to any punishments and pains. Do not forget of main of basics – all dreams are fruits of some efforts."
"Priceless words, I'm approving." - has stretched firm answer Victor Anatolyevich: "I will participate with you. But I'll confess, I'm less assured in prudent outcomes of this."
"Each riot is thing, which can't be healthy, but other variants are blocked." - has slowly added after pause coy and cautious Lydia Andreevna.
"I agree. We don't have other way. Without strike we'll see no progress." - Arseny Dmitrievich has talked: "But I still faith in decent prospect and into dominance of truth."
"We'll do all planned, I give unquestionable promise. And at unoccupied fine now let's take own route in one location: in walls of cinema – for film." - has made a little merry offer to loafing circling of own friends becalmed and smiling Viktor Anatolyevich: "In any period and age we have to wear mask of brightness, of stern and deathless inner hope, which, if you'll manage to be frank, at sad crooked now is just wasted. Come on, Arseny, let's take way, I'm rather hungry for to move and feed the ladies with amusement."
"Let's, let's, we're thirsty for good joys." - the very ladies have decisively responded.
The heroes have pulled their coats on and drugged ahead to evening show.
The hall is warm and full of people, relaxed and swirling back and forth. Each one is chattering and hustling, creating fuss and hurrying up. The program currently is simple, with one small comedy inside - "Hand in Tit", if to trust to the title. In whitish abysses of mirrors are humbly hiding heaps of haze - impassive, tiresome and lifeless, enclothed in covering of dust, enshrouding space of each cracked surface. Old heavy furniture is worn, pale faceless walls are plain and modest. At shabby vastness of gray ceiling – huge clumsy chandelier with candles. In dark tight corners – short dry palms. Main door is mourningly creaky. At its left side – thin bald controller, of course, with glasses and in suit. So, all is trivial and usual, without any of weird things.
Each guest has occupied own sit and session's time was gladly started, having stopped after two cheerful hours of stuffed with twists and humor plot.
"I like it. Funniest of movies." - has shared Lidia Andreevna with others: "And which opinion have you?"
"Completely bearable impudence. And not without few of jokes." - pleased Viktor Anatolyevich has noticed: "At least somewhere we are laughing. Great priceless progress for today."
"With lack of irony we're hopeless." - Arseny Dmitrievich has nodded: "So, let's trudge home? Back in peace."
"In hugs of evening and small cares. From our group no one is lonely, we all are happy, all are owned."
"We are the happiest, I'm sure."
Owned happy company has clothed and walked ahead in growing darkness. At sides – dense murk of cold night street with rare eyes of blinking lanterns, under feet – rare blackening puddles. Thick dusk, oblivion and sadness. And no of people, no of cars, no of noise or at least muted sounds. Only perfectly emptified wasteland, most deeply motionless and dead with tired steps from gloom to home.

XV
On freshly risen barricade, in smoke, is standing drunk fat citizen with torch and obscene shouting from mouth. Arseny Dmitrievich and Viktor Anatolyevich, with pamphlet's paper and revolvers, are hiding near into crowd - in midst of swiftly boiling frenzy of hungry faces and strong fists.
"I f*ck your mouths, dear rulers." - has screamed excited hoarse employee: "I work for you, unthankful devils, I work – in rivers of own sweat and for one piece of cheapest bread."
"Well, this is ordinary madness. One useless anger and drunk noise." - has stretched sad Viktor Anatolyevich with sorrow: "We have to organize this swarm. It can be possible, I'm guessing."
"We have a pamphlet. Have own claims, have true requirements and targets."
"You are right, but in fact we are nothing. This mindless swamp is wholly lost."
"We must submit them, must get leading and say all actual demands..."
"I'll try. My heart is full of struggling."
"Excuse me! Give me horn and floor. We have a pamphlet. We have plan." - Arseny Dmitrievich has tried to break the lowness.
"Where are you going, piece of bitch? I'm main at here and I'll get money. The biggest salary in life. They'll never pay to every worker, to silent idiots as you. F*ck off, you're poisoning my show."
"Get down. You're absolutely drunk. We have thick pamphlet, have right needs - for all and everyone of here."
"Oh, ram, you didn’t understand me?! You're lousy ship, I'll smash you, wait. This freak has suddenly decided to kill the strike, so let's just kill him."
Drunk masses' flurry has rushed up, unused revolver was kicked out, small scraps of pamphlet have flown down, rough dashing heels have knocked in face. One man has found weighty stone and thrown directly into head. That's end. Worst plot has fully happened.

XVI
In hands of bathed in bitter tears, weak and faceless Elena Vasilievna, is shaking fresh thin issue of newspaper "The vector of the age." On first gray page - large small-scale column "The artel tries to make a Strike": "On Nikodimovskaya artel, last day, most close to time of lunch, has flamed an incident of protest - twelve lawless dozens of the workers have stopped the work and come for strike with desire of salary's rising. The organizer was retired. The size of salary was left without changes, but length of day was notably reduced – on 10 and 15 of the minutes in straight dependence on work skills. Month artel's profit stays with consequences' absence. And if to say of range of victims, we have to point harmlessness of act – three injured and only one killed: a highly qualified employee, Gorbunkov Arseny Dmitrievich. It is noteworthy, no equipment has got damaged. The act has passed without police - local squad has effortlessly coped with own force. Administration shows deep sympathy for rulers of aforementioned enterprise and calls all citizens to meet them with compassion. Shocked worried clergy says the same."
"For what? For what? Explain me, tell... I've named myself completely happy, succumbed to this captivity of joy, to this almighty storm of feelings, of strongest passions, dreams and bliss, devoting everything of me to these most pure and saint relations. For what? Explain to me, for what? I have been living each my moment, each smallest second just for him. I've dedicated each my sigh, each my breath, each my day, all my fondness. I have been loving so much and now everything is crumbled. Today I'm ready for to die. Whole life is lying into grave, whole life is vain and aimless rubbish, whole me is numb and bloodless corpse. Eh, fate, you've killed me, killed and buried. What for? Just tell, at least, what for... "
Elena Vasilievna has trembled and bursted out into ampliest of tears. Past paradise has mercilessly melted.


AFTERWORD:
In cozy room, amidst of carpet, small funny baby spends free time, in yellow pantaloons with long and motley ribbon. At him sits company of three – mom and dad, Lydia Andreevna and Viktor Anatolyevich, and an aunt – Elena Vasilievna, imbued with child, as with her own.
"We'll leave him here. Will you sit for a while? We have to go to the post." - has asked shy Lidia Andreevna with softness.
"Of course. Run up, and we will wait."
Both parents slowly have left. The woman has unhurriedly payed look and gently tried to straighten thick child's hair.
"Aunt Lena, can I be trustful? Just with you..."
"With me... I never will betray you."
"Okay..." - the little one has fallen in short silence: "Which way it's better to describe... I love one girl... But I don't know what to say..."
"Just say – perceive me as a miracle, I'm begging." - has responded Elena Vasilievna and, having turned own head to wall, uncontrollably bitterly sobbed: "Even if not at here and not now, but my kindness will find future way. Who knows, why world is made just so... With joys and sorrows, bliss and pain. I believe, that I live not for nothing. Not for me, not for bloom of myself, but for needed in tenderness others, for someone's dreams and someone's better, for this small kid and for his plans. For something perfect and immortal from all this dusty earthly fuss. I live, believe and know - I'm human – alive, demanded, true and full."





Fall in love with me, life.

I
Not even barely admiting any values, except of absolute successes, Victoria Borisovna, full of zeal and self-confidence lady for all her idly moving life was always living in unshakably wide manner, more wide than any of most widest, without tiniest of seconds of slightest hesitance or fright, staying gladly and happily freed from rather popular dead burden of shyness, doubts and confusion, so sadly native to each heart. Being born in a small skimpy town, at young age of raw 17 years she has hastenly parted to study in vast hugs of far capital city, at surprisingly notable ease and in flawlessly masterful way having got, as the first of world's gifts, most deep and fruitful education, which was assuredly completed by speedy eminent career, with richness stuffed with thirst for progress, for new attainments, heights and merits, so amply growing at her route.
"New day, new period for struggle, for fight with fate and race ahead – to further victories and hardships, to waltz of chances and regrets, of risks, acquirings and losses. I like, that world is made for winners, for ones, who're cherished by success, for harsh and timeless competition for getting everything or death. In restless days of hungry now, we have no right for any claims, for any sluggishness and fear or any calls for someone's help. We have no place and no excuses for lack of power, mind or will. Weaklings' breed is consumable rubbish. We live for labor and survival, for taste and shining of new feats, of future glory and next splendor. Most main of sources of support is you yourself and your persistence, your faith in better and in luck. We all are absolutely free - in every choice and every striving: wrong ones, unsuitable and dull, prefer to doubt, crawl and pray, and proper ones, unflawed and brainy – to pay resistance, fly and rule. For losers worthlessness is pleasure, such trash will always cling to bottom, to dirt, deception and vain fuss. And me was born for heights and only, for purest excellence and grace, all rest is garbage, dust and nothing, disgusting, purposeless and dead."
The lady has unhurriedly got up, performed short simple rite of yoga, then drunk fresh-made pineapple juice and, having wrapped own flesh in clothes, gone up to cradle of own work. The heroine, what's easy to predict, was working into place, of course, not simple, but in the main Accounts Chamber - in almost Mecca of free money and tart unbounded success. Great lavish place, if to be honest. But for immodest proud soul of our wicked and naughty beauty, it was quite trivial and tasteless, as any other usual job.
At street enjoyable June freedom – serene and tender summer heat with sunny whitening zenith and cozy somnolence of nature. Warm sticky air is immovable and static – without any slightest blowing and with faint sweetness in own volume. Landscape is flooded with oblivion and peace, shy blissful harmony and languor, mild friendly heartfulness and bloom. City's look is relaxedly coy, full of light and unshakable silence, long empty streets, forlornly purified from crowds, are meek and carelessly wide. Pale pensive district is emotionless and timid. Time is cautious, smooth and inactive.
Victoria Borisovna, having nimbly exchanged few flat quarters, connecting home-place with work, has delved in depths of stubborn labor, having lost mind and sight into duties. Paper deals need in boredom, in sea of tiredness and fuss, but thought of waiting money's demon was serving as a strongly helpful rescue from any laziness and stress. Day's schedule is most practical and strict – lunch is short, pace is fast. Work with zeal, gain own cash. Right as others.
Time's plot has deftly flowed ahead, sheets' noise has stretched own charming rustling and then, at finish of the day, all has sharply and hastenly frozen. The lady has removed all needless papers and stomped by distance to own home, once again trampling battered pavement. Fresh nude surroundings are stuffed with tasty fumes. World Is calm. Native walls are pacificly friendly.
"One more time I am free to be great. With bunch of time and tons of power. I need to keep some easy road, to look at city and to rest – in some free abyss of impudence – to shake myself and to cheer up."
The heroine has stretched most brisk of clothes and gone for eminent of deeds.
At vast and blurred evening street, in each its pale and faceless corner, is meekly hanging growing dusk. Bleak lifeless places of numb quarters, with straightest readiness to fade, are getting visibly much darker, dissolving colors, tints and views in veil of coldness, murk and soothing, with far infrequent twinkling lights, calm voice of wandering night winds and empty nudity and sternness of tart oblivion's excess.
And into splendid, bright and rich imposing restaurant's embraces, in blooming space of local center, amid of music, light and loafing, admixed to peaceful dishes' noise, is briskly going feasting process. By sides – thick ampliness of suits, of round faces and fat bodies, by random carefully shuffled in tight and hotly boiling swarms, with joy involved in active resting and prompt consuming of food's hills.
Victoria Borisovna, who has added herself to all others, has taken role of spy observer and delved in passionless beholding. And then, few hollow minutes later, free thirsty soul of our lady has most assuredly decided to catch some satellite for night and swiftly fallen in quick searching, which was quite fruitfully completed by rathet speedy certain choosing of shyly sitting single man in one of opposite hall's corners.
"Hello, don't scratch own eyes with boredom. At here you're permanently vain, without tiniest of chances. So let's get busy with each other – with darling joys and piquant prudence. What means – rise up and go with me."
"What an enchantingly sweet maiden. I'd like to savor her more close." - the stranger has delightedly got up and with obedience built path to slit of exit.
"I hope you are at least with car. I don't appreciate feet-walkers." - has sharply snapped Victoria Borisovna.
"Cars' breed is property of losers. And I am owner of true deity – of perfect Mercedes – full treasure!"
"Quite cute and reasonable boasting. Lead ahead to your vaunted transport."
"What an unbridled wildish girl..."
"Just calm your useless wordy mouth, shut up and lead me to your kennel."
"I'm wholly shocked – bemused and puzzled and even hitted right in brain. This day is surely the weirdest – for all my modest earthly life."
"Who knows... I think, you're weird from birth, from firstest seconds of your childhood. Get used to feeling of confusion, believe, I'll give it you a lot."
"You're breaking me without hammer – in smallest splinters of myself."
"Are you so breakable and gentle?"
"I can easily leave you just now, but, to my shame, I even like, what you are doing."
"What an endurable nice pervert. Flawless idiot – golden!"
"Yes, praise me, praise me as your donkey. I'm greatly eager to your scoldings."
So, after several of meters, having luckily sat in notorious car, the heroes have ridden into distance. In spreaded depths of quarter's gloom – to dreams, allurement and adventures.
"What an incredibly new model – was it made by the hands of Karl Benz? It's so much shabby, old and worn, that I'm amazed why it still works."
"Do not be angry, do not hurt me. The car is seven years old. It's more fresh than the youngest of roses."
"What for my merciness for fool? You deserve only pain, only hatred. You're not more purposeful than dust. At least for me and my next share."
"Please, less hard, I am certainly stressed - so much, that ready to start howling."
"I'd also like to whine and moan and hope, you'll help me in these wantings."
The voyage has proceeded to own ending and then got stopped at doors of youth's apartment.
"Here we are. Thanks to wheels. Let's step up to all new and unknown." - the hero with slight fearfulness and shyness has taken girlfriend by her hand and led in walls of his meek cradle.
"Not bad... For role of rural cowshed. Pour some tea and let's start."
"With zeal and straightness in impudence?"
"And do you wait for something else?"
"I'm just a little bit surprised."
"Then fine. Possess with each my input. Give, at least, one activity's drop, don't stand as numb and lifeless statue. And please without of foreplay. I do not need in such a boredom."
"You are stunningly stern. I am enjoyably bemused."
"Eh, my faint breathless sun, take your head and replace under skirt."
"Right to charms?"
"I will do all myself, if you're so helpless, shy and limp." - the lady, tired from passivity of partner, has deftly hugged his neck with hips: "Be, at least, good and pliable toy, if you are worthless as a f*cker."
The hero had quite firm desire to answer something harsh and sharp, but mouth, occupied with flesh, has stayed pathetically silent. Keen tempting process of sweet contact has slowly got the peak of speed and gone ahead to depths of pleasures, after few of next tireless seconds having sent final level of bliss. Tightly chained by serenity bodies have coyly melt in flooding peace and long and lazy gentle kissing, completing ended stormy act.
The youth has humbly lifted up and softly whispered to lady: "I have to tell you, I'm quite happy. I've wholly doubtlessly liked it – much more than any other cases! Each of steps was incredibly good."
"Then rise and hurry to your boss – to add to paper of resume that you are lost and hopeless madman. I do not care, what you feel. What's of me – I feel good, it's most main, other things don't make sense. Shut up and sleep without questions. You have no interest for me."
"As I see, my attempts are in vain, for you I'm freed from any value or any particle of weight. Let's admit, that you're right. For me you're marvelously good. As the best of my sweet shameless dreams. Thanks a lot, I am endlessly happy."
"Shut up and sleep without twaddling. I am aware – I'm the best. Your sick delights are simply useless, as well as anything of you."
"Okay. But anyway you're super. Do not be angry, I'm so glad."
Soon tired hero has departed into sleeping. The lady has unnotedly got up, nimbly swum into dress, deftly put silk of panties on flesh, performed few playful rubbing frictions of glossy tissue of the last ones and thrown them back on vacant space of motley pillow – to leave some trophy, in such case, is undebatably saint matter. And then to hallway and in door.
"Once again I'm superior lady - supreme and dominant in all. Once again I'm in need and in favor..." - the heroine has happily concluded: "What a cutie I am, what a goddess... And he is really quite good. Not angry and not arrogant, not ugly. I, perhaps, truly was too rude – without lenity and mercy to fervid miracle of soul. But this is prudent, right and fruitful. With curse of kindness you are hopeless. I've come to conquer, not to ask. I've come for glory and perfection, for all best blessings, heights and gifts. But for the sake of being honest, I’m not a bitch in depths of heart, I'm frankly bottomlessly glad and madly grateful for each minute. To cope with heeding of my scoldings is itself rather powerful deed."
Meantime young dawn has shown own gleaming. Bleak spreaded wings of grayish haze have tightly caged coy faded morning in endless pensiveness and fog. New day, with heaps of fuss and boredom, is wholly ready to get start. And what's of night... It's just shy memory from now... Quite sweet, but unreturnable and lost.

II
From far and vague lifeless heights has calmly slidden liquid fog. Long wistful veil of lonely facelessness and grayness has humbly laid at weary featureless landscape, with timid peacefulness and meekness involving static frozen views in tired drowsiness and languor, deep smooth oblivion and bliss of morning warmth and sweet dew's freshness, dissolved in emptiness of world. Nude lazy latitudes of quarter have idly sunk in lavish river of thick relaxedness and joy. Vast teeming coziness and blooming have firmly flooded every corner of free and sleepy city's streets, by neat and skillful hand of nature with richness seasoned with aromas of flowers' blossoming and grass. Coy time has lost oneself in routine, in bunch of fussiness and deals, so much habitual and sticky and so predictably in vain, as most of daily human worries.
Having luckily left melted dreams, full of fervor Victoria Borisovna, with perfect easiness and quickness, has woken up and gone to gather – to drink hot coffee and get ready to next development of day.
"Again to rush, to climb for better, to strive ahead and to move up." - has thought the heroine and yawned with rather notable dispassion: "Again to fight with beast of fate. Again to hurry and to struggle, to cope with work and to compete, to play with share and its hardships, to drag through tasks and through results, to curb with duties and to labor. Let's time will steal me till late evening, till new night's freedom and new plots – both sinful, shameless and bemusing – as any sip of something true."
The lady has put on thin leather jacket and, having slidden with short glance by dusty surface of wall's mirror, got lost in peacefulness of walk. By free and empty wasteful sides – deep static permanence of boredom, nice morning sleepiness and calm. With lack of people, cars and sounds and with coy dominance of fog. Hazed views are colorless and limp, perplexed, mysterious and blurred, encaged by thoughtfulness and bloom, slight lonely sadness and cold dampness, thick shapeless clouds and brief breeze, with decent constancy and neatness extended up by all observable horizon.
Having nimbly and rapidly brought languid flesh to awaiting work's plenties, Victoria Borisovna has with great easiness sat down in spacious abyss of huge chair, having swiftly and endlessly melted in boiling routine of duties, of long and boring calculations and killing stoplessness of tasks, of course, exhausting, dull and hateful, but stably tamed and firmly learnt – in all of parts, details and vectors, as something native, plain and close. Time's race has started running forward – without smallest idle breath, then got diluted by short lunch and kept identical continuance. Soon day has given all own length. Glad and weary Viktoria Borisovna has slowly yawned and, having torn own eyes from numbers, freely gone back to shy faithful walls of always carefreely friendly home's abode. Few usual quarters of quick walk, and pleasant clicking of key's body in frankly missing door's keyhole has gently greeted lady's ears with timid hospitable voice, with warmth inviting in embraces of room's tranquility and peace.
"And again evening's time waits for freedom - for pleasures, playfulness and sins. This thirst for regular amusement is best of signs you're still alive. I love night madnesses and meetings. One drop of activeness and zeal, and you effortlessly acquire most healthy variant of bliss. If mind and body are in heaven, good soul will always be with them. In world of emptiness and fuss such gifts of fortune serve as blessing, as straightest ladder to delight, to short, but genuine excitement and long, but vague blameless feeling of your past unity with grace. I'm born for victories and glory, for all of benefits and heights, which are included in this being. For me world's cradle is my toy – submissive, valueless and mortal, deserving hatred and consuming and inappropriate for care, for trust, affection or respect. The only worthy from all humans with full assuredness is me – most perfect, talented and stubborn, upraised to stars and sunk in luck. I'm made of excellence and shining, of greatness, blossoming and flame, of free and lofty timeless flight – above of swamp of dirt and hardships, wrong broken shares and torn dreams, above of rubbishy society and ugly trash of people's wastes: from hell of grayness, fools and losers to call of winnings and success."
The heroine has vividly got up and, having luckily adjusted demanded volume of makeup at young and charming face's circle, sent legs in route to fresh adventures, cheap easy joyfulness and lust.
At street – deep static emptiness and numbness, soft growing darkness and cold winds, with shyness wandering by pavement in murk, oblivion and peace of long and sleepy languid district, so tightly occupied and flooded by liquid calmness and pure rest. Whole world for personal requests, frank timid hopes and shameless wishes. Whole world for pleasures and regrets, new risks and old, as fate, mistakes.
And again into restaurant rampage, to drunken bodies and lewd startings, low sinned desires and bad needs. Quite lavish plenty of impudence, tart idle loafing and nude vice. Amazing, nasty and seductive. Rich choice of poisons for your soul.
Glad and wilful Victoria Borisovna, not losing energy and time, has most straightforwardly decided to delve in looking for new partner and new amount of fresh joys, but soon was deftly interrupted by instant greeting from behind: "Good lovely evening to your person! I'm madly charmed with your sweet beauty and firmly ready to be yours."
At here it makes huge weighty sense to describe common look of this stranger – tightly clothed into modesty's thickets young bashful guy with mouse eyes, old clumsy bag and grotty figure.
"Oh, morbid victim of fate's drama, do you really think to get close!?"
"I see, you'll scold me as last garbage, but I'm not scared by such plot and even promise to stay thankful."
"What a wonderful breed of full moron... I'll say you're freak and ended weirdo, why do you sit and do not vanish?"
"And even get great dose of pleasure."
"What sort of happiness and profit can you get from such hopelessness' pit?"
"I like to contemplate your presence, to be located next to bliss..."
"Next to my mockeries and hatred?"
"Next to you – to your ravishing body and to bunch of my vain silly dreams."
"What a lost piece of shit have I met. With wholly empty mindless head and so heavy excess of ambitions..."
"I'm just fulfilling my desires. And I will never leave away – no slightest matter how much cruelly you'll drive me."
The lady has with harshness grabbed the hero and pulled him up with fullest strength, having suddenly payed a long kiss: "You'll think you have been sucking with true God. As I guess, so I am in your thoughts."
"You are my miracle since now."
"Look at zeal of this tireless moron. He has such scale of inspiration, that could start soaring into sky, if it was helpful for acquaintance. But luck is something not of you, what means step out with straight road and don't turn back till last one's end."
"I have no plans for this direction. My aim is being next to you."
"Restless slug. Wholly ill headless madman. What are you keeping to demand?"
"I want to know your address. For priceless right to send you letters."
"I'll never answer, don't you know?."
"At least, you'll read them. It's enough."
"Is this offensiveness your target, your main necessity and need?"
"I will accept it as success."
"Flawless fool. Perfect brainlessness ever. Okay, write down street and flat, if you still begging of this trifle."
"I am Philip Stepanovich, and you?"
"Victoria! Your treasury and goddess."
At this, on rite of quick handwriting, the meet has finally got stop. The hero once again was amply scolded, but as before his smile and mood were left without of bid changes.
"I suppose I've been scarily cruel." - has thought the lady after case: "Of course, I'm right in this sane rigor and my refusal wasn't strange. It was explainably expected and had no other types and patterns of my emotions and response to such a tasteless sort of partner. I know, his tryings were polite and his behaving wasn't freaky, but his appearance and look... Too gray, too modest and unfashioned. I need in ideal, in idol – most tempting, flawless and unique. I'm born to win, to bath in greatness. All other offers – in ignorance, in can for uselessness and trash, the very one, which keeps and holds whole mass of nowadays society, produced to suffer, hate and rot, to fall in dirt and crawl by bottom."
What's fun, result of this refusal was not so innocent and calm: the lady had to stay alone and to leave out with no partner, and then again in hugs of walls, this time in sadly empty own.

III
New day, new season of heart-hunting. New time for thoughtlessness and sins. Pleased, lucky heroine is noticeably glad – night's plot is fruitfully completed, hot carnal contact with all passions has calmly melted far behind, having left sticky sweetness on lips and piquant memories in bottomless mind's cradle. The lady has reluctantly got up, thrown cold look at remains of past generous lust and, having skillfully retreated at usual gifting of wet trophy, sent oneself in habitual route from short bliss of occasional bonds to vast home's emptiness and boredom.
"One new play, one new joy and new winning, one new feast of my dominant grace. So much great is my path through of being – over fates, over times, victims, sins, by others' weaknesses and heads and by sweet notes of admiration of me myself and my success. Each day I am achieving more and more, with every second getting better and delving deeper into luck, in glory, mightiness and shining. I'm fully confident, I'm goddess – imposing, brilliant and perfect in any feature and detail of my enchanting matchless nature. Hot, crazy, blossoming and lustful – I am most tempting and most precious from all of treasures of this world. Most charming, flowering and bright – as purest miracle and angel, upraised to latitudes of sky, to sacred paradise's cradle and gently spreaded heaven's hugs. What else, explain me, can be needed, in supplementary addition to all my bounty of feats, of endless talents and rich merits, which are the hugest part of me, of my completely flawless person – the only peerless into all. Saint right of freedom and of mind is most significant of values, I've got its taste in immense scopes and I am craved of getting further."
The heroine has pleasurably yawned and slowly hastened own step, aiming path to meek walls of home's shelter. Time is burned. Night is spent.

IV
And here let's take smooth walk by numbers. Victoria Borisovna is 27th years old. Better days are still waiting ahead, behind are stopless dashing passions and length of victories and feats. Small activities' range stays the same – self-development, work, rest and sex. All truly needful for right being. Wrong killing feeling of confusion, just as in past, is unfamiliar for share. As well as unfamiliar is pain. Mad scope of countless ambitions is also still magnificent and vast. Soul is free. Head is prudently clear. In plans – to make new lucky evening: to move to restaurant till night and then to delve in fervid lewdness. Nice approach. Even great. Cute and piquant. With decent measure of free panties such living manner has no end.
In habitual hall, full of light, noise and people, are tightly swirling idle guests, involved in swift and vivid process of sternly boiling active rest and prompt consuming of food's plenties, performed by icy sparkling drinks and hot fat snacks of all dimensions. Free set of muzzles is most motley. From fools till foolers and from freaks till craved freak-seekers. And again, having speedily found first appropriate bearable face, our thirsty for lechery lady has aptly moved in straightest way for new adventures, sins and joys and, having stood one moment later in front of singly seating man, nimbly thrown brisk and obstinate offer of common spending of night's time: "I'd like to organize brief meeting – with fleeting eating and next bed till frames and boundaries of morning. Will we make?"
"You've killed last lantern in your brain? We had the same impudent session not more than few of months ago. That time, for sake of some strange reasons, you've even left one tiny rag from shameful latitudes of pussy, you've apparently thought, I'll be endlessly glad, with care cherishing this item as something absolutely saint and full of dominant temptation and hypnotizing sacred bliss. You're deadly primitive and headless, if you've believed in such result. Both you, your flesh and your worn panties are not more valuable than trash, than wholly useless empty rubbish, most sharply rid of any taste or any notable uniqueness. Are you indeed so firmly mindless, that do not recognize in face even recently served part of f*ckers!?"
After words of this hurtingly merciless speech, shocked and lost in own helplessness lady has uncontrollably got limp and, having shakily trudged back, dissolved in agony's embraces and growing painfulness excess.
"What a shrill indescribable failure! What a terribly bottomless shame, what a scarily desperate horror! What an impossible nightmare... This is most surely my end. My straightest ticket to death's cradle. What a frightening hopelessness' pit... Which way to live since current moment... Which way to look in people's eyes... In true opinion of others I'm sadly equal to pure wastes, to mad addicted piece of slut, each moment seeking for low pleasures, for new short dose of sinfulness and lust. All time I've been assertively persisting in gaining glory and success, in turning happier and stronger and in acquiring of luck. I've been exclusively demanded, exalted, beautiful and bold – with bunch of victories and merits and with full confidence in self, by which ill sequence of occasions have I destroyed all charm and splendor, all past significance and grace... It's darkest fact – I've lost myself. In dreams, in fuss and trifling seekings. In total emptiness and dust, which at first glance had face of fortune. Today I'm smaller than last crumb. All my stars, all my heights and achievements are plunged in fatally deep dirt. All delight is transformed into smoke, in hollow fog and breathless void. What an exorbitant disaster... What a frustrating endless shame... All better faithings and intentions are unforgivably erased. All me is nullified and cracked, defamed and sent in decomposing."
The lady has equipped her pace with freedom and promptly melted in hazed distance among of desolate street's space, embraced with dampness and despair.

V
Victoria Borisovna is 28th y.o. Her unique incomparable briskness, each moment reckless, firm and dashing, was indescribably reformed and reduced to small pitiful copy of past decisiveness and strength. Deep huge self-confidence was wasted, stern steady willfulness was lost, vast forceful arrogance was frozen and incorrigibly replaced by shyness, hesitance and doubts, most indestructibly ingrown in faded ghost of lifeless nature, without any slightest traces cleaned up from previous ambitions and clothed in passiveness and fright, so amply blooming in each corner of inly dying bloodless soul. Hot flaming fervor was exhausted. Harsh inward rigor was restrained. Stiff tameless temper was extinguished and turned in nothingness and ash. Crashed broken mood was dropped at bottom. No single shade from cutted bliss.
At wholly average today, just only having woken up, the heroine by newly built tradition, has quickly fallen in unfixable depression and dreary thinking of day's plot, which quite predictably was freed from any sort of lavish prospects and unforgivably remote from any fruitfulness and joy. Sharp urgent need in long-term feelings and warming family support, which's sadly shown true scales of trouble, each next of tryings coldly ending by prompt parting, has called to seek for new relations and sowed necessity to hurry and to be flexible and soft, of course, without of big progress, but with small miracle of hope. So, having coped with tart regretings and with large burden of grief's nets, coy wilted lady has proceeded to reflections and to perceiving of fate's state, which by some tragical of reasons has most detaily demonstrated full depth of powerlessness' abyss, enshrouded everything in pain and vastly blossoming despair. All route of life by some strange horror has turned in one incessant fuss. Each one, who has mistaken and lost path, will stuck and fail till death's attaining. Each one, who has directed into hardships, will overgrow with new omissions until transforming in pale corpse. So it works, so it's made – sad and wrong. At this perplexed and foggy morning, calmed faded heroine has finally decided to change damned row of meets and partings and to unite in steady pair for most impressively long term: "I have to couple with my dreams, to set thin rightness and firm order. I've lost all victories, all plenties. I ought to solve it, to rebuild. Let's think of plans of luck's achieving. With whom I hadn't loving story? From my department, as it seems, I've tried with everyone, it's clear. With head of it. And with his head. And with few boys from work with public... The only one, who is not tasted, is the director of whole office. He is government's friend and has two limousines and island. Maybe chain of my previous failures was leading me to this great goal... To mainest victory and idol. I have to risk and to approach. I faith, I'm bottomlessly lucky, I have to dare, to move up."
The heroine has dried her cup of coffee and sent own body to work's cradle. At street is circling thick wet snow. Sad joyless voice of restless blizzard is humbly singing dreary songs. Deep static darkness is unwittingly dissolving, revealing views of gray landscape. Plain boring length of daily road is irreproachably devoted to lonely barrenness and peace – with faceless blocks of tired buildings and with nude trunks of frozen trees. All things are featureless and skimpy. World is dead. Dead and cold.
And again usual cradle of office – with chair, table and work's duties. And again labor's abyss till noon. And then, in time of tiny rest – swift secret act of brisk acquaintance. Whole play of such brave undertaking by will of wavering conditions has taken place in dining room. Demanded hero has been caught with cup in palm and roll in mouth – in soothing lounging and calm.
"Enchanting peerless day to your immaculate nice person." - the lady has begun her conversation.
"Which type of my participance you're needing? With some petition or complaint about labor?" - has slowly handed Semyon Dmitrievich, the very one most mighty ruler.
"With wholly different proposal. I've come with offer of acquaintance, of timid trying of luck's fruit."
"It's rather funny. You are dauntless, if have intentions of such size. Let's move in mutual exploring. Sometimes this knowledge solves a lot."
"Come on. I'm eager to be studied."
"Okay, come on. In new and fine. I'll try to pay all my attention."
And then, in frames of hero's car, in time of riding through of road, they both have delved in vivid dialogue, freed up of from any formal bonds.
"I'd like to get more close, more native. To find each other in one boat." - has playfully declared lady's voice.
"Well, tell your manner of existence. What do you do except of fuss? Do you sing, draw, or train yoga's poses?"
"I am cold to such purposeless rubbish. I spend my energy on work. I had got used to go to restaurants one time – in patient waiting for bright meetings, but it was fruitless for right plots. I seek for beautiful relations, for something blameless, strong and long. Today my targets are like that."
"Which force will hold you in a pair?"
"Passion, heat... Inner flame."
"True glue of hearts is depth of love. You didn't even name this feeling. If all your deeds contain one work, then you're less full than empty box. You're mix of dumminess and void. Of trifling nothingness and dust. Night bars and restaurants, believe me, are your true level, your true top. You'll never reach some higher senses. I work as ruler for long years, but I've not stopped at this vain routine. I like collecting of old paintings, of wooden dishes and clay cups, hand-made umbrellas and brass buttons, what's more, each evening in free time I play piano and in each morning with first rays I press huge kettlebells on reps. And you prefer to stay in limits of scanty tiresome work's frames. When you are going to votation, you chose first surname and approve. If you want rest, you ride to sea. You're having sex for fun or health. You don't see excellent in usual. You have nice cover, cute and pretty, but what it's hiding in own depths, except of aimlessness and boredom... Please, return to night bars and short meetings, such ones reflect your real cost. Fall in love with most trivial person and spend days' time in common hatred, long frequent quarrels and regrets. Across this street stands perfect tavern. Take bunch of bucks and step to joys, to purest loafing and free partners. And I will try to visit opera or some unoccupied museum. At work, I've coped with all my duties and bloom with plans of useful rest. So, have nice day and pleasant evening. And don't be angry on myself. I've told opinion, not further..."
The heroine has breathlessly got out and trudged through avenue's stretched space.
"What an impossibly mad shame! Loss of all. Fatal bitterness' sea calls in waters. In hellish dreariness and pain. What an exorbitant huge failure. Inconsolable, tart, vast and strong. I have no use. No slightest value. No single reason to exist..."
The lady has switched on at quicker step and nimbly melted after corner, and one day later, changed her job and said goodbye to past ambitions and to own confidence in self. Such things were sadly left behind – with youngness, aimfulness and fervor of cutted passions and cracked heart, unreturnably lost in life's abyss.

VI
Victoria Borisovna is 29th y.o. Almost whole endless year has passed from her retiring from work. Past delicious accounting chamber was replaced onto average paper department – with wholly different conditions and lower salary's amount. Days of life have turned thin, things have faded. Realities have fallen in depression and unforgivable regress. Hot blooming passions have extinguished. Brave wildish ardor has lost power and turned in will-lessness and fright. Worn hopes have sunk in devastation. Cracked hurted temper has subsided and freed from stubbornness and heat. Quirk mental easiness has melted and overgrown with doubts' slush. And thoughts have finally got dreary and tightly cleaned from faith in good. Sad life's perception has transformed in passive suffering and waiting – of last of days and last of griefs.
Today's frustrated faceless morning has brought one small, but weighty fact – to working team has added new employee. For beings' plenty it's a drop, but for forgotten seeking nature it's more than luck and heaven's gift. So, having clung to such a prospect, exposed as perfectly great chance, thrown needless soul has lit own brightness and promptly rushed in fortune's pit and, having waited for right moment, involved in magic of acquaintance. In dinner's time, when loafing hero was having fun with dose of meal, she has approached his eating person and quickly started usual talk.
"Warm playful greetings to your share!" - has called bloomed lady from behind: "Let's dilute boredom's flesh with acquaintance!"
"Yes, let's. You're bottomlessly pretty. For role of secret weekend mistress, you are most certainly the best."
"What does it mean?"
"I have a wife – at now she's sleeping in my house. But she's uninteresting, gray and suits not further than for cooking..."
"I don't deserve so ugly roles!" - has thought harmed lady with annoyance: "I have entirely forgotten to mark some serious of notes. Too much of work... Have long nice day. Goodbye at now."
The heroine has lowered her gaze: "True immense tragedy, true horror... No door in victories, no way..."
And once again new fresh tart sadness of pale evening. Work's day is calmly left behind. Victoria Borisovna in thinking is slowly trudging back to home. Around - usual boring district. High frequent houses and alleys. Landscapes, faint silhouettes and lights. Soft gentle air and hazed distance. Gray vast horizon and dense void. Without any tools for hope and any memories of greatness. As some unbearable dark curse, exhausting, merciless and endless as all next future at this earth.

VII
Victoria Borisovna is 33th e.o. Her fate, imprisoned in disrepair, is almost standing in own middle. Short range of joys is still the same – work's routine, home and right on hope. Most weak and doubtful at now, but quite surprisingly alive. Deep static loneliness is inconsolably immortal and turned in leading force of living with ample fruits of being needless – handmade stained-glass windows - of all of colors and of forms, produced by heroine's neat hands, have decorated walls of yearning house. What's more few changes have incrawled in her habitual encircling – such one was broaden by new friendtress – Valeria Semyonovna, mild pensive woman, also hopeless, lost and lonely and one long dozen of swift years firmly older.
So now, in tiresome room's shelter, with modest couple of tea cups, these two unlucky thoughtful persons were meekly talking of fate's routes.
"All is so frighteningly shaky, each day and hour at this earth. How much amazing is existence, how much ironical and sad. All time of life I've been persisting in self-development and labor. I was exclusively the best – most bright, exciting and attractive. I was as miracle, as goddess. Produced for blossoming and fight, for constant dominance and blooming. I have got used to take by force, by strength of will and size of mind. I've finished school with perfect marks, the same result had university's completing. I've come in heart of motherland – in restless capital, its jewel. I was believing into ideal, in fairy, was so much proud of myself, with sexuality and heatness, like crazy nymph, involving fate in any thickets of desires. I had saint purpose to come true, to lit own heart and get demanded. To find right copy of myself with equal splendor and requests – for to build trust and common future. To reach all heights, all being's plenties. I was enjoying to be needed, was rudely parting in first night, gaining up others' warmth and affection and loving freedom and my feats. This path had aim to give me power, to endow with sweet taste of success, to open door in something true, in real needfulness and passion, in real feelings, real deams. I was examining life's sky... And now am scratching its last bottom."
"What do you want from such approach. Ambitions - shooting with no target. We believe, that we're fruits of own will, but share works in own intentions, it drugs ahead and loves to hurt. We are pawns – small and weak. And quite stupid. We are consumable resource, so much replaceable and trifling, as something absolutely vain. You cannot argue with existence, can't change it's laws or shake it's sense. With life such tricks are sadly workless."
"But how unbearably a lot of precious time was spent and burnt. Day by day, day by day. In total emptiness, in void, in hungry abyss of fate's pit. Each one was eager to spend night, but not to love or to take care. I had no mutual response, no even slightest shade of frankness. I've turned in object for rejection, for laugh and mockeries, not more. At first it was unbearable and shocking and then I have got used to such a share and clothes of shame has turned in skin. It's rather scary to admit, but I am absolutely hopeless – for many many of last years..."
"It's so much painful to perceive it – till bitter tears and night cries."
"Each disappointment and failure is kind of freshly left concrete – if you will stuck within its masses for too much dangerously long, it'll never let you from own limits. Each new experience of sorrow leads up to doubts in past choices and to soon hesitance and weakness, to new mistakes and new regrets. And then you banally surrender and lose last confidence in self, transforming living into fuss and constant waiting for own finish. It's sad, but will-lessness destroys."
"It's hard to see one endless void, one tartest vacuum and griefs, you forget how to trust... How to live, to preserve inner flame..."
"Routine's cargo can kill – smash in splinters. When you're in boredom, you get dead, you seek for any of salvations, stretch hands and beg for something new, you ask for hope, but get one errors, it's truth of life and its crooked laws. The more persistent, long and loud are calls for miracle and rescue, the less is volume of support. World's frames are borders of pure abyss and if it wants it turns in dust, in total nothingness and rubbish, without trace from cutted greatness and with next path in hugs of grave." "Eh, pain, unbeatable in growing... Eh, fate – chaotic, vast and hazed. Too unpredictable, too empty. Too wrong and merciless sometimes. World's plans are measurelessly secret, you cannot solve them, cannot change. You have one risk, one right of waiting, of blurred hope and faint beliefs. For whom all tragedies and horrors, for whose prosperity and wealth... Each one is suffering and trying, each one is bathing in mistakes, in thickest errors and omissions. Each one is victim, pawn and slave. And who is holder of this madness, of all huge flock of people's breed. We see one side of these intentions, one part of plans and undertakings of our crazy restless world. We see one sacrificing payers, whose local role is to be wasted, to be exhausted and consumed in shy exchange on strange fulfilling of some life's purposes and goals. We see undying forceful dirt, see blooming hopelessness and torments, and pearls and jewels, heights and feats are staying prominently hidden. Far distant future, made of fog, will never serve as consolation, as source and soil of heart's calm. Life's gifts get taken by one fortune, by fleeting friendship with own luck. Such state destroys, upsets and buries, transforms in innerly worn corpse, in tiny particle of nothing, so much unsuitable for all, including blossoming and greatness."
"Each fate is game with human trust – sad thing, which harms, disturbs and spoils, makes rid of chances, time and strength, of any readiness to live, to move in previous direction and to maintain past faith in self, to give resistance to dirts' abyss and to take care of own dreams, of inner flowering and shining, so highly precious for soul's calmness and for believing in next route."
"I haven't managed to be happy, to catch this fire of success... At now I'm useless broken loser. Without future, plans or hopes..."
"We come to races with dead horses, but still suppose to take first place..."
"I have sincerely been thinking, that I am absolutely able to get all benefits and heights of this untamable existence. I even hadn't any doubts, or any hesitance or fright..."
"Each life is lottery's example. You cannot curb it with persistence, can't bend by stubbornness of will, it's too indifferent and steady for to be taken by one zeal or by nude sharpness of own wishes. All our measureless efforts aren't more than tiniest of trifles for static endlessness of fate. And after falling from sky's cradle, you get unfixably destroyed, completely nullified and trampled and turned till coffin into pawn. True time for chances is too fleeting, too vain, too fruitless and too short. Not too long is life's term, not too bright..."
"It's too much bitter and too scary, to realize this tragic fact, too wrong and painful to be needless, to stay torn of from former luck and to get parted with youth's blooming. World's laws and principles are awful, you live in hot anticipation and then meet coldness of regrets and put yourself in dreary abyss of weakness, uselessness and murk... All can die, all can fade – all of values... All of abilities and feats, which are less helpful than a penny in stormy waves of being's ocean, erasing everything and all without memory's remaining, if it has suddenly lost justice or has got purified from weight."
"I still believe in your good future much more reliably, than in mine..."
"It's nice to hope. Quite vain and stupid, but still pretty."
At this both ladies have got silent. Talk's plot has finished by goodbying and our heroine was left again alone: "How madly vain I've spent my past, how greatly purposeless and aimless I have been. All heat has turned in hollow fog, in trashy dumminess and tears. All path, all long and loud years have brought one emptiness, one partings, one barren handful of regrets. Cracked heart was sunk in heaps of sorrows, young stopless briskness was dissolved, firm faith in self was smashed in dust. I'm still alive, but life is wasted. It's freed from anything, what rescues – from any fullness, warmth or sense. With only dreariness and darkness in last survived from future plans. Keen inner ardor is behind, sweet tempting prospects are forbidden, all given truths are sick and sad – with tragic mourning enfeebling and unconsoling getting old."
The lady has unhurriedly leaned back and meekly stared at shelves' vastness: "Thick books - shy amulets of thoughts... I was so proud to be clever, to show own dominance of mind, but which life's end am I beholding... At lowest shelve is pile letters – from that gray youth from times of distant past, Philip Stepanovich, if I am not mistaken in his name. And even these short modest sendings have stopped own regular arrival since my attaining of sad 30, having finally left me in void..."
The heroine has catiously sighed and taken one of envelopes from shelf: "I greet you with my shy and timid letter, throwing minimal part of myself with this neat and affectionate lines, without them I'm lost and broken as last unneeded useless pawn. Time's length transforms all things in rubbish, in dead and breathlessly worn dust, but my coy love is most unchangeably alive and full of tenderness and passion. I frankly hope, that you pay mercy and try to read me time from time. One day I've chosen you as miracle and idol and stay devoted to this choice. It keeps me full of shaky faith, that maybe fate will bring together two our deathless sinless souls in one unbreakable tight couple, which will be always into peace and in best harmony with pleasures. I'm wholly ready to be waiting – for many years of my life till my last second at earth's surface. I seek for love and understanding, for heat of feelings and for you – most pretty, needful and desired from all of treasures of this world. With best of wishes, your Philip."
Viktoria Borisovna has yawned and put away worn sheet of paper: "Anyway, life is strange... My stars are burnt, my warmth is spent... I guess, I've started to get weaker, if truly marvel with such things... I'm glad with trifles, it's an end."

VIII
Victoria Borisovna is 35 y.o. Her timid, lost and needless figure is slowly creeping by cold street, enchained in covering of snow. By sides – one endless whitish distance with vivid dancing of thick blizzard and dreary wilderness of chill. Usual piece of stern furious winter. All views are alien and barren. All world is absolutely dead. Bleak faint surroundings are empty and heart is full of lack of luck. No single chance on something warm.
Soon suddenly, in midst of this harsh abyss, has stopped long body of huge car – of shining limousine, so close to firebird.
"Good bright day! After countless years..." - has called her Semyon Dmitrievich's voice: "By nets of fate again we stand together... You have retired at that time. I didn't want such twist of story..."
"You've told me truth, and I am glad. You have been right – I've turned in nothing..."
"Let's sit and ride with mix of talk."
"For you I'm fool – most low and empty... But I am trying to transform – am neatly practicing handwork and frankly trying to get better... And what's of you – you're still alone?"
"What does it mean? When was it so?"
"That time you have been occupied, not free?"
"I have been married for ten years! And now they've turned in almost twenty. It was the cause, why I have scolded your shameful primitive attempts."
"I didn’t know this... I'd never dare, if you've told."
"Then I must give apologizing, you're not a fool and not a sinner."
"No, I'm a fool. I'm still alone. Without victories and partner and with one emptiness in all. Life's path have turned to be just vain..."
"Only one, who has burnt, can't get fire. Of course, it's bottomlessly easy to puzzle shaky person's mind, to kill past aimfulness and ardor and to make rid of any sense. Pain's burden is quite able to destroy, to left with nothingness and trifles and to confuse till time of grave. World's storm too rarely is friendly, it's used to hurt, to crack and break. We wait, believe and build predictions, but fate performs to us not this. It stays indifferent and static and never hurry to gift warmth. We trust to dreams, to flame of wishes and then fall down in regrets and find own share next to bottom. We come for tart and blameless greatness, but stuck in pettiness and dirt, in daily problems and omissions, vain hollow fuss and dust of time. We're free to fight, but not to win. It's sad to feel, but we're just crumbs – most helpless, tiny and indistinct in common boiling of events. We cannot change it, can't get rescue. We can hope, this is all, what is given. But this is madly not enough."
"You're deeply right in each of phrases. I confirm every sounded thought. Which way is living our chamber? Without changes as before?"
"I do not work there for two years. At now I surely can say, that there have stayed one thieves and morons. Painful fact, but all good starts to rot."
"It seems, I've been quite valuable employee, if my shy absence had such fruits..."
"Forgive for being to much strict, if I have harmed that time your essence..."
"All is nice, I'm more sad, that I'm lost. All other incomparably less bitter, than realizing of this state."

IX
Victoria Borisovna is 36 e.o. Outside of pale window's frame is long-awaited blooming summer, swift life in capital at now has got diluted by modest trip to her homeland – in small and faceless grayish town, from which had started her life's route. One railway platform is behind, the second one is meekly meeting. Around – plenties of quirk crowd. In static air - smell of sleepers with slightest taste of cheep dried fish. The same as twenty years ago, all views and pictures keep past calm. Each one is similarly poor, but it's not new for local life and is quite close to branded sign of local latitudes and fates. From old worn speaker comes quiet music. Sweet ease, oblivion and freedom – frank, changeless keepers of true peace. By sides - forgetfulness and loafing, in heart – relaxedness and joy. Vast space of square is quite empty, without people, but with tents. At first of last ones vivid writing "Candies' time." - pleasant loveliness' drop. Habitual environment's abundance. With highest harmony and out of soul's worries. All is smoothed, faint and slow, old and pretty. With reigning spirit of archaic laws and rules and with stability of present. Cute summer selflessness and void, best source of coziness and fullness and greatest treatment for lost heart.
The heroine has humbly walked around and stood at empty broken fountain: "I think, it's really my place, my best of possible here levels... My peak and ceiling at this earth..."
Here suddenly has sounded low voice: "What I see, so familiar muzzle! Local queen has returned from her skys. Have you achieved all laurels of being and are most happy from humanity of world?" - drunk flabby man, one of past classmates, has asked with full of sneering tone.
"I'm great and awesome, be assured. And curb you hatred for next time." - has mumbled lady and stepped back: "Too earlily I've charmed with local being. Old views are glorious, but people are the same – bastards and nits in hugest measure. I think it's time to get good sleep, to rest from work and from myself and after week to live these places. Without tears or regrets."

X
Victoria Borisovna is 37 y.o. Her faded and entirely worn share, completely bleak and rid of all, has most assuredly got wasted and left in emptiness' excess. Her lifeless silhouette is sitting into longing in usual vacuum of room and throwing glance at curtained windows, so neatly hiding evening's dusk, shy sparks of lights and tons of silence.
"How vain and stupid was my life..." - has sighed the lady with coy weariness in voice: "What am I having at fate's end... What have I got from length of years? From endless chances, meets and feats... One thing remains for me at now - to take these letters from the shelf and to equip them with good answer. How much ironic has it turned... All has gone, all has tracelessly faded. All immense arrogance and strength..."
The heroine has taken sheet of paper and plunged in telling of her story: "I’m writing you with great repentance. I'm madly stupid, madly wrong. I have been reading every letter and have been seeing your clean love. I have been reading them and putting back to shelf. I have been looking for some brightness, for some unknown needless heights... I've just got arrogant at once and spent in arrogance whole being. Without purpose, luck or warmth. I have been rushing and persisting and now am sitting onto bottom and eating countless regrets. I've been desired and sexy, but no of partners has shown will to stay for long... For few of nights and not much more. I'm madly ready to response with equal care, love and frankness, to give whole passion of my heart and to encircle with my charms, devoting every drop of blooming and every moment of my life. I know, my fate has turned in nothing, but I believe that I'm quite able to finish last one with true love, with something sinless, pure and holy, what can't be broken or replaced. Forgive my countless mistakes and don't be angry on past doings. I love you – honestly and truly and greatly need in your response..."
Weak lady's hands have folded crumpled paper and put in envelope's embraces: "I each past day was thinking – life is battle. Long stubborn struggle with fate's storm. I was believing in one force, in single dominance of power. I was perceiving this vast being as my foe, each time resisting to its will. And now I clearestly see, how deadly stupid were my tryings. I need in unity, in peace, in kindness, comfort and affection. I need in harmony, in calm, in something real, frank and deathless. Fall in love with me, life... And forgive me..."


AFTERWORD:
In Nikanorovs' swarming house is staying ampliness of fuss – they're celebrating first of May: vast table's space is freely teeming with rich foods, time's body waits for to be started and faces shine with happy smiles. From one small minute to another, the head of family will bring the last – fresh kvass. And here his merriful appearing.
"I've taken letter from some lady!" - has told the hero in smooth voice: "By sinful habit I have read – it's full of keenly loving lines. I'm even strikingly impressed."
"Apparently, for our former dweller. We live at here for only six months. Before at here was some strange loner. Not bad, if to be trustful to realtor, but chained with alcohol in few of his last years. He has replaced in smaller flat, but I don't know where exactly..."
"Now it’s quite clear why he drinks... This message's full of tragic keenness. Give it to Anechka, she gladly learns to read, it'll be quite useful for her studying."
"My darling daughter, come to me. We have an interesting letter and will allow you to read. It's with love story, as you like. Run quickly, reading is your passion."
"Yes, yes. I am already running up."






The genius and the herder.

I
In wasteful void of numb heaven, right into midst of its blue veil, among of thickening forlornness and barren heaps of breathless mist, are humbly swimming in dim distance thin lifeless flocks of shapeless clouds. In empty middle of old park, most amply full of golden crowns, is slowly trudging lonely walker, engaged in endlessness of thoughts and in unbeatable depression, so strongly stubborn and abundant in killing influence and width, so much incredible and immense. Behind of blooming devastation, deep tart impassiveness and dying, quite unremarkably and weakly is creeping river of meek time. Day's length is coyly getting broken in small chaotic barren flakes of shy perplexion, involving everything and all in static coldness and despair, most sternly reigning into air and in each single tintless shade. Full certain dominance of boredom, of weary routine and wilting, most badly leading to mood's bottom and to prompt parting with warmth's hugs, is keeping permanence of growing. In every corner – pain and fading, in any sip of autumn smell. And at frustrating hollow now, by will of kindly lucky fortune, has deftly managed to take place one modest accident of meeting: an unfamiliar strained stranger, come from oncoming side of road, has sharply frozen next to hero and after smooth and weighty pause got delved in plot of conversation: "Please tell me actual trams' schedule - for term of almost one long month, tracks' line gets actively repaired and valid scheme of current route stays kept is tightly hidden secret and only devil can invent, which way to send own flesh to home, at least until of night's beginning."
"All paths, as always, lead to bottom. You have to find some vacant cab, give dose of money and dissolve. Only legs can support, nothing else."
"You also need in damned 8th tram?" - has asked downtrodden sleepy walker, Stepan Grigoryevich by name.
"Your guessing skill is more than perfect. We are full comrades in this sorrow." - has drowsily replied Philip Petrovich - that was the name of other walker, who has relaxedly continued: "I was considering myself the only one so cursed and hopeless from all of sufferers and victims. Who you are, by the way, let me know – the same engineer as me?"
"You have mistaken, I'm a postman."
"The one, who brings to us some letter, but for forlorn and needless me – one static bitterness of tears."
"Not all of letters have same value – few ones are terribly awaited and most of others – vain and useless and rid of being in demand. Sometimes you hotly want to write, you have both pen and piece of paper, but do not have receiving person and sadly kill this barren matter without trying to proceed."
"It's called most frequently as fate. Let's talk of this while our walking."
They've turned to emptiness of road and stepped ahead by its free straightness.
"We always strive for some expressions, for something wondering and new, unknown, tempting, great and rare. We want to seek, to search and try. To bury boundaries and limits and to climb up to further heights. We're always hungry, craved and thirsty. We always need to move and act."
"It's part of hateful human essence. But lurking stories are quite short. One tiny error, and you're broken, one small omission, and you're dead. Deceptive profit does not smell. Keep calm and never think of future, it's not for better, not for grace."
"Life's plots are merciless and cruel, days' depth is full of pain and blood, of wrongest choices and regrets and of harsh lack of joy and reason. It's even strange to be successful in such appalling dreary frames."
"I'll sadly say you even more - it's strange to be alive at all."
"The only helper is mind's flame..."
"You faith in mind? What's bad – me too..."
"I see, again we are the same."
"Quite cute... For which of aims you're walking? It's not so easy not to ask so madly plain and trickless question..."
"Away of goal. Just wander forward."
"It's nice. In absence of plans' burden, mind's work, believe to my own practice, is much more prudent, pure and smooth."
"Right thoughts are dark. Such ones bring torments, bring sorrow, apathy and pain. It's rather hard to feel head's presence, to act according to its voice and to behold true face of being."
"All real secrets are at surface, all real real magic hides in brain."
"It's pity miracle, I'll answer. Or not a miracle at all."
"It's maybe fate, if to look apter..."
"Fate is such mockery, which buries. You reap at here what you are charged with. If you are sailing to the bottom, you ship or flag or your hope's rags don't make big influence on essence. Two types of dancing are in fashion – on acute rake and onto splinters. And if you do not see deadlock, it means, that you are into circle."
"Deadlock is minimum of road. The one of longest at today. And it's a sort of needed key – you can't reborn without dying."
"There is no sky without bottom, you are immeasurably right. We all are wanting to believe, that all contains some sober logic in inside, some grain of tightly hidden sense. That all gets done on some straight purpose. It's quite familiar for people and understandable for heart. Without lantern pillar rots."
"Don't look for rails without sleepers. You're also frighteningly fair. Without lock all keys are equal. Without sea all storms are dead."
"It's not for good and not for winnings. You can't make flame by adding water. True price of this is close to horror."
"The only thing, which is more terrible than horror is your addicting to its hugs."
"Just do not care and step further. Your scope of bullets, by the way, will all the time be greatly less than even drop of hated people. And even thought will never help to kill this tragedy with reason."
"Each sip of tragedy is ocean. And any luck is just a crumb."
"I know, it's always only fleeting."
"But it's so piquant to take risks..."
"I am entirely agree. The best fish soup is soup of fisher."
"The more thick is night's murk, the more exhausted is lights' shining."
"Each smoke is fire's decoration. You can't find heat in heap of ashes. Burn wood - and you will get some flame, burn heart – and you will get own corpse."
"Each flame is craving for next ashes. To bloom in withering is sin. And here all given – pains and flaws..."
"The more of flaws are sadly tasted, the more reliable, firm and high is your devotion to the beauty..."
"Each beauty – ugliness's supporter."
"Each wasteland – seed of future fruits. With right approach you're strong as abyss. Don't try to swim, if you are practicing in sinking. Just look at aim and seek for tools. For clever fish each hook is helper."
"It sounds beautiful and soothing, but too deceptive to be true. If you are playing hide and seek, the mainest thing is to be found. You hope, believe, move up and wait. And life just simply passes by."
"No clocks can order to time's pace. No even matter how you're trying, without decent fate's support, you are more weak than dust at rain. If you are hurrying to get mind, believe, soon mindlessness is near."
"If you've lost color of the buds, then sharpen thorns and keep calm silence. In murk each spark is greatest fire. We live in horror and decay, where fact of rescue is just trifle, which doesn't bring you any help. For broken boat oars are needless."
"All things are measurelessly tricky. If two are breaking into door, then third is climbing through of window. And having killed here all well-fed, you'll never rid this world of hunger."
"Such fact is cause to decompose. But even seeing no shore, look for first shallowness' space."
"This is quite pointless and fruitless. Don't seek for heights, at least, at bottom. Life's term is cheaper than a penny. The more magnificent is circus, the less each single clown costs."
"It's also probably for good. For tangibility of passions. Brisk night is brighter than sun's shining."
"Without view of real goal, don't spend your money, strengths or hopes. Without strings you'll play one silence. We need in sense, in saint luck's savor, which helps to rise to any heavens. In flying weather, even barrel is perfect sort of aircraft."
"Success is curse of ones, who're aimful. Believe, such gift is not for us. It's even stupid to persist. If you are looking for a fool, you'll rather promptly find yourself."
"Each plot depends on ending playing. If you are looking for a lantern, you'll calmly find both night and darkness. If you are looking for a noose, you'll swiftly find both soap and chair. Most main is simply not to rush. If someone tries to do five things at once, he'll not mistaken only in sixth one."
"It's hard to have both strength or ardor. Path's length is workless boots' supporter. What is time's aim, just guess and answer – to turn mistakes in next regrets. One bullet never kills your twice - one wrong decision, and your corpse proceeds to perishing and freezing - for fun of people, worms and death."
"It's also way to strange conclusions. Fresh corpse, as any mindful knows, is much more nice than rotten lifer."
"It works exclusively on words. All fate - one dullness, dirt and griefs. Without outcome or pauses. In truly low and nasty movie, good roles, as fact, do not exist."
"For wrong crooked legs straight paths are closed. We are too alien for better. For something hopeful, huge and great. If you choose crawling, flight gets cutted."
"Each one is lucky with luck's presence. With gun each beast is perfect hunter. But to keep climbing through of sorrows, through dying, pain and lack of hope... It's truly difficult and hurting. But it’s apparently more smart – to part with life, when days lose purpose – for aimless line, most main is point. We live for nothingness, for worst. The more free is the cheese, the more painful is mousetrap's cradle. Each chance is less than hollow smoke, you'll never snatch it and develop. You can’t catch taillessness by tail. But heat of faith is still quite deathless, as well as useless, by the way. The hut is not a guests' creator. Fate path is not a magnet for success, which also barely can rescue. You cannot cancel rain by simple presence of umbrella. It's mad to faith in share's care – traps never help to breed of victims. Such fact is evident and nude."
"It's way to hopelessness, to horror. The more small and more weak are your wings, the more it's easy just to fold them. And then one darkness, one despair, one constant vainness and regrets – with walls of pain, distress and gloom. Lost sunken ships don't boast with voyage. It's sad, but having truly rotted, you'll never run to bloom and blossom. For wholly frozen heat is sinful."
"It's not a new. If you have flown from thorns and stones, you cannot land at fluffy surface. If you have parted with luck's cradle, do not expect for something fruitful, for flame, perfection or joy's hugs. The more brighter is the light, the more far is its place. The very need to hope and wait is nothing else than scary burden and worst of punishments and pains. The more you live in desert's width, the less you faith in water's presence."
"You have to tolerate and hurry, don't fall and bottom will not find you."
"With love to hand, don’t touch the hedgehog, it has been learnt till tons of tears. But no matter how much strong and how much durable your mind is, life's truths are equally appalling."
"But even deeply into torments, in pit of agony and murk, keep deathless easiness and smile. Ship doesn't sink without music. What's more, sometimes, of course, not always, having tired to sink, sails again. The more rainy is sky, the more nice is its rainbow. When skill to hope and gift to wait are chained together, life's path is free to reach all stars – the ones, which present in fate's abyss. But if prescribed was one tart  vainness, one greedy emptiness and dust, you anyway will stay with nothing. Big fish is not for small of rivers. Good tools are half of good result. The more aggressive is game's plot, the more indifferent is winning. But taste of coziness is rare – in complex games success is tricky, in misty weather paths are hazed."
"But even lost and broken fate, but with rich past made of one heights, is much more pleasant and attractive, than wholly gray forthcoming age without greatness, feats and glory. As I am surely supposing, even problems and griefs, pains and dirts are deadly tired from this being as from some heavy horrid curse. What can be done with pit of living. In silent movie, screams are vain. Life will win, you will lose, time will pass. Believe in coffin, not in better..."
"It's still quite good for struggle's sharpness. The more high is the fence, the more fine it's to climb. The more lazy is horse, the more stubborn is rider. But just to live is not a pleasure, not a feat or a cause to keep smile. Mind's wornness is too far from state of wisdom. Not all is positive for share, not all brings equal dose of use. And if you're born to be unlucky, gloom's nets will find your life themselves. You can't hide firewood from fire."
"Such truth is also rather shabby and old as mountains and seas. No things protect from new of bullets as well as past ones, which were apt. Fate's burden, please do not have doubts, is much more obstinate than storm. Big ships are soil for big crashings. But world relies on brave and strong – on ones, who're wider than whole being. And weaklings' breed in living's play is just not more than simple garbage, unneeded, valueless and vain. Such fates get thrown in hugs of abyss without warnings or regrets."
"All this, including every trifle, from foolish start till tragic end, is fruit and guilt of our essence, of our worthlessness and flaws. Life's frames do not demand too much, don't ask for anything unreal and do not lead with twisted roads, at least, for seriously long. World's plans are far from super-tasks, but full of trashy implementers, who promptly bury all they do – just right at point of beginning, which serves for them as stumbling stone. Do not forget, most silly fishes, as rule, don't need in bait at all."
"At here I'm flamingly supporting. You can't let bullet with no gun, and cannot catch it with no forehead. It's rather bitter for acceptance, but only having been completed, fate's line gets understandable and plain. You cannot make new-fashioned clothing of worn and featureless old fabric. If to be looking with cold mind, all ways are equally oppressive. True width of possibilities and prospects is more deceptive than spring's warmth. And if your route is full of pleasures, of lavish easiness and blooming and amply reigning taste of joy, than be most free of any doubts – pain's scales will also be the same. Life's practice tirelessly proves, large mechanisms don't ill with little breakings. But even knowing of this fact and understanding horror's measure, do not prepare to give up. Without bag, awl's role is modest. Burn up, and fading will dissolve."
"Such heat depends on what is given, on share's weight and future plots. Bad ships are inappropriate for all - for any variant of route and any type of navigation, and even sinking for last ones is task they rarely can cope with. If you believe in strength of murk, in its supremacy and sternness, you'll most predictably get lost. We can’t resist to inner dying, to heart's involving in pain's nets and meanly crippling mental freezing. Away of being onto boat, your faith in oars has no sense."
"What is today – strange boring horror, with nothing hopeful, bright or sane. The more needful is bridge, the more swiftly it burns. And all, what's given – just to cry, to gain regrets and to kill wishes – from most exalted till most small, which here are equally forbidden. An empty pocket, as we know, is not a source of money's plenty. If you have stumbled – you'll get crashed. If you've mistaken, fate will perish."
"Success is breakable, it's true. You can't divide it, cannot split – in any number of free pieces and any group of single parts, which will have similar of features and will be suitable for use. Don't rush to shoot without gun, it never helps in target's hitting."
"Not having taken full risks' dose, you'll never take thin tale of glory as well as never will get sweetness of so much tempting winnings' taste. For rain's afraiders world sends desert, for life's afraiders world sends death. Lost faded share is just rubbish, vain heap of uselessness and pains, of fuss, omissions and regrets, completely purified of prospects and of possessing with next grace. In shallowed river, as we know, you even sink with lack of ease. In such of cases, what destroys, all ways are tickets to soon coffin. Bad food is worse than good poison, it's sadly fair, if you're wise. The more unbearable is fate, the more awaited is its finish. For act of falling, be assured, we need exclusively in legs."
"At here I'm melting in agreeing, for us to walk without stumbling is close to singing with clenched teeth. From flight till splinters, as world shows us, is one plain readiness to risk. And what's in hundreds times more painful – the more effortless, prompt and easy is your achieving of success, the more unstable, short and fruitless will be obtaining of its plenties. The more affectionate and soft is fluff of victories and blooming, the more frustrating, rough and hard will be stone surface of next losses. And, as you have to be informed, from worthless breakage of defeat, you'll never tailor flesh of winning. And fate at earth is not a blot, but truest stain and not more pretty. And, what's most doleful and dark, it's too much difficult to wash it."
"Your fate is set of your beliefs. And, having fallen onto bottom, you'll still continue to exist, but only scantily and vainly and in disjunction with all great. Without treasure of luck's presence, you'll have no flame, no weakest spark of further blossoming and glory. In horse's absence, as we're seeing, each rider is an idiot, a fool. If life is spent, all you are able – to wait for death and to gain pain, with sobbing bathing heart in sorrow and amply reaping bitter harvest of freshly gathering regrets. The more you sacrifice, the less you can acquire. Not every mousetrap at now is full of really free cheese."
"For storms of fate, as last one shows, each life is close to sort of letter – they'll calmly send you anywhere, and you will will-lessly succumb. We all are slaves of inner weakness. Of mind's fragility and fright. But dance of forces, as you're guessing, is also far from having weight. Huge greatness' bubble is too helpless, too thin and breakable, too short. One small omission, and your share gets turned in pile of useless trash. You cannot change it, can't foresee. Life's plans don't heed to expectations."
"All things are frighteningly shaky, you look in essence of days' play. And straightest way to pain and horror is route, which's leading for luck's fruits. You seek for easiness and blooming, but get one fatigue and fading. Get lack of power and control. And then make minimal mistake, and find yourself in role of corpse. Each working fire lives for ashes, for feeding firewood with death. When fate is over, all is wasted. And any previous events, with whole past heaviness and vastness, will swiftly melt and disappear in constant fog of being's fuss. Each warmth at here is just cold's hook. You cannot bury and erase exclusively what's killed and what's not written."
"If you can't walking, learn to run. Sometimes your risk is your best friend. And even deeply into dying keep smile and elegance of movements. Each one, who has got fallen in nice manner is grave for ones, who uglily have flown. Hope's light is right to feel yourself, to stay alive among of pains. But in wrong games right steps are absent."
"Away of compass, ships are dead. Life's frames will never teach to blossom. If you will think of pure and proper, you'll start to want to lay in coffin. Each one, who has accustomed to whip's slashing, will never even look at gingerbread. For empty forehead, as you know, fresh fatal bullet is a gift. Each one, who is unable for to fly, will calmly fall, not leaving Earth. "
"Believe, no fire is afraid of firewood. Each one, who dances onto coals, as rule, don't worry of cold soles. If you are far from to be idiot and moron, your risks will also have strict aim – at least, at early raw beginning. Please faith, big weaknesses will never choose small people."
"To run by edge without wings is not too positive solution. World's pit is cold to breed of victims, as well as winners cold to fools. Fields are not friends for woods and forests. And having stopped at least for minute, you risk to stuck for endless term. It's rather silly to hate fate - you can't fix route by changing pace, right as can't reap some fruits from dreams. But for to keep your soul alive you need in miracle, in trusting, in chance to wait and to keep hope."
"Away of games, true players die. This shows full nature of each human. And the more far you are from tools, the more you seek for heat of purpose. Such state transforms life's route in burden – each one, who has got tasted greatness' savor, will never please oneself with fuss."
"At here we're prisoners of fortune. But even tons of naked luck don't serve as ladder to attainments. The more of paths you have for going, the more it's easy to get lost. The more of thoughts you have in head, the less control you're free to pay them in shortest moment of response. The more assuredly you sway, the more it's easy to unlearn, what does it mean to keep straight moving. If you have chosen to crawl, one day you'll see, that sky is locked."
"But risks are fuel of achievements. Success don't like to take small bets. Your strength depends on scales of passion. One truly hungry tiny ant will always eat immeasurably more than even hundred elephants, who're fed. Just faith, strive up and save past course. Do not be fooled by dust of trifles. Such ones are soil for one pains. The more aimless is victory's essence, the more bloodthirsty are war's plots. The more shy is haystack, the more reliably it hides needles. So be more willful, smart and strict. If someone wants to eat your body, then, into order to survive, at least don't sprinkle flesh with spices. With whole persistence harshly knocking in most desirable door, at first make check, that it's not opened. Such truth is bottomlessly plain. What means, don't doubt in mind's power and into rightness of world's plans. The more unbearable are methods, the more impressive are results."
"These hopes are colder than north's blizzards. Grief's seeds don't need in soil's presence. If end is visible, believe, last step will occur. The worst of burdens is life's vainness. Such state is heavier than curse."
"If you've not burned in hugs of fire, don't think you'll never drown in sea, but always following for corners and not remarking something else, don't be afraid to stuck in circles."
"If you have turned to be unable to avoid wrong ugly fact of being born, you'll hardly manage with death's skipping. The course of time is always equal: from murk to murk through narrow now – most weak, impalpable and short."
"Best time in any one of ages is such a variant of future, which has already gone in past. If you have lost, your further share will never part with bottom's frames as well as never will bring pleasures. Such state is invitation in destruction. Crooked tree, as practice stably shows us, is not afraid to turn in stump."
"It's right, you're doubtlessly fair. But every powerless sick winner is into thousands of times much more assured, firm and strong than any healthiest of losers."
"The more convincingly you burn, the more disgustingly you'll fade. The more persistent is detail, the more severe will be hammer. The more strong is tree's trunk, the more rude will be saw. The more attractively looks city, the more appallingly it'll die. Most long of rains, as rule, bring drought."
"Good neck will never meet bad ax. The only thing, which can't be nullified and wasted is one nude zero itself. Good climber can't fall in bad manner. If you've got tired from own life, believe, you'll even die without passion."
"If you can't differ light from murk, then even pain will have joy's taste. Thin things get broken by themselves. If you can sail without oars, you'll never sink with any anchor."
"You can't get straightness by new bendings. Without amply reigning luck, all paths will lead in equal coffin. You cannot push from mental wall. As cannot dance on melted ice."
"But no matter how it's bitter, we're ourselves are cause of our problems. Having door, we are going through wall. From stupid head, as it's well-known, the only cure is kiss of death."
"The thinner is the thread, the longer it gets torn. This is familiar to all – till tears, pain and sorrow's taste. In all appropriate for meaning, just trust with highest scale of firmness, will calmly ripen and rise up each sort and variant of madness. And all activity, all fervor are not more helpful than dust's handful. If you are trying to get all, don't be surprised with having nothing."
"Life's vastness never leads in better. We need in miracle, in luck, in something small, but greatly weighty, what can support, preserve and rescue from hungry abysses of grief. The more of forces you are having, the more futile is their use. The more sober is mind, the more chaotic are decisions. But risks are remedy from boredom. The more predictable is route, the more indifferent is going. But all already is prescribed – from fuss till rarities and feats. And not on people life depends. Right place is maker of right time. All roots of future hides in past, in farest starting of existence. What means – just trust and move ahead. Good shows are free from poor tickets."
"But size of ship and size of sailing are not accustomed to be twins. The more delightful is the weather, the less of harvest it will bring. The more sweetly looks fruit, the more rotten it is. The more loud is rain, the more thin is roof's plate. The more nice is your night, the more wrong it's to sleep. The more early are leaves, the more soon they will fall."
"The more strong is the frost, the more white are its snows. And even going in last path, do not forget of gait's perfection. With decent measure of firm courage, you'll calmly pass through any twists and any hardships of your share. The more strong is the grip, the more light it's to hold."
"The more sweet is your life, the more prompt is its end. Cat's skills are surely enough for certain eating of a mouse, but at the same surprising time, what's much more funny and amazing, each drop of mouse's ambitions will be excessively enough for lightest eating of few tigers. World's frames are horribly deceptive. And, daily hunting for luck's tail, you'll most predictably get meeting with grief's body. Lost paths are not a source of happy findings. In grayness colors are short-living. You can't save roads by potholes. For wingless creatures sky is hell."
"Good soil – magnet of bad seeds. If you see greatness, try to cling. If you see death, prepare coffin."
"You can’t fix emptiness by void. Don't try to couple flame and water, such sorts of unions are doomed."
"But time from time we're just unready for something seriously huge. Sometimes it's horribly explicit, but still not obvious for heart. The more tricky is lock, the more  simple is key. Big traps are cold for tiny victims. It's maybe bottomlessly childish, but rather actual and true. Indeed tall house, as we know, has no need in extra floors. The less you have, the more it's easy to take risks. With wholly empty cup in hands, don't be afraid to pour its liquid."
"Such knowledge rarely can save. For soul each healing serves as poison. Old circus workers do not laugh."
At this both've abruptly got silent, with sudden sadness having frozen in unexpected common pause. One half of wordless minute later, Stepan Grigorievich has shyly raised his eyes and, after period of thinking, most deeply looking right in eyes with pensive drowsiness declared: "At now I ought to make reporting – you are true genius, true jewel – without minimal of doubts and with full broadness of this role. Your view of world is so much sober, so much voluminous and apt. You are entirely unique. At here I'm blamelessly sincere."
Philip Petrovich, having hesitantly yawned, has delved in thickets of bemusing and then unhurriedly replied: "Come on, I’m average lost fool. I bet, you'll hardly ever guess, how madly stupid is my being. Till real tragedy and hell."
"It's fully normal for wise people. Don't even plan to be upset. You'll never get here something else, if you are inwardly exalted. You cannot change it or prevent. It's part of share, part of given. What's more – I also live the same."
At this frustrating cheerless point, plot's line of desperate discussion has stepped in mutual retelling of living stories and past days. Stepan Grigoryevich with joylessness has told, how at the very start of life he has been taken by his father from local orphanage to home. And here it's needful to describe both fate and person of this parent – lost lonely painter, wretched and poor, unknown with money, luck or care or even faintest taste of love or reciprocity and frankness. This fact has brought most firm of habits – to look at world without hope.
"My father always has been saying - I've come to live in too wrong time, I’m not in need here, not in winners, not in one company with luck and not in single pack with joy. I each my day was neatly seeking for right on unity and warmth, on truly pure and deathless feelings. I was in thirst for tender hands, for something holy, priceless and exclusive. But time was passing with no fruits and I was staying into void – with bitter savor of betrayals and with great lack of any faith. And then, in order to get able to gift my dream to someone else, I've taken you and not too richly, but quite smoothly led up from term of childhood till youth's days. And now you're free to be yourself — to seek, to wait, to burn, to bloom and to strive higher. And I believe, that years later you'll put your life in right conditions and get that rare priceless chance to meet your frankly loving couple and to give birth to common childs, most happy, wonderful and flawless from all humanity of earth. And then my father has got old and after few of last weak seasons was lost in peacefulness of grave. And I have stayed to wait for better. To look for bliss of understanding and to examine course of fate in hope to catch saint peerless treasure of trust, fidelity and love. So I've remained with this strange faith in soon upcoming of new time, which will be suitable for building of feelings, family and dreams, the very ones, which till today are not fulfilled and not brought closer."
And then, in order of response, Philip Petrovich has identically told, how far in institute by will of morbid fortune he had got fruitlessly acquainted with freely wandering stray actress, who had already had few children and been in temporary pair with her apparently fifth husband. The lady had lef memory and promise to write short letters and to love, what has transformed in true disease for weak mentality of loner.
"Yes, world is bottomlessly big, but it's still horribly amazing, that so lost souls have common talk."
"I don't believe in happiness at all. This world is freed from lucky shares."
"I'll say you frighteningly more – of course, it's opposite position, but world is madly full of luckers and even have such rare people, who are accounting their breed. I have one comrade at post office - Boris Danilovich, the quietest. He lives between of two life's winners. The names of last ones I don't know. He also reads one thick wise book."
"What a surprising pretty trifle. Meantime one block and I'm at home."
"And till my home - one and half. Let's meet tomorrow at eight, of course, p.m and at this place, with aim to move by district's longing and to discuss all other pains."
Here, after nodding, they've got parted.

II
In sullen boredom of room's prison, among of walls and thoughts of hopeless, with fair apathy in mood has idly yawned and woken up completely lifeless slightly plump and veiled in thickets of own weakness Boris Danilovich Yamskov, perplexed and pale impassive man, the very worker of post office, who have been living by fate's will between two happiest of people and had addiction to wise reading. The hero has performed few stretching movements and with unwittingness to haste looked out of hazed surface of gray window.
"Sun's light again. Most deep noon's middle, and I'm still carelessly sleeping. It looks as coquetry or illness. But what to do, if you are free for whole day's length and have no duties."
The man has slowly yawned once more and sat at pier of waiting table.
"It's time to delve in my wise book. To pour thoughts' shiness onto brain."
The hero has picked up worn bunch of pages, combined in heavy decent tome, and jumped in cleverness of lines, most thickly stuffed with aphorisms' abundance.
1) Good dishes do not need in poor spices.
2) The more invisible is mouse, the more remarkably it squeaks.
3) Bad law is not a sin to install.
4) Don't sweeten fruit if it's forbidden.
5) Each salary is mockery at labor.
6) Bad things aren't learnt to change for better.
7) If you have soul, get used to sins.
8) You can’t remember something good, if you have memory, which's awful.
9) Do not try to do manual work with your feet.
10) In bad fur coat even summer is also part of winter's cold.
"What a terribly brilliant beauty. True feast of dominance of thought." - the hero has excitedly admired and delved in further scope of text.
11) The smaller is the apple, the more hard it's to try to divide.
12) Do not respond on rave with reason.
13) The more thin is the knife, the more thick are its cuts.
14) Big mouse cannot choke with little cat.
15) To catch a hunger is still better than to be poisoned while of meal.
16) Wrong thoughts don't suit for proper thinking.
17) The more uneasy is the state, the more it's simple in attaining.
18) Bad taste and tastelessness are equal.
19) Repeating is not a variant of newness.
20) Don not get fat in narrow rooms.
"Oh, yes, it's really breathtaking. I'm over-flooded with delight."
And again into text, in mind's bliss.
21) With wordless mouth talks are endless.
22) The more you knock, the less they open.
23) One fool is worse than three fires.
24) Don't try to speed your horse with cart.
25) Without threads don't even think of buying needle.
26) Without foolness fool is vain.
27) You cannot wear unsewn dresses.
28) For daily standing rooted legs each step is pass in endlessly long road.
29) Indeed bad carriage gets slowed down by even presence of own horse.
30) Do stupid things in mindful manner.
"Oh yes, pure jewel of thoughts' magic. I'm even feeling, how brain's growing. Let's stop for tiniest of terms and get informed of neighbors' living."
So, having left shy chair's harbor, the hero has replaced himself to hallway. At here, it's right to make a pause and to describe both lucky dwellers, who were encircling our reader – the first, left door, strong brave youth Victor with immense joyfulness and zeal and greatest skill of greedy drinking, harsh risky gambling, wild loud playing old guitar and nimbly doing satisfying of never ending girlish breed, refreshing every single night and always blooming with mad ardor; the second, similar door right, one decade elder miller Peter, who was engaged in lovely bonds of silent family existence with nice young wife and two fine children. By will of fate, each one of neighbors was lost in temporary absence. The first, apparently, was sleeping, the second, probably, had work.
"I'll calmly cope without them." - has thought the hero with regretting and delved again in depths of book.
31) With bad umbrella, you'll get wet in any variant of desert.
32) Spring is most early start of autumn.
33) We do not have more easy things than to start moving with hard road.
34) With decent pick, key's role is small.
35) Each risk with mind is always mindless.
36) The more assured is the grip, the more intensively it weakens.
37) Don't ask for everything from nothing.
38) Each sort of slowness is also form of hurry.
39) One leg is not for two of paths.
40) Small shame is worse than big death.
"Most smart of things are here and now - at these shy pages of my book." - Boris Danilovich has sighed and, having hidden into blanket, dissolved in prettiness of sleep.

III
Engaged in weakly going swirling and drowsy readiness to melt thick thoughtful flocks of weighty clouds were shyly dragging over roofs in wistful gazing at cold bleakness of inexpressive dismal earth. Wet winds, in craving for free pipes, were humbly rustling in last leaves, with stress alluring heart in sorrow, in autumn dampness and despair, vast painful dreariness and smell of dying herbs. Pale faint sunset, embraced by fog, was also gradually fading and losing features and bright tones, replaced by facelessness and haze. Stepan Grigoryevich, in usual postal form, was meekly standing at crossroad in coy awaiting of friend's coming. Filipp Petrovich was in time and with strong thirst for talks and walking.
"Well day, my brother in dead thinking. I'm glad to greet you next to me." - has said Stepan Grigoryevich with smile: "Let's wander up and gather thoughts, discussing everything world's made of."
"Let's move, not stucking in delays, fate's plots are yearning for attention."
"I don't possess with even slightest drop of doubts, your words are shamelessly exposing most brazen nudity of truth."
The heroes have let legs' team in walk and knotted thoughts with ropes of gloom.
"So madly breakable and fleeting is any share, chance and day, so madly shaky, frail and short..."
"Bad things are learnt which way to happen. Believe, they'll find both place and time. All games have start, as well as finish. And only pain is freed from terms. In endless songs last chords are absent. Best days are always veiled in fog. And do not lose your strengths on tryings, it's stably purposeless and vain - lame walker never turns in runner."
"Each one is prisoner of fate, of luck, intentions and prescriptions, which are above of plans and tools. All sorts and variants of rules bring help exclusively to winners, to ones, who're gifted with success and calmly able to get harvest of all life's plenties, joys and heights. Such roles, you guess, are not for us. Not for two hopelessly lost losers. It's even strange to look for bridge, which leads from nothingness to better. What's more each route in our days is just a variant of ticket to inescapable dead lock. All bliss at sadly known now is just a source of next regrets, of further pains and future torments, which never end or disappear, as well as never stop for long. Each light is ladder into darkness. Each fun is pass in tears' showers. Each tiny victory is mask of huge defeat. Today's success is breathless dust, if last one's terms have length of moment. And even mind is not a friend and not a remedy from madness in tightly holding falsehood's hugs. The only ones, who're saved from fooling are just the very fools themselves. Head's tricks at here are weak and useless, as well as stubbornness or faith. The more impressive is bait's size, the more small fish it will turn able to attract."
"For many people thinking process is something close to straightest magic. Such ones are victims of own brain. If you're regretting of a little, you'll never come to truly big. In global you can  hide a lot, in trifles – everything at all. As well as into memory or lyings."
"At here you're measurelessly right – in thoughts long divings end with death. But life is equally gets sadder with any essence of mind's frames. One naked memory of cannon will never let you to make shot. And world keeps growing and enlargening in scales, with blooming, prudence and improving. With grace and tempting progress' taste..."
"But what it is – this vague progress... Sad hopeless longing for escape. For something different from given. Believe, it's doleful request. You can't make dish from single spices. But you get used to have such meal. The longer lasts time's length of torture, the less you feel the fact of pain. Frail ones get broken by rude force, strong one – by softly gentle weakness. And it's not easy to admit this."
"To live with reason is true torment. Each thought is frighteningly cunning: not even looking at the fact of being born in mental thickets, such one without of delays most firmly conquers whole mind's volume, oppressing, breaking and eroding past native innocence of views. No things can uglify as much as can it stupidness and trusting. Before of wondering what fool you was in past, at first throw glance at self in future. World's changing never brings success - you cannot decorate bud's beauty by ample adding of new thorns, as well as cannot soften thorns by prettifying of buds' blooming. The higher is the cost of minds, the lower is the cost of madness. Days don't give poison with no food. With aim to teach you how to limp, at first they'll teach you how to go. The more you hope, the less you have."
"Fate's frames are cause to turn in stone. Thought's lamp is lighting not for stupid. Lie's seeds are sweeter than truth's fruits. And do not wait for good and soothing. Next days are scarier than hell."

IV
In static peaceful heaps of haze, among of rare shapeless clouds, was meekly thickening sky's grayness. Were gently blowing sluggish winds. Dark broken shadows were getting passively replaced on freshly growing dusky dawn, pierced up with joyless dim reflections from far indistinct lights of cars. Old roaring roof was sadly ringing with metal coldness of own surface. Day's course, dissolved in midst of languor, was shyly lingering in fright, deep wide oblivion and fading, encaged each corner of world's width. Boris Danilovich, in company of book, was slowly keeping silent reading.
41) In trembling hands each weapon is dummy.
42) Tails are not taught to think of heads.
43) There is no better gardener than soil.
44) Don't spend big salt on little wounds.
45) You cannot spill without pouring.
46) You can't craft happiness from grief.
47) The more expensive is the bullet, the more less-costing gets the head.
48) Good mind can easily get old, good thought can easily get timeless.
49) For barrel spoon is not a mentor.
50) No one can pass defeats as winner.
"Oh yes, so wonderful, so flawless. Like honey's splashing onto brain." And again back to lines with conclusions.
51) You can’t fill emptiness with void.
52) If you have foolishness, await for meet with fool.
53) You cannot find particularities in common.
54) With poor food each hunger is pure feast.
55) You cannot tie long arms, if rope is short.
56) Each fool is evidence of smartness.
57) You can't eat badly with good spoon.
58) Right hand embraces, left hand robs.
59) You can't forgive your sins by foreign gods.
60) Don't try to couple scythe and stone.
"Well, what a marvelous delight, what an incredible perfection." And further into labyrinth of text.
61) You cannot spoil errors with eraser.
62) The more relaxedly you sleep, the more frustratingly they wake you.
63) Each war for peace is close drinking for sobriety.
64) Ship's soul is free from sins of pier.
65) You can't shock noose by adding neck.
66) The more you're faithing into head, the more predictable is fact of last one's losing.
67) New songs don't feel compassion to old strings.
68) The more thing seems, the less it happens.
69) Without hammer, nails just rust.
70) Nude people cannot be undressed.
"Well, I am glad and full of wisdom. What means, it's time for to get rest and to make visit to the neighbors."
And once again undying boredom – young drinker sleeps, old miller works. Life's plots are obstinately steady.

V
Behind of loudness and haze of teeming avenue's expanses, in midst of dullness, wind and rain, was meekly growing grayish thickness of pale emotionless dawn's width. Huge flocks of hastening cars' bodies were swiftly voyaging ahead through flesh of downpour and fog. Small frequent drops, torn off from roof, were nimbly landing onto eave of old and tired window's square, with boredom dancing strange quadrille. Disastrous heavy taste of pain was getting nailed in every corner of weak and joyless being's cage. In hugs of pensiveness of room, in frames of bitterness and sorrow, maintained by sullen bonds of walls, was shyly dying in own thinking Stepan Grigorievich's mind's peace. With tragic glance in hollow void and tartest apathy in eyes, the hero was supporting fading's process of promptly darkening lost soul. One unsuccessful week ago, he has attempted an acquaintance, which once again has brought no luck and got completed by strong bunch of cruel mockeries and laughing, what has destroyed last crumbs of hope and chained heart's cradle in despair, so firmly rooted in crashed mood.
"And again life repeats, that I'm loser, which's not appropriate for love or any other warming feeling, uniting motley people's fates. I'm guest of hatred and refusals, of constant needlessness and pain and of incessant sea of tears. I'll never hide from disappointment and vainness, from partings, failings and regrets. It's sad, I'm alien for better, for care, frankness and support. I'm just a piece of trifling rubbish, whose local share is to rot. Such state eats brain as worst of acids, upsetting, hurting, leaving harmed. What for to try and to strive up, if all accessible and given performs one permanence of torments, of sticky filthiness and dirt, with unforgivable excess most badly swarming here and there in any sphere of today. I have no variant of future, in which I'll ever cope with getting of any unity and fondness. I'll never fall in any love and never taste devotion's fruits. The frankest source of my salvation locates at point of my death - the only possible escape from bitter cargo of self-wrongness. It's not for me to be demanded, to bloom, to shine and to have sense – at least most doubtful and vague."
The hero has made weak and lifeless sigh and walked ahead through places' silence.
In midst of cold and viscous dusk, in thoughtless sleepiness and peace, were coyly swirling tired shadows. Along of wet and faceless roofs, were calmly dragging heaps of clouds. Faint pensive ovals of bleak lanterns, with tragic yellowness in dim and timid eyes, completing picture of world's sorrows, were sadly sowing weary light.
"What sort of people do we have... Lost aimless pieces of vile heartlessness and evil. They do not seek for reciprocity or care, they need in mutual indifference and hatred, in ugly balance of betrayals, deceits, atrocities and pains. They look for enemy, for foe, for one, who'll serve as further target for anger, violence and filth, for meanness, fooling and reproachings, new smirks and freshly woven blamings, which get repeated and maintained each nasty day of common years. They gladly sink in depths of sneering, in pit of morbidness and rotting, uprising inwardness of souls to highest scales of decomposing. No even matter how much long will last remaining of my share, I'll never meet with frank concern, with true devotion and perpetual affection. This world is endlessly mistaken, at least, in current broken age. Meanwhile, all great, as rule, is simple. In fact, in most of living cases we do not need in tricky tools. And even more, as practice shows, sometimes excess is fully helpless – resultless, pointless and vain. In all – from miracles till trifles. Let's take some wholly banal matter - the same exchanging of light bulb. With even bunch of proper items, you'll promptly stuck in problems' sea – wrong voltage or unfitting size of bottom or any other stopping trouble. And even sitting in most genuine excess, with lamp, with bulb, with electricity in socket and with desire to have light, you firmly stay in last one's absence and do not know what to do. In even easiest of startings for to be able to succeed and to reap decently rich harvest of prudent outcomes and fruits, without any of exceptions, we must have miracle of luck - the only thing, which's free to fill with priceless relevance of tryings and with stern fairness of aims. In frames of actual conditions, in immortality of grief and in incessantness of losses, such precious rarities are drearily infrequent and outlandishly unique. It's too regrettable, too sad... I have to turn this in complains and then to send in wordy form to kind and careful Philip Petrovich's ears. Oh, yes, it's doubtless – I definitely have."

VI
In empty, doleful apartment, in nets of apathy, prescribed to be eternal, and in surrounding of freshly growing pains, brought up till scariest of scales by new rich dose of darkest thoughts, already gnawing flesh of brain with all own obstinate assemble, was humbly measuring day's length engaged in gloom Philip Petrovich. The hero was exceptionally sad and full of bottomless upsetness. One sad distressing week ago he has received so much awaited and so much hopeless loving letter - from Olga Pavlovna, the very windy actress, who had so heavily enslaved frail trustful mind of lonely youth. Saint priceless object of most ravishing of wishes has coldly given one nude sorrow, with skill collected in brief lines of numb and doubtful confessions.
"Once again, with all flame of my nature, I'm hotly hastening to greet you - to fall in blissful sacred bonds of this occasional short shelter for secret meetings of two hearts, for term of several next minutes preserved and rescued from life's fuss in gentle hugs of common cradle for pleasures, openness and warmth. For dreams, desires, promises and plannings. I was most passionately yearning and truly wanting to return, so many tiresome of times with sadness bathing into memories and thoughts and finding moment for to write. I have got parted with my owner of the circus. At now I’m practically single... Of course, I have to be with you, but as you also understand, it can't be realized in practice. This is unbearable and tragic, but world is not a sugar's piece and life compels to choose another, what is, apparently, a lesson or an example of some check. Not of the easiest and plainest, but all around has own sense, that's why I hope, these little hardships one day will similarly manage to bring their dose of distant use. This long and steady separation, which for a lot and lot of times with full assertiveness and sternness was calmly proving its intention to pass through any ones of troubles – without hesitance or stumbling and with assured deathless faithing in future unity of souls, in sweetest endlessness of feelings and tartest blossoming of love, will never let us to get faded. And if to go back to present, I, as before, am full of seeking for some material support - at least, few hundreds bucks per month. I know, you always strive to help, but for my carefullest nature much more convenient is profit from new short-living carnal bonds. I greatly know, you do not like it, but do not hurry to have worries, I am forever only yours, my honey priceless heaven's gift. I fondly kiss your tender cheeks and neatly send you huge hello. Your far, but madly native Olya."
And now, having torn eyeballs from lines, reread with painfulness again, the hero, delving deeper in thoughts' gloom, was vainly trying to get used to swiftly widening despair: "Again I'm far from positive receivings... As always heap of dreariness, not more. Wasted mood, wasted hope, wasted chance on escape from grief's prison What sort of share do I have, what wrecked strange inconsolable role do I play at lost stage of life's theater, so deadly crappy, alien and wrong. It's not so easy to admit, in fact I even don't have right at least to meet her with my glance at sudden merciful crossroad... What aim can have such type of living, what sense can be imputed in its days... In days of barrenness and void, of long and desperate awaiting for end of vagueness and fright, assigned by permanent alert, that my saint object of affection will start to match with someone else and, what is killingly more awful, that she'll agree to save those bonds and to forget of me forever. I'm will-less victim of beliefs, of strange and empty expectations and of incessant lavish tears above of cracked and breathless prospects of my unneeded lonely fate. What am I having for to do in inability to change my murky present and to reorient life's line on route, directing me to better. My faint devotion to hazed fortune is source exclusively of tortures, of disappointment and confidence's lack. But I still trust to hands of being and frankly seek for hopeful turn of common bitter parting's plot, which's wholly able to transform in plot of unity and fondness."
Philip Petrovich has got up and with thick languor made long sigh: "Stepan Grigoryevich's believings are the same... I have to go to complain him. It must diminish pain's amount by healing head from doubts' trash. Wise prudent remedy, I'll notice – most free, resultative and fast and most familiar and tasted, what proves – I'm having to complain."

VII
In midst of cold and gloomy night, with rigor thickening around, were sadly blackening and yearning nude lifeless vastnesses of city. From chill of lowlands, embraced by veil of murk were climbing up frail faceless shadows, with deepest apathy observing dark barren void of world's views. Long tired abysses of streets, with passion knifed till bleeding holes by bitter downpours' cascade, were meekly stretching dense oblivion and fading, in secret dressing distances in mist. Returning back from finished walk, Boris Danilovich was leading route to home - without any inner brightness and with no readiness for meets, but right at first his timid step inside of entrance's abode was unexpectedly called out by shaky silhouette with bottle of port wine, quite huge in size, but almost empty, in freshly torn old-fashioned sweater and with thin cigarette in gladly smoking mouth: "Most fine of greetings to my honorable fellow! Are you, sad brother, still alone – in heartful seekings and wise reading?"
"It's so, you're sharper than best gunners – I'm fully free from other things. And what's of your last innovations?"
"I'm still alive. Still chained to bottle. Day ago, into frames of night's lust, have been f*cking one young swimmtess – she has been shouting so loudly and wildly, that I've felt sorry for her throat. I'm calmly betting all my money – her ass will feel most strong pain's presence not less than for whole term of few next weeks. She tries to win some competitions, and I write memorable stories. We're both engaged in decent labor. And what's of you – don't be upset: large proud eagles do not ask for eagletresses."
"You're madly actual again – till deepest essences of things. But in my case all looks quite darker – I'm inly broken and downtrodden and firmly rid of any hope..."
"But I believe in your impressive happy future. Anyway, keep in mind, you're the best – from all my friends at this weird planet."
"You're the same, thanks for all."
"Thanks you too, native soul."
At this frank point, paths have parted, Boris has gone in his apartment, and Viktor has led legs in pleasant walk to tempting cradle of night tavern – for extra alcohol in gut.
"Healthy positive version of person - lives, smiles and has incessant fun... He doesn’t know of regrets or of destructive taste of sadness. And I am piece of solid grief, which doesn't share any feelings except of dreariness and doom. I'm having nothing of fate's joys - no light, no care, no relations, no sacred passions and coy meets. One naked sorrow, one oppression... And heap of painful fruitless thoughts. My world is barren, crooked and empty, it can't be suitable for better, for blooming, cheerfulness and luck. I'm made of apathy and fading, of constant needlessness and gloom. Such state, apparently, is timeless, unending as some scary ancient curse. And not for me it's – to reap pleasures, to be demanded or to laugh. Days' course is filled with risks and fuss and stops most frequently at grave, at dark and numb eternal nothing, which calmly eats your mind and flesh and leaves exclusively one void from all past moments and events..."
Boris Danilovich has tragically sighed and stretched at rookery of bed. His eyes have meekly closed themselves, world's image have submissively dissolved. Neat nets of sleepiness have folded weakened thoughts in friendly trap of peaceful dreamings. No things, no hopelessness, no worries... At least, until first rays of morning.

VIII
In dense surrounding of fog, under shawl of fresh dusk and young coldness, was humbly resting sleepy city – with passive laziness of boredom and with exhausted rare people and tired breathlessness of winds, infirmly freezing into wastelands. Frail rain was trying to be going, but wasn't able to succeed. Bleak hollow spaces of wet quarters were numbly heeding to oblivion's extending, with languor conquering last corners of promptly fading yearning world, completely tragic, dump and faceless – from blurred heights, embraced by wistfulness and sorrow, till ground's mush, with zeal diluted by rain's water, returned to shower day and night for sake of newly started autumn, forlorn and veiled in endless slush.
Filipp Petrovich and Grigoryevich Stepan are slowly keeping sluggish walk with talks of past and fate's omissions.
"Sometimes you look at given being - at people, world and pace of days. And all is outwardly good, attractive, decent, calm and sinless. With heavy admixture of care, of friendly comfort and affection, but if you delve in inner essence, life's picture frighteningly changes - on horror, dirt, deceit and falsehood, annoyance, arrogance and vices, betrayals, filthiness and gloom."
"From outside, each sufferer is lucker. Such truth is abysmally old. Please note, that cruelest of soldiers of most bloodthirsty ruthless times were also sharing their food and healing injuries of hurted battle comrades. They also were examining rain's falling and unintentionally shivering from frost, were loving cup of fresh cold kvass in sunny middle of hot day and were immeasurably glad to be awoken close to noon. It's madly easy to disturb your being human, if you don't even know, what it means. It's too much simple to approve deceit and evil, if all your life was made of sufferings and dust, of teeming senselessness and hatred and of incessant pains and lies. If even rare vague chance to feel experience of better is something certainly unreal and unattainably remote, if any actual world's basics are strongly rooted into dirt and veiled in meanness, shame and tears, then moral principles of bottom will pass exclusively with grave. With bunch of flaws, mistakes and losses, your path will never flame with greatness, as well as never will get weight. Without miracle of frankness, of inner purity and grace, you'll never find yourself in rightness, in bonds of harmony with fate and into unity with self. And vain ability to sorry or to burst out with regrets, to feel compassion and to sob, right as weird skill to be delighted – is nothing more than fullest rubbish, deceptive, pointless and false till most unthinkable of measures. It doesn't suit for deep decisions and doesn't gift you human state."
"This fact is cause to fall in sorrow, to hide inside and kill last faith – in any truths, escapes and prospects..."
"No of truths, I agree with whole soul. But time is steadily predicted and all of actions are prescribed and quite not once reliably checked before of point of world's start. You even haven't done your step, but life already is informed in which of places it'll leave trace and who will notice it in future. Life even knows when and how this trace will cope to get erased – by hand of wind or legs of walkers or by persistence of plants' growth. You can most easily deny predestination, deny conjunction of events and their initial completion, but anyway each of tomorrow days will happen and turn in yesterday, in past, and, no matter how much scary it may sound, but this is equally unreal and forbidden to change or to re-target last one's essence at any of preceding them todays, as well as few of months or years later..."
"It's also ladder into sadness... In crying, trembling and bad sleep."
"We have not more than luck and chance, what's by the way is quite enough for any width of further strivings. Please, never throw away of mind, that you get transported and carried not by train, but by kind lenity of ticket..."
"It's too not more than food for pain – at first, you sadly lose your keys, and then deplorably discover, that you don't have past doors at all. Without wings there are no heavens. Without luck best thing is death..."
"Death's time is easiest and brightest. The very need to stay alive is by itself quite morbid matter. Request to be familiar with future is most unnatural and strange from all of possible desires. You still don't know taste of drink, but you already want to taste it. The only right and positive of wishes is wish exclusively to die – to leave world's pier and disappear – I've drunk all drinks and move away. But I will say you even more – you can't have happiness before of being buried. Such state demands full fate's completion and most assured end of paths – an ideal, which's free from next additions and saved from any further twists. For me best paradise at here is last one's absence... And I wholeheartedly believe, that all imputed and prescribed for my shy mind, my sinful soul and mortal body will calmly cope to place inside of earthly share, I hope, that thread of my lost path will cut own going on forever and last of notes of my life's song will be too great and too unique for to be copied or repeated in any variant and form."
At this upsetting thoughtful moment, the heroes have fallen into silence and slowly melted in pain's hugs and clothed in newly sewn oppression. Numb route has stolen hour's half and stopped at mutual goodbying, which has most distinctly left static common feeling of highest hopelessness of all.

IX
In bleak and used to grief apartment, among of nothingness and walls, has got unhurriedly awaken already full of idle languor Boris Danilovich Yamskov, who by prompt opening of eyes has brought own mind from dreams to being. Day's plot was frighteningly changeless – to savor sadness and to think. The hero has made frail and lifeless sigh and, having stood at window's square, delved glance in writings of his book.
71) You'll never spit in mirror's surface, if you are beautiful with face.
72) If calmness' time can't bury memories of storm, than it's less useful than dust's handful.
73) The more thick is the dirt, the more fat are its pigs.
74) Eyes are pincushion for truth's needles.
75) Each rain is shelter from umbrella.
76) Don't patch you ship before of crashing.
77) Best skill of letters is delivering of postmans.
78) Don't judge of tree by fallen foliage.
79) Small ships don't like to meet big waves.
80) For poor needle even finger looks as thimble.
"Well, once again mind blooms and thickens. And brain gets bathing in delight. What else is needed for head's peace."
81) If you are barefoot, at least, you're free from laces.
82) The more unbearable is face, the more it loves to blame the mirror.
83) Burnt ashes never meet with warmth, still burning never meet with coldness.
84) No one can praise his honey as its bees.
85) If you've become an idiot, it's normal. If you've remained an idiot, it's sad.
86) With slim long legs you even limp in graceful manner.
87) Each rain is weeping for drought's absence.
88) Good stone will never choose bad head.
89) If all is broken – break yourself.
90) Don't ask for flame from times of chill.
"Strong, straight and marvelously fair - till most profound of truth's roots."
91) Free water – eater of fixed stones.
92) Don't hire ash for teaching wood.
93) It's not so easy to mistaken, as hard to notice past mistakes.
94) Don't send slow feet in speedy chases.
95) Not one is fool, who always drops, but one, who never bends for picking.
96) It's tricky task to kill the one, who wasn't born, by shot with bullet, which is even still not casted.
97) Cracked cups are partners of spent liquids.
98) Refusal - partial agreement.
99) If door is opened, knocks are sinful.
100) You cannot meet smooth face inside crooked mirrors.
At this book's sentences were ending, but onto worn and greasy cover was shyly hiding from eyes' searchings one other short and simple text, made not by stamp, but with efforts of someone's hand: 101) Before to think, that you've gone mad, at first check healthiness of others.
"This one is my most favorite at here. As true and actual as something told by heaven. What means, that it's sometimes quite easy to shine with blossoming of mind. I'm maybe also firmly able to add few thoughts to this wise row. Well, let's proceed to act of trying."
The hero has has equipped his hand with pen and plunged in readiness to write, already looking for free paper, but by some mystical strange reason got rid of muscular control and harshly fallen on floor's surface.
"Cursed legs, pure punishment, damnation. I've almost freed my flesh of life. Mind's gaining - bloodiest of matters... But stop. Just stop and wait for minute... Yes, sure! Wonderfulest start!"
So, having passionately risen and gladly jumped with whole heart's zeal in calling abyss of creating, Boris Danilovich has deftly grabbed pale sheet and, having nimbly grasped pen's waist, begun to turn raw rambling thoughts in equal shaky askew letters and after term of restless hour received quite decent group of lines: "I guess, it's moment for to read."
102) Mind's gaining - bloodiest of matters.
103) Each sin is sinlessness' hello.
104) The less you're idiot and clown, the more you're feeling just like that.
105) Each storm is longing for calm's absence.
106) No one loves violence as much as last one's victims.
107) Don't ask your roof of deeds of cellar.
108) Good speed is not for poor brakes.
109) If you aren't learnt to see the best, than you will always see one void.
110) If you have bent to take one penny, don't even doubt – you'll drop two.
"For my opinion quite worthy, I’m fully happy with each phrase. It seems, I'm not a fool at all. But if it really is so, then why I'm constantly alone... Eh, world, you're definitely broken. Defective, purposeless and wrong – in every act and any feature of your oppressive dreary plots."

X
In gloomy abyss of frail city was coyly hiding liquid murk of promptly fading lifeless evening. By worn and empty sides of streets was slowly stretching hopeless silence, enclothing roofs in tragic veil of darkness, apathy and pain. Bleak dome of wearily pale sky with languid weakness and upsetness was idly sowing rare rain at static latitudes of soundless landscape, completely barren and exhausted by freezing, emptiness and winds, so much addicted to nude vastness of numbly dying breathless land.
Stepan Grigoryevich, with sluggishness in pace, was humbly stomping into distance by slushy wetness of lined forward vacant sidewalk – to dim and colorless horizon, most stiffly serving as a coffin for golden curtain of sunset. Lost soul, disturbed by fresh rejection, was amply bathing in tart sadness, with sternly boiling stormy waves destroying every tiny shadow of last self-confidence and hope. The very plot of failed acquaintance this time has been exceptionally short and quite expectedly got finished with smirking, mockering and giggling and with straight offer to drive off.
"Again defeat. Again frustration. Again damned loneliness and pain. It seems, I am less valuable than rubbish. Unneeded, alien and vain. Torn off from any sort of brightness and any variant of warmth. Forgotten, helpless, clumsy, cracked. I suit exclusively for grave, for cherished parting with this horror and for next peaceful trip away from ugly cradle of this planet. Eh, being... Heinous location. Appalling, primitive and dead. It can't be rescued, can't be fixed. As well as me, what's most deplorable and tragic."
The hero has indifferently sighed and into dismal wistful manner dissolved in nets of rain and fog, mixed up in smooth and constant cover of steady blurredness and chill, where all was sullen and extincted, exhausted, deserted and dead – right as forlorn and hurted soul, already absolutely wasted, but still encaged in rags of flesh.

XI
Among of walls and spreading pain, in lonely company with letter, was sitting lost and sad Philip Petrovich. Brief text, just as all previous, was empty – without promises or plans of common future and with one hesitance in every single word. So now, having joylessly reread each short and skimpy shaky line, numb hero was entirely perplexed and newly full of acute sorrow.
"Again no single drop of distinct prospect. No even slightest vague shade of future hope. Or of some chance on distant rescue. One sticky vagueness and waiting – with endless panic, disappointment and fear to lose the last and stay alone. I try, believe and trust to share, to pace of days and will of sky. I faith in possibility of better, in further unity of hearts and soonest blossoming of passions. Life moves, develops and strives forward. And it's too easy to get nothing, to stuck aside and rest in fuss - without ticket to dreams' pier and into absence of luck's care. Where else to move except of coffin, if all my presence – dust and trifles, enfeebling, rotting and regrets. And never dying constant worries, most harshly gnawing and ruining my incorrigibly cracked soul."
The hero has impassively put down his dim gaze and slowly looked inside of window: "True world, true life, true people's shares. And here... One joylessness and void. Damned timeless dreariness and pain. Without ending or escape from this stern permanence of plague, which lasts for whole my current fate. I'm just unable to be happy, to gather pleasures and taste joys. I'm made for sufferings, for sadness, for griefs and losses and for death. Stepan Grigoryevich has awfully mistakened – I'm not a genius, I'm certainly a fool – forgotten, purposeless and needless, heartbroken, rubbishy and wrong. I am unable to be happy. Not for my life this, not for me."

XII
And in another walls of tragedies and torments, next to dark hole of window's frame - Boris Danilovich, cursed prisoner of thought, is sternly keeping wordy scribbling and sharing boredom of time's pace.
"Well, now let's see what have I done for mortal length of my vain day. Let's read own fruits of poor head."
111) Don't be afraid to crack crooked mirror.
112) We're getting used to good for minutes, to bad – for seconds or their parts.
113) Two shoes are pair, three – disaster.
114) The more you calculate, the greater you mistaken.
115) The more calm is the night, the more wild are the moans.
116) The more accessible is wine, the more indifferent is water.
117) True loser never dies as winner.
118) The only stupider than fool is one, who frankly hopes to change him.
119) Forbiddance – ladder in permissions.
120) With higher zestfulness you hide, with lower tension you gets found.
"Quite fine and even really noteworthy. At least, assuredly not windy and not too tiresome or plain. I'm truly empty of reproachings – indeed well-written wisdom's piece... Let's pay attention, what is further."
121) Disunity is also from of linking.
122) Don't ask for gingerbread and whip will rest unknown.
123) It's much more nice to fall in silence with a smart one, than to start talking with a fool.
124) You can't prescribe key's fate to picklock.
125) Sad plots are not for happy endings.
126) The more peaceloving is the nail, the more bloodthirsty is its hammer.
127) For others' eyes each life looks wrong.
128) For fleeting bird best nest is sky.
129) Good hands are stable even trembling.
130) No things confirm your own success as much as someone else's failures.
"I'm pleased and satisfied - with all I have concluded. Eh, head – main source of hidden beauty. Of immortality and grace. Eh, thought – pure treasury, pure rapture. Enchanting, blissful and unique."
131) From mind to mindlessness – one moment.
132) Rails' absence never brings train's presence.
133) Don't ask for ocean from drop.
134) Trained cuts don't need in knife at all.
135) The only able to be met in empty pocket is ringing reigning of its grief.
136) Don't seek for end, if route is circled.
137) Bad face is not for good of portraits.
138) It's not so easy to start lating, if you've already come in time.
139) The more pathetic is the jester, the more frustrating is his fun.
140) If you build path from single winnings, await to finish with defeat.
"It's rather difficult to stop. What an alluring sort of reading, not less than truest mental trap."
141) The most unbreakable is cup, which wasn't made.
142) Right games invent own rules themselves.
143) Back side is always not for beauty.
144) If you have plans to faith in magic, don't watch performances from stage.
145) Free food is punisher of sated.
146) For aimless labor salary is sinful.
147) Create reliably decent bullet, and vacant head will come itself.
148) With raggy sail wind's zeal is morbid.
149) The only cause of any changes are ones, who ask for stable times.
150) If you're afraid to open mouth, do not expect, that you'll be heard.
"Well done, already round number. Still how much joyful and exciting to live in harmony with head. And now it's turn to walk for kvass – the best enstrengthener of pleasures."
The hero has forgetfully got up and, having sluggishly put oldish coat on, directed flesh to hole of door. Then stairs, street and walls of store, preparing, offering, receiving, exchange of thankfulness and smiles, few times repeated by each other, then wallet, coins and way back. And then full cup of bubbling liquid and priceless taste of tartest bliss, so much unbearably infrequent in current givenness of days, but still relaxingly alive and inexcusably attractive. And then new cup and new glad sips – with soon accomplishing of bottle and next meek voyaging to rest.

XIII
And once again new wrecking letter. With sadness, hurtingness and pain. And once again hard bitter reading.
"I am again at here - with you, my sweet and gentle heaven's present. I was most tirelessly yearning for each of speedy motley days with only single aim and wishing – to get returned in our cradle of warmth, sincerity and flame, with highest measure of affection encircling every tiny corner of amply blossoming heart's pier. And I am here - in this saint abyss of mutuality and bliss. And so much limitlessly pleasant it's - to belong to your blessed love, to feel devotedness and care and to be sure, that you're mine. I am exuberantly happy with every second of involvement in our sacred hidden abyss of passion, frankness and concern – till teeming tears and harsh trembling in fingers, belly, chest and knees each time I sit and start to write. How madly vexing and offensive are paths of lifes and frames of world, how sickly rightless and confusing... And so much difficult, so hard it's to be permanently near or to have regular long meets. In fussy swamp of constant rushing, in hungry pit of lacks and needs we ought to learn to be accustomed to wrongness, partedness and pain. To lie, deception and regretting and to necessity to wait. It's not a fruit of people's choice, it's truth and givenness of living. With trifling laws and absent hopes. We'll never cut this, break or heal. Fate's plans and whims are always over... But I'm with you. I'm here, I'm yours. What's of my personal existence and of last happenings and news – all things are wonderfully smooth. I'm wholly fine and live with dancer. He's sort of Persian or Turk, but not from motherlands, from France - from eastern areas of Reims. He's pretty, generous and funny. And even suitable in bed. So I am absolutely glad – at least, with current state of matters. Who'll risk to answer, what is next... But we are here, away of worries and in tight unity with dreams. It's greatest luck to be together in spite of any twists of fate, unable to forbid us to stay close and to get burnt in hottest flame of never dying secret passion. You are my outlet, my treasure, my holy bottomless oasis of freedom, purity and trust. You are the best of all the planet. Of all its endless breed of men. Thank you, my sugary and honey, for every minute in your bonds. Yours sickly loving distant Olya."
Philip Petrovich has dejectedly enfeebled and, having crumpled bitter paper, got shrunk and grievously wept.

XIV
Boris Danilovich Yamskov, just having barely awaken, has promptly taken pen in hand and delved in usual dance of thoughts and in this peaceful occupation stayed wholly steady till young evening and then, with feeling of relief, put out fruits of wisdom's harvest and, idly yawning from slight languor, left chair's latitudes and sighed: "Well, I'm quite decently amused and inly satisfied and happy, what means it's time to get some rest.
Boris Danilovich has promptly wrapped his flesh in clothes and moved ahead to walls of shop with printing goods and useless trifles. Small faceless booth, most old and shabby, with modest title "Fresh newspapers", by someone rid of few of letters, has gladly met new guesting stranger and swiftly spreaded whole vast plenty of brightly tinted motley covers, in sternest manner firmly catching not too much willful seeking eyes. On tightly flooded endless shelves, till death exhausted by sleek pages - excessive liberty of genres – from perfect lies to flawless gossips, in tons created by productive writing demon. But in accordance with experience of reading, the hero has decided to stay changeless and taken paper Daily Horror, each time surprising with weird facts and richly reigning madness' spirit.
So, having slowly returned through friendly calmness of street's boredom, with timid coyness washed by sun, Boris Danilovich has sat in usual chair and opened freshly carried issue: "Let's have a look at truths of days..."
The hero has forgetfully relaxed and delved in abyss of lines' thickets, but right at first of heeded letters got most immeasurably filled with tartest shock from ruthless squall of information: "Last week well-known local mayor, most vastly famous for huge mind, has signed an excellent decree – to drown in pots with boiling oil all ones, who had been voting not for him. The district, built one week ago, was crashed by reason of it's oldness. Each one, who's taught which way to read, will pass deep check on being spy. For every family with cat on obligatory conditions will be prepared vacant dog. By cause of differences' absence, till winter government and circus will be coupled. All ones, who're keen of drinking juice, will have to go on mass medical research. In future monthly bills for light will be included fee for darkness. From end of autumn and till spring, will work forbiddance to feel hunger. Since recent ban of eating salad, soup's price was gradually tripled."
Boris Danilovich has measuredly stretched and, moving out wordy sheets, engaged in unintentional perplexion: "What's wrong with essence of today... Pure madness – merciless and morbid. If all this really is true, I think, it's time to climb in noose. The finest feature of newspapers – they nicely suit for wraping fish. In any other sorts of using – full rubbish, shittiness and swamp."
The hero has impassively leaned back and, having carelessly yawned, returned from nonsense to own writings:
151) You can't fix sky by wings' repairing.
152) Big problems never come for short.
153) Forecasting - bait for future weather.
154) With proper anchor sinking - pleasure.
155) All lost of things one day will certainly be found, but not by one, whom they were left.
156) Moon's brightness never heals sun's faintness.
157) Don't notice kings, if you are following for God.
158) For learnt to wait all terms are equal.
159) First step is half of every road.
160) Big games don't tolerate small bettings.
170) First thing - don't ask. Next – do not faith. Third - don't forgive. Fourth is excessive.
"Again both pointful and weighty. Indeed quite beauteous and prudent. Seems worthy, sober, apt and solid. I'm full of highest satisfaction and of most doubtless delight."
And then new timid dose of walking by dancing letters of words' flocks.
171) In sea of madness coasts are absent.
172) Strong products never have weak prices.
173) Leave others' winds for others' sailings.
174) Flawed things are fruits of flawless reasons.
175) You'll never justify yourself by blaming others.
176) To chase for thought is as to run for flying bullet.
177) Wet wood is pair for lost matches.
178) In empty times do empty deals.
179) To cut fate's plans is as in vain as to cut water.
180) All short is seed of something endless.
"Not weak... I'm pleased and even proud. Till steady smile and shiver's waves."
181) Wise head will chew each sort of lack, fool one will choke with any plenty.
182) Kind bees – main sign of cruel swarm.
183) Don't ask for acts of brush from easel.
184) The only worse than mistakes of mindful heads can be one rightly taken aims of fools.
185) Each one, who was informed which way to burn, in practice is already sort of ashes.
186) Don't judge of prizes with no winning.
187) Repented one for breed of innocent is foe.
188) Long numbness also works as shout.
189) Each beaten person feels main hatred not to own beater, but to ones, who weren't involved in beating process.
190) You can't break shackles with submission.
"Right, pretty, graceful and profound. I have to put all this in frame and then to send to some museum."
191) Don't wait for boiling in own juice, if you get cooked at others' kitchen.
192) You cannot miss both train and rails.
193) Sick person is a trouble, sick planet is a grief.
194) The more of wounds, the less of salt.
195) Don't ask for light from darkness' sellers.
196) You can't build mountains of future of pits and lowlands of past.
197) It's not cat's care to guard mouse.
198) Big plague most often tastes as feast.
199) Live at ease, work till death.
200) Don't be afraid to heed to liars, but be afraid to lie yourself.
At here, for term of minute having fallen in distraction, the hero has replaced his glance to window. Behind of colorless frame's gap, in peaceful sleepiness of quarter, serene and flooded with sun's warmth, was calmly trampling sluggish route plump laughing silhouette of miller - with wife and flock of swirling children and with unknown merry song - of share, homeland and work.
"Glad lucky person. Cheerful, happy. And me... Forgotten, needless, lost. Torn of from any fruitful prospect or any mutual response. I'm wastage, garbage, piece of nothing. And life keeps speedy going forward, each moment hastening and twisting and never practicing long stops. Time's pace is mercilessly tragic, it tries to break you, to erase – to send in emptiness of coffin and to transform your days in dust, without tiniest of traces, except of grave and numb pain's taste. It's inconsolably oppressive. Frustrating, scary, hurting, wrong. Such state is reason for upsetness, for staying sad for whole next fate."
So, having spent third hour's part in disappointment and sorrow, the hero has again jumped back in thoughts and clung to volume of lines' thickets.
201) The friendlier are buds, the crueler are thorns.
202) You can't meet tail, not meeting cat.
203) The longer you are talking with a fool, the more you are acquiring his status.
204) In cunning desert rains are daily.
205) Don't think, that price of past mistakes will ever buy you future rightness.
206) The only worse than indifference to friend can be one empathy to foe.
207) Strong flags don't answer to weak blowings.
208) On purpose you can burn your living quarter, by accident – few cities or whole world.
209) Each one, who cares of own forehead, as rule, gets shooted into back.
210) No single wise hates state of stupidness as much as stupid hates and tramples wisdom.
"What do we need for proper future, for sharing happiness and luck and for saint bliss of someone's care, of warmth, fidelity and love. I have my mind, have flame of thinking, have bunch of outcomes of world, but I am absolutely aimless, forgotten, alien and lost – in constant loneliness and void, which turn whole being in vain trash, in heap of nothingness and losses, most tightly veiling you in gloom and promptly ridding from right prospects. It's strange – full head, but empty fate. What have I got from being smart... Except of permanence of worries and of sick habit to search senses and to explain each day and fact... Yes, all is doubtlessly strange... From me myself and till world's basics and from last lyings till first truths."
And once again in nets of writtings.
211) Rich flies don't look at poor honey.
212) You cannot cut big piece from little portion.
213) Good salt is always sweeter than bad sugar.
214) Each one, who does not cherish seeds, will never cope to taste fruits' savor.
215) Goalkeeper – magnet for new goals.
216) If you are loser – wait for losses.
217) Don't think of simple tasks with complex head.
218) Straight ones get curved, curved ones get broken.
219) Small hooks don't puzzle decent fishes.
220) Mind's presence may seem scarily expensive. Until you'll know how expensive is its absence.
"What else amazes as mind's fruits... But even last ones are too barren, too weak for bringing happiness or care or for acquiring of luck. If to be absolutely honest, from time to time I even think, that I'm unable to be useful, to be acquainted with success and to keep following for better. I'm too much alien, too lost, too inappropriate and broken. Such ones are made for single pain, for disappointment and sorrows and for unfixable sad distance with any variants of joy."
And once again to field of lines.
221) If time is speedy, clocks are needless.
222) The smaller is the forest, the larger are its beasts.
223) Each feast is preparation to next plague.
224) There are no better thiefs than guarders.
225) Don't hope to fix sick mind with morbid feelings.
226) You can't both faith in magic and perform it.
227) In desert flood has face of rescue.
228) For water ice is not a mentor.
229) In aimless war survival bothers.
230) Love is religion with no god.
"Who've made this world with all its horrors, whose unforgivable mad will... Each day is ticket in nightmare, each step is walking over edge. The more I'm living and beholding, the less I'm needing in survival and in awaiting of what's next. We spend existence for self-burning, for boring trip from birth to coffin, which never ends with something perfect and brings one tireless regrets and acute apathy and sorrow. It's not a reason to keep tryings and not an argument to hope."
And then again short thinking pause and further traveling through words.
231) Each target – monument to misses.
232) You can't forget of thirst away of water.
233) With poor memory each day is slightly first.
234) Strond startings never have weak ends.
235) Each decent laught is warming-up before of crying.
236) Bad waters never hide good bottoms.
237) Apt word is acuter than razor.
238) Clown's death is not a cause for circus' closing.
239) No matter how much hateful are mistakes, one day you'll eagerly repeat them.
240) Each heavy mindlessness begins from thinking's lightness.
"It's seems, I'm definitely brainy and tightly full of mental fruits, but fate has look of bitter joke, of ugly mockery and torment, which keeps for term of my whole life and kills last drops of inner brightness and all past volumes of soul's strength. I'm timeless prisoner of void, of endless loneliness and pain, which will stay close till hazed grave's point in current givenness of days. All I can do is just to fade..."
Boris Denisovich has frozen and then again got lost in lines.
241) Wrong tools don't ask for proper using.
242) If you are going for to swim, do not build plans including drowning. If you are going for to drown, don't even even try to practice swimming.
243) Do not send pig for catching wolf.
244) To trust to thinking is a madness, to trust to feelings is an illness, to trust to people is a crime.
245) The only thing, which can be crueler than bullet, with zero wavering is head.
246) You can't change horse by changing reins.
247) Fool one gets angry over dog, smart one gets angry over owner.
248) The more weak is the hand, the more strong are its weapons.
249) Smart beasts do not depend on stupid hunters.
250) Each praise is just a ladder to reproachings.
"Already quarter of ten hundreds. Strong, vast and powerful amount and certain cause for proud notes, but not in actual conditions of my appalling dreary fate, completely broken, vain and wasted and left for timeless staying lost. I'm lonely, meaningless and empty, torn off from better and from joys and unrepairably exhausted by heavy burden of regrets and inability of rescue. I look at flocks of happy people – with proper shares and fine prospects and with undying perfect mood. They strive, build plans and cherish dreams, develop, laugh and fall in love. The very Victor – drinks, makes parties, eats, sleeps and practices lewd meets. He baths in fun and lives at ease – spends time on pleasures and emotions and swims in laziness and lust. Or miller – family, glad children, peace, care, unity of souls - all main of blessings and achievements in hugest measure and at once. I sadly stay between two fires - between smooth couple and young loafer, two bright examples of success, attained in two specific manners. They freely bloom and faith in better, feed hopes and share bliss of wins. And me... What do I regularly do here... Just fade, await, taste pain and suffer. I'm useless wastage, loser, fool. I can't have value or be needful, I'm made for emptiness, for grief. For barren days and hollow future. I'm not for happy ones of plots and not for fruitful of beginnings. I suit for nothingness, for grave – the only possible of endings for my unlucky trashy fate."
The hero has turned off lamp's eye, made languid sigh and laid in bed. Away from void and oppression and from regretful mash of thoughts, completely joyless and frustrating and unforgivably upset.

XV
In dreary chambers of tart sorrows, in hugs of hopelessness and talks, were meekly sitting two coy figures - Philip Petrovich at the window, Stepan Grigorievich next to him. One week ago had come new letter, which once again has brought fresh pain and thrown heart's cradle in despair. That's why receiver of these lines has deadly fallen in depression right after ending of text's length and, not observing any rescue for few of further broken days, at now invited his best fellow for common struggle with pain's grip.
"If you have chosen bonds of sadness, then wait for voyaging in hell. All tints will tragically fade, all flame will vanish and gone out, all inner fervidness and strength, all joys and pleasures, all bright shadows, as if they suddenly were simply splashed away. If mind gets rooted in pain's depths, hopes' mass transforms in pile of garbage. Long stubborn apathy destroys – most promptly, scarily and toughly. True disappointment makes crippled - distorted, nullified and harmed. For ashes burning is pure torture..."
"I'm not for fire, not for heatness. I am not weightier than shadow, I'm timeless prisoner of waiting, of fatal nets of her sweet falsehood, deceptive promises and dreams. All my weak thoughts are tightly stuffed with one nude thirst to be together. To spend whole zeal on painful endlessness of searchings, but still to find and to get coupled, to cope to merge in deathless monolith of natures, most flawless, precious, frank and saint. I want to sow most full devotion, to reach most limitless degree of fondness, unity and care, affection, openness and warmth. I need in blamelessness, in heaven, in deepest harmony of all – of feelings, bodies, routes and plannings. I need in jewel, in uniqueness, in richest blossoming of passions and tameless trembling of insides. I faith, such miracle is real and she is holder of its keys..."
"I am persistently repeating, you are true genius – it's fact. Till smallest features and details. And as we all most firmly know, each decent genius is damned to have some herder, some certain person, every single of whose words will work as mainest law for whole rest part of given share. You'll start to live with only purpose – to get a meet and to stay close. You'll be most glad to stop all matters and to rush up with her first call, fulfilling anything she orders and keeping strongest immense fright to be repeatedly rejected and left in loneliness till death. For you your fate is just a penny without presence of her charms and in encircling of one void. You're not unique in such a share, not first, not last and not most lost. If one a day she'll still agree to gift permission to approach her, you will immediately gather and let yourself in rapid chase. It's not an illness or a weakness, as well as not a mind's eclipse or an example of obsession. We can explain all sorts of actions, except of weirdest of own deeds. Love's nets are mercilessly sticky. Among of bitter pier of earth, they lead most frequently in abyss, in hugs of tears and regrets. Each one, who've chosen risk or sadness, can wait exclusively for grave, for soonest hospitable coffin – the only fruit of share's course."
"This elementarily kills, erasing hopes and expectations and veiling thoughts with thickest murk."
"You cannot cancel show's performing by simple tearing of ticket. At sinking ship, what's not a new, long sailing always ends with bottom. Love, hope and mind are worst of burdens – most painful, tragical and sore. But still keep strength, persist and try and less believe in vain yourself - we all are not much more than victims and death is not more sad than rain and not more meaningful than pair of old boots in time of last ones' pitiful disposal."
"I can't accept such role with heart. I know – I'm lost, but it's so dreary."
"Just take heart's flash and put away - throw out, ruthlessly and swiftly. Such one is absolutely useless and not more valuable than dust. It can't gift happiness or pleasure as well as can't bring any help. Dead lifes are not for hopes or rescues, such ones are solely for grave."
"I'm slave, you've surely confirmed this. All what is given – just to wait. To waste time's scopes and to keep fading. I look for needfulness, for loving - till greedy trembling and frail limpness and till hot storms of tears' floods. I can't get used to static emptiness of present, so quickly killing all significance and sense, can't come in terms with future fruitlessness and void and can't admit next fate's direction in hurting parting with last luck."
"It's understandable and clear. You hope for better, for some light. But every genius is timeless shepherd's victim - without freedom, choice or rights. If she will call, at least, with whisper – you'll coyly fall in instant rushing through farest corners of earth's globe. And you'll most easily destroy, without tears or regrettings, all what you've got for your past days, for even smallest sip of care and of sweet taste of sinful bliss. You're certain slave, but is this shocking – if you would earlier be properly informed and even decently prepared, then you would surely be free from stupid worries or any questions of such state, since now you'll take this modest givenness as fact – most drily, skimpily and calmly – just as new trifling piece of fuss."
"I'm slave - what an enchanting peerless sorrow, what an incredibly cute grief..."
At this both have perplexedly gone silent, with sad indifference and pain submerging further into static dismal numbness of dark frustrating wordless thoughts and unexpected muted sorrow.

XVI
In midst of wet and sleepy town, among of gloom of evening street, already ready for night's coming and amply teeming with thick dusk, was calmly walking in dark distance quite quirk and gladly breathing figure - Stepan Grigoryevich, directing path to meeting in peaceful cradle of cafe – with one attractive thoughtful lady, not brisk, but definitely tempting and sweetly promising good time. The very object of these prospects was freely caught among of crowd by fortune's will as lavish source of timid talkings and sinless coquetry's attempts. So, having luckily left back last quarter's meters, the hero has faced up with needed door and, having frozen in hall's vastness, sent mind in seeking for habitual mild image of slightly fleshy piquant woman in lush dark dress and with offhanded glossy hair, torn off from influence of fashion, but frankly pretty, cute and sweet and by some reason madly darling. Demanded silhouette was found not with fastness – rid of remarkable of features and tightly huddled in small space at distant wall coy modest lady, pale and plain, had lower visibility than shadow in common permanence of fuss and static reigning of thick boredom. That's why detecting of required appearance has folded soul in indescribable delight.
"With all most fervent and unbounded of greetings!"
"I see, sit down, start declaring. Which one of questions will we share? Last time we were discussing views of Marx and real essence of Stolypin's plans and offers. You also was quite pointlessly mumbling some empty things of course of lifes and of prescription of main moments – not too much sane, but rather funny. So, tell of anything amusing, I do not want to rest in vain."
"I do not have too huge of prospects, but I’m most skillfully prepared for any possible of speeches. From worst and dirtiest of gossips and till most high of living aims, but more enjoyable and needed is not this fuss, but something else – of both of us and our mutual existence in further haziness of days... Which scales and limits will we open, which ones of fruits, results and finals will gladly cope to gain and gather at sacred field of feelings' bloom and which shamed levels of permissions will shyly dare to achieve..."
"What of exactly are you talking? Of which of variants of bonds? It's either I misunderstand, or someone bottomlessly stupid and overfed with childish dreams, has strongly fallen in mind's absence and lost last linking with control. Too nasty plot for proper ending for your unfortunate sick head. So I am waiting for some sober explanations."
The hero has got horribly confused and tightly chained with instant shiver and, having veiled crooked mood in hesitance and fright, begun to mutter rambling phrases: "I simply had one tiny wish – to bring together our fates, to solder twisting lines of shares in one straightforward blissful route of loving, trusting and concern, devotion, fondness, warmth and passion."
"Well, one another brainless moron. Perverted, morbid and disgusting. What are you thinking of, flawed dumbhead? Which ones of feelings can you cause, except of laugh, contempt, loathing? Ill crippled piece of useless trash, where have you got so morbid boldness for to try offerings like this? Lost needless donkey seeks for pleasures, for something sinful, sweet and wet. As you are seemingly informed, I work in local helping center – give treat for breed of lost and helpless: for homeless, injured, addicted and sunk in poverty and debts. And, knowing you and your intentions, I can most surely predict, that no one female of my of wards - without legs or with no eyes, downtrodden, workless, drunk and gray in even worst of her life's twistings will never let you any sex - will never even think of such agreeings! Roll out, goofy nasty slug, stand up and step with bullet's speed, without gatherings and pauses – away from borders of my sight. Both quickly, humbly and forever."
The hero has submissively got up and, having windily forgotten his gloves' pair, in full bemusement trampled back.
"Again new pitiful repeating of most unbearable of plots. I think, it's probably my end. I'm crashed in parts, in smallest splinters – most breathless, paralyzed and frail. Last drops of confidence and power have turned in ashes, dust and pain. Last faith in positive of prospects has gone away as haze of fog - without slightest ones of traces and with great rapidness in pace. What sort of fate do I belong to – no warmth, no happiness, no care, no even single shyest case of any mutual response. Again one dirt and scoldings' shower, again brief merciless refusal and acute presence of vexation, so sternly gnawing flesh of soul. Disaster, tragedy, damnation. Best time to climb in coffin's cradle and never leave its peaceful frames. The only rescue is in earth, in cozy grave, most calm and silent from all locations of globe's pier. Away from hatred, filth and sorrows. In perfect nothingness... Or hell."
Stepan Grigoryevich has sighed and, slowly quickening his pace, walked back - in loneliness and thinking, the only possible of states in lack of harmony with fortune and into absence of luck's flame, which never burns, when you await it.

XVII
This day, which have begun with friendly boredom and pleasant peacefulness of all, has coped to bring true storm of horror by scary pair of mad news, at once encircled each mind's corner with instant measureless distress and sharp unfixable despair, eroding covers of past calmness and sending head in deepest stupor and thickly spreading panic's nets. Boris Danilovich Yamskov has learned today of two wild cases – his brave and faithful neighbor Viktor not more than three of weeks ago was knifed with blade in own apartment at wrongly started drinking mess. And one unfortunate day later, most glad and happy miller Peter was found dead in bonds of noose - his wife has freely gone away and, having taken cash and children, which were, as it has suddenly turned out, not from him, left poor fellow into void, transformed in cause to cut life's route.
So, at dark now, having tragically heeded these two frustrating heavy news, shocked pallid hero, weak and frail, was sadly looking into window, with pain submerging in thoughts' thickets and in impassable dense gloom: "How madly stupid, false and foolish was my past presence in life's days. It has been seeming, that I live between two fires, that truest happiness is near, but swirls in others' lucky hands, and what by will of share's twistings has got appallingly revealed... Whole feast has turned to be just dummy, deceptive, fleeting, crooked and vain. In fact, I was between two ashes, between two voids – cold and faked. And even they had state of idols, of unattainable examples of something endlessly successful and greatly perfect and unique. Whole world, whole picture of existence, whole row of former being's nails, with all beliefs, events and plannings, at harsh and crushing current moment has shrunk in heap of trifling dust. Is if before I had no brain, no chance on apt and sober viewing of any values, hopes and aims. Which way to live and to move further, to try, to trust and to await. What do I have, except of dreary bitter prison of these oppressive faceless walls and of worn roll of barren writings... All tempting things, which fate was using for to tease me, in practice were less sacred and exclusive than pile of averagest wastes. My path was made of following for nothing. My dreams, my goals and expectations are simply nullified, erased. No truths, no purposes, no future. All given ardor is pure fog, short feeble flash and not more weighty. We move in vacuum, in abyss, in breathless timelessness of death, which from beginning of prescribed you living voyage has look of rather plausible illusion of something hopeful, frank and bright."
The hero has closed face with both of hands and unintentionally wept.

XVIII
On bleak and sizably wide table is shyly hiding letter's text. From queen of dreams and pleasures Olya.
"Hello, my sweety darling boy, I'm here again – in our shelter, in priceless pier of saving lines and of fordidden secret joys. I, as before, spend life in travels - with tour by countless arenas of our hazy motley lands. Swift days are pulling me ahead, I'm gladly learning something new, observing world and stepping forward. Two weeks will pass - and I'll be acting in big and colorful performance of share, unity and loving in calm and hospitable place – small local town, named Zalessky. At current point of my fate I'm for some term is fully single and it'll be bottomlessly nice to stay for few of evenings with each other – till next sad moment of new parting, of course, immeasurably painful, but unavoidably forced, as you are grievously guessing. Whole process will pass splendidly and richly  – in lavish walls of Culture's Palace with proud title "Crystal Sky" and, if I properly remember, with twisty path to water's line from one of secondary doors. I'm fully sure, that you'll come, and my devoted longing heart is amply teeming with awaiting of this immaculate saint bliss. I am most eminently yearning and sending longest flaming kiss. Till new keen bonds and soonest meeting of our natures, souls and lips. Completely yours sweet tempting Olya."
It's all text's length, all timid essence of coy and simple flock of words. Thank you a lot, small modest envelope, you've brought it, but better, maybe, was to drop.


AFTERWORD:
1) In front of white and empty ladder of shyly waiting heavy plane is standing silent silhouette of youth - Philip Petrovich, the last of passengers for flight. Around - airport's expanses, inside - collection of dark thoughts.
"How madly right has been my friend... First call from herder – and I'm here. I’m slave – weak-willed, thrown off and rightless. And now luckily ahead – to waiting vagueness of dreams, to bonds of hope and to my herder."
Old chassis have proceeded to meek rolling and liner's body has effortlessly dragged up.
2) In dusky chambers, filled with passion, on crumpled surface of vast bed - Boris Danilovich Yamskov, enslaved by hugs of stunning beauty. With craving huddling in lewd space between of sweet and lushy thighs and swiftly melting in thick reigning of saintly blissful sticky dews, warmed shameless hero, having fallen in sinned and reckless fervent abyss of keenly teasing lustful bonds, is amply reaping and consuming all striking harvest of forbidden carnal fruits of hotly trembling piquant places, so much immeasurably full of storming fervor, love and wetness. The process has kept speedy going on and soon untamably swirled up and, after point of denouement, with smoothness ended close to dawn and to beginning of day's growing.
"Will we be constantly together?" - has humbly asked pleased drowsy lady, with shyness cuddling blooming bosom to pale and humid partner's cheek.
"Well, I... I even do not know..." - has weirdly said shocked baffled hero and then got limitlessly stunned: At next short moment, floor and ceiling, in term of second having melted, have most decisively got lost. Whole room has promptly filled oneself with ring of fire, heart-rending screams and boiling resin. Then from the depths of swarming flame has come dark silhouette of devil: "Boris Danilovich Yamskov... Whom do I see in front my vision. What a fantastic fairy fool, full hopeless idiot and loser. So, have you heeded - what's your sin? Have realized it and repented? For you we have the only question – you've spent whole life between two ashes and what you've done in its last day?"
"I... I..." - the hero has got numb: "I have myself refused from fire..."
And then all has most sharply disappeared. The hero has remarked himself in bed – with only loneliness in pair. All past events were nothing more than strange nightmare. And lady also wasn't real. The only true - bleak naked walls and endless emptiness within.
"For me, I think, it's even better – to be alone and not to try - I do not risk, don't get refusals... It's more convenient, more close." - has inconsolably concluded with tons of slyness into voice forlorn and helpless sleeper's figure and lost again in pier of dreams.
3) At old and shabbily worn doors of empty orphanage's porch's entrance are meekly standing two gray persons, Stepan Grigoryevich and lean and pallid child, his son, who recently was taken from this dwelling.
"This place is serving as your roots. At now world is madly bad – engaged in evil, dirt and falsehood. It's not a time for moving up. For making family or loving. But I most ardently believe, that times can change and get more bright. One day new time will slowly come and you'll be needed, glad and happy – with all of possible attainments and with whole bunch of main life's treasures, with zeal awaiting for your fate. I'll maybe die till those moments, but you'll remain to bloom and act - for love, fidelity and care, dreams' fruits, discoveries and faith."






World's pier is made for me and daisies.

I
For always seeking brisk Tatiana, indeed devoted and submitted to one nude sternness of self-will, whole given world, so badly tricky, huge and complex, right from most early of life's times was highly simple, plain and boring, completely trivial and small and could be easily expressed with help of single tiny phrase, which she was using almost daily in any accidents and cases of idly going share's path: "World's pier is made for me and daisies", what with this modest short ensemble of weirdly twisted random words was rather doubtlessly meaning, that breed of flowers for her personal perception is much more precious and important, than all familiar of humans, who have been ever somehow woven in plots and chapters of fate's course, where truly weighty and noteworthy was only heroine herself. The very formerly named daisies, most needed satellites of life, were amply growing onto balcony's expanses, with sweet and splendid endless riot embracing all its vacant corners.
This day, habitually loafsome and torn from any sorts of work, was moving forward with no rushing, not filling abyss of existence with any new of tints or facts and not producing any feelings, except of laziness and languor. So, having finally got sated with whole acquainted row of deeds – light eating, drinking of three coffees and getting shower – hot and cold, relaxed and thirsty for amusement forgetful lady was emotionlessly leafing fresh glossy magazine of nothing, with chillness thinking of appointed on weekends brief fleeting walk with one of temporary friends, who had been met few days ago and by unknown secret reasons has quite assuredly awoken some sort of interest and zeal – for being used as finest object for all of vile and low of aims. 
"Excess of coconuts in food is madly harmful for slim figure – then what to eat these days at all, if tasty dishes kill your body and tasteless taste as rubber's piece. Which devil has enforced them to proclaim this... The best of meals at now is hunger, as not too difficult to guess..."
So, having calmly disappeared in hot and passionate reflections of how much hard it is to live, returned in realness Tatyana has put dull magazine away and, having hidden in makeup, created into several deft movements, with zeal proceeded to beholding of glad and beautiful oneself.
"Well, what an excellent sweet candy. Just for to draw and hang in frame. Warm, pleasant, tempting, neat and keen. It's so much easy to be charming – few smiles, and world crawls at your feet. What a superior approach... And legs are asking for some road – for some pathetic silent route without worries, sense and rush. At soon tomorrow I will have my meet with Igor, and now - with loneliness and waitings. With thirst for flame and entertainments, shamed piquant miracles and joy. For waltz of passions, sins and heat, nude fervid playfulness and lust."
Another dose of preparations and unimportant sluggish thoughts, and door lets body into street.
In midst of boring grayish pavement, long, faceless, tedious and vast and amply taken in thick vapors, is sternly reigning endless fuss – with pack of cars and heap of crowds, black metal roofs by both of sides and with no tangible wind's breathing. Not close to heaven, but still fine. So, having carefully stomped own lazy path through quarter's length, Tatyana, who's been switched off from all around, was unexpectedly called out by trudging near passer-by, who has attempted to build up a conversation – without purpose, but with fright: "I am Stepan, plain printing master and also seeker for success. I'd like to learn of your sweet person and to give answers of myself."
"This is both stupid, cute and funny. If to be prudent – brief and fast, let's move to nearby cafe – the one ahead with whitish canopy at top, for to discuss all of your offers."
"I’m walking, dragging as an arrow in most expensive foreign clocks."
"What an infrequent weird comparing. I see, you're loving to kiss whips..."
"Oh, how much quickly you've enslaved me – with speed of blinking of an eye."
"It was your will to fall in this."
"I don't deny, I'm just agreeing."
And then white canopy above of wicker chairs, thin taste of mussels, glad bright glances, smooth aimless questions, breeze of wind, wide pleasant smiles and inept timid flirting, exchange of numbers of the phones and fleeting point of prompt parting.
"In fact, quite suitable example. At least, some chance to make a choice. I am a queen. It's sharply clear. I am an ingot of success. Sweet trembling taste of total freedom, what is more glorious at earth..." - has sighed with slight indifference Tatiana, renewing ardor of heart's flame, and walked in depths of waiting distance of boldly spreaded space of street.
Path back is same, but with more modest zeal of pace, without meetings and with fading of landscape, already ready to get darkened, then once again in walls of house, in boredom, sluggishness and thoughts – of something definitely active and full of restlessness and life. And then in bed – in dreams and night - to further triumphs and next winnings, most firmly waiting to be caught.

II
Next day in essence of its plots has coped to happen in extremely equal manner, by will of fortune having skillfully included the same forgetfulness and boredom, the same long gatherings and thinking and indistinguishable walk in friendly hugs of aforementioned street cafe for quite identical short meeting, with only difference, that now it was with Igor, who was not laboring in printing, but was an architect of bridges, in other qualities and features repeating everything and all. So here and now, in tart void of vain present, right week ago from second meeting, veiled up with tiredness Tatyana, as always being wholly idle and free from any sorts of deals, was weakly spending static givenness of share, while at some moment having luckily recalled of recent couple of new partners, picked up thick body of her phone and, after drop of lovely fuss, with perfect easiness arranged two home meetings, of course in different of days, but onto vastness of one sofa. So after positive completing of this entirely plain task, it has remained just to await and, after season of relations, to choose for which exactly of next uses will serve possessing of such bonds. At here again was rambling thinking and weary gathering for walk along of stretchy line of pavement - to look at people and shop-windows and to get rest of flesh and soul. At street without any changes – the same offhanded atmosphere, thin pensive figures of tall lanterns and all-consuming sleepy noise of stable mix of cars and crowds. Again with no single meeting, but with cute buying of fresh juice. Again route back, door's hugs and evening, sunset of reddening sun's circle, light modest supper and bed's pier – with long and magical excursion in motley nets of dreamings' depths.

III
In midst of colorful young morning, at farthest row of empty hall of early desolate cafe, which has barely started to work, were sitting Igor and Tatyana, who had been meeting with each other for peaceful term of more than month, erecting piquancy of themes and growing closeness of contacts.
"Oh, yeah, my heartful chosen, you've come. This time you're even in tailcoat..."
"For me, each visit is great joy, and even holiday and feasting."
"Oh, what a fairy shameless praise. Indeed not less than outstanding, but still not priceless, not unique, but I'm quite satisfied, quite glad. I'll even gift you highest prize – my fleeting smile, your mainest trophy."
"I will appreciate it more than any heaven."
"You're wholly free to beg and twaddle. I'm full of bottomless attention. So, don't upset me with delays."
"So ample lavishness, I'm even truly puzzled... Not more than after one short month I'll ride in lands of town Dusky – to check first measurements of bridge – the one, which will be based on floating pillars. I'll spend few days and then will speedily return. And then will likely ride again."
"Fuss, rushing, traveling, trails, legs... Old known plot – so, do not boast. We all are different is essence and world, which always had been endless, has tons and tons of human mass – both always hopelessly ingrown and days and nights obsessed with straying."
"This is terribly true, but by sad givenness of life, it's not a remedy from being – from flock of plans and bunch of needs. And anyway I'll have to go to swirl at place of future bridge and fulfill its getting built."
"Work, worries, targets, tasks and hardships. Again quite ordinary lot. And what's of current state of share – which dreams and sins it gains and holds?" 
"Just as before – in all of spheres. And dreams are also not too tricky – to sit with you and to keep talks."
"Not bad. Quite sensible request. Let's try to cover all shamed topics."
So, having swept whole row of dishes and having spoken of most actual of matters, glad tired heroes have numbed and then got gradually parted - without reaching of demanded expectations, but with firm feeling of some progress in shaky moving by hazed path in further unity and hotness.
"Not so wrong. But still too vain. With only lifeless empty hints and with no piquancy or passion. I'd like to see it more direct, more bold, decisive and straightforward... What's sad, it'll barely be soon."
Then street, room's walls and idle evening – with heap of trivial affairs, weird, hollow, pointless and random, as swarm of rid of friendship bees.

IV
At meek uncrowded expanses of sleepy soundless cafe, veiled up in spreaded over chairs vast whitish canopy of roof, were keeping timid conversation two coupling silhouettes of lovers – completely indolent Tatyana and wholly busy with her person chained up in catchy charms Stepan, extremely happy from this unity of natures. Smooth empty dialogue, which, without innovations, has been begun with usual greetings, was fully trivial and vain, including mainly just two lines – incessant tireless delights with lady's beauty and reciprocal harmless mockeries and jokes, supplied with laughing and reproaches, so much unfaultably learnt by all involved in flirting people.
"With all assuredness and aptness, I am repeating you once more – you're most enchanting, sweet and tempting, it's even hard to trust to eyes."
"You're also fairly not ugly. At least, if not to look for long. What good is happening in printing? Noteworthy, serious and new."
"We’ve written article of poor town Dusky, which waits and waits in need for bridge for more than ten of even years. Such one will helpfully connect both living districts of its limits and will provide with lucky chance to move from one of lands to other. We've even found main of guilters and done swift checking of deadlines and of required amount of money, people and machines. We've even interviewed chief person, who has got risk to do this project – young local architect, bright forehead, Stavretsky Igor, hope of time."
"Stavretsky?" - with unpredictable strange panic has asked alarmed and tensed Tatiana, who into less than single second has realized annoying fact of short acquaintance of her partners.
"Yes, he. Quite promising and smart. If he will work not with full thieves, then all of better expectations are strongly viable and close."
"Nice, great. True holiday for livers... And what's of you? Which useful startings and occasions have been imputed in route's fuss?"
"I was in park... Have seen few elephants at there... And also was in one museum... The last was out of big friends..."
"Well-tried, so rare sort of leisure. I think you are deserving laurel wreath. And if to judge without sneering – just wholly average time's course. With nothing properly unusual and with one boredom in mood's pull. And with few elephants behind."
"They are still funnier than people..."
"You're right. You're definitely right..."
Another hundred of frail talks, and dreary dialogue has dried up at cold goodbyes and passive parting. Then back to bonds of dwellings' walls, where all is similarly static – no decent incidents, no news.

V
In midst of painted with sun's brush vast vivid balcony with daisies, which had inhaled young bashful dawn, is meekly standing sleepy spiritless Tatyana in matted tissue of night robe and with powerful watering can – looks up in hazy passive distance and slowly waters potted wards. Next to impassive faded edge of bleak horizon, in ashy ring of graish mist, are shyly hiding languid quarters with faceless houses and blurred lines of streets. In rid of windiness pale heights are amply floating thick clouds.
"Here I am, greet me, life, I have woken. My friends are full of sparkling water. I've tasted weather, got refreshing. This means, it's time to fall in plans – to think of days and to build prospects, to share dreams and to feed hopes."
All plans, of course, were of next meetings and of their benefits and fruits.
"I'll meet again, with whom at first, I think no difference and matter. What's then, I sadly guess, one fuss – without greatness and surprises and with no rescue from souls thirsts. I'll even barely be able to laugh at them as much as want. Too modest time, too empty living... Too barren fate and too vain lot..."
And again dose of thoughts and of walk and again back in burdensome walls - not into miracles or changes and not in latitudes of grace.

VI
In frames of little grayish dwelling, amid of heaps of folded texts and printing presses, were coyly sitting two thought-builders – first one Stepan, next one – his comrade. The plot of joyless conversation was made of hopeless thoughts of fate, of role of fortune and of search of keys from better.
"Why all accessible of roads are so much twisted, dark and hazed. Why every life is so unsteady - inconstant, wavering and short..."
Such state is natural and normal. Each step, as well as any minute, is made of endlessness of risks. We try to hurry and to climb, to crawl ahead and to move forward. To trust to sequence of attempts and to keep faith in future's prudence. But all depends on single luck. You can meet horsemen with no heads, but can't meet horsemen with no horses."
"At here I'm having to agree. You can lose everything, what's given - the same ability to lose at one of days can be just similarly lost. But does it warm or save from gloom. You can't buy joys by selling pains. For to await for love of fate, you must be sure in its presence. For sudden noticing of trunk, you need to find whole elephant, not less. It's too much true and too upsetting. To live with hope today is morbid, to live with dream is mad at all."
"What's sad, it's mercilessly fair. But we are crippled ourselves — each time, approaching up life's bottom, instead of changing path and pace, we're going next and delve in murk. All ones who've found certain reason to move themselves to abyss' edge, will never manage not to step. World's pier is made of dirt and falsehood. And even smallest chances' heap is most sufficient of sources for hugest volume of regrets."
"This is terribly wrong. I know: chances - call in anguish. In disappointment and pain. Frustration, apathy and tears. Some one will get small modest box, but with great gift inside its scopes, and other one, from side more lucky, will get both sizable and rich, but with one void in walls' bonds. We cannot change it or predict, as well as can't ignore or stop."
"When we will finish our feast, world's scene will have one single plague – no weakest doubt, all is so. Life's time and opportunities of share are close to model of hourglass... Sand's grains get ended, time gets melted, but no of hands will turn clocks back... At start we all are fully equal - same hands, same legs, same heads and bottoms, same scale of openness to truth and same defenselessness from lie, but how much different are shares..."
"All horns and violins are close – both in core's shape and in main basics, song's grace, in any single case, depends on who proceeds to playing. All sorts of cards and chess, all balls, all births and fallings in society are quite equal, but fruits and outcomes... They shock..."
"We live in constant dance of chaos, which either rescues or makes dead. Don't be afraid, fright never helps. The more deep is your breath, the more sweet must be air."
"What's worst, it's also not a key. Without care and support from higher forces and path's essence, we're not much more than empty shadows. Each fire makes at first cold ashes, flame's heat is always secondary, needless. All past achievements can get lost, all taken benefits can leave you. The more incredible is picture, with more of tears it was drawn."
"Again quite true. Till pain and shout. The neater is hand-writing, the freakier are words. And part of happiness in practice is even worse than full grief. One step is not a claim for road."
"It's too regrettable, too heavy. Too much of fates are simply broken. And what is even more appalling – such ones are adoring their lifes..."
"The less important is detail, the more it's faithful to construction. The more unneeded here is share, the more it harms to needful ones. The more small is the hail, the more hard it can hit."
"Eh, life, dust, wretchedness and routine ..."
"It's face of being at lost now. If your wings have no sky, one day you'll have to cut them off... But still be thirsty, don't give up. The more thin is luck's thread, the more long must be fate. Free horse is also kind of horseman."
At here shy dialogue has got ended and changed on silence and pain's bonds, so much habitual and usual for every liver of earth's hell.

VII
In full of yearning for some sinfulness apartment, in midst of passion-keeping sofa, which has transformed in changeless cradle for shy embraces and long talks, was coyly resting peaceful pair of amply teeming with keen playfulness Tatiana and timid fearful Stepan, who was just sitting into silence as faint and pallid lifeless shadow, not putting glance away of charms of badly teasing tempting beauty.
"With what amazing, fun and useful you'll risk to wonder me this time?" - has deftly asked sweet fervid lady, with dextrous gesture of her legs in one smooth movement having swiftly escalated enchanting piquancy of pose.
"I'm once again completely helpless in front of nets of your saint will, which turns my person in last slave of your desires, whims and wishes."
"What a cute prisoner of feelings. Nice little angel... What a trash. Both stupid, pretty and disgusting. And what's of glorious and new? Of truly weighty, big and great, what was included into leisure..."
"Without victories or storms – in usual fuss and grayish colors. All was so trivial and boring, that it's a shame, that I'm alive... "
"Well, one fresh tragedy again, I guess I have to try to help – to find for you some cozy noose or to acquaint with poison's drinking, then to pour tears, to console. It looks as you are living your first day. No strength, no confidence, no plannings. One endless apathy and routine. Not days, not life, but purest torment. And what's of something hot and shameful? Will you have any tries?"
Stepan has passionlessly sighed – from all forbidden and impudent he was remembering one void: "No plates, no dishes, only crumbs – priceless spices of hopes..."
"Oh, my small poor child of pains. Weak, sick and permanently waiting. I’m laughing, squealing and exploding…" - Tatiana has offhandedly stretched out and, having reached pale Stepan’s cheek, pulled last one up and gifted kiss: "Oh, oh… You're practically melting. My heat is working as a venom."
So, after term of lazy playing Tatyana has unwillingly got up, then turned around and with coldness thrown brief order: "Come on, I'm thirsty for some walking."
They both have sluggishly got dressed and gone in avenue's expanses – to frail familiar landscapes and tasteless set of usual faces, where after drop of steps and dialogue, route's course has gradually shallowed and weakly met with ending point, enforcing heroes to part.
"I'm fully charmed and deeply glad and even ready to ask days to move more speedily and promptly for to bring dose of further bonds. And here it's time to say goodbye and to delve back in fuss and hardships."
"Go up, do not crash into pillars..." - has drily handed cold response exhausted passionless Tatyana and trudged with frostiness away: "What a disgusting morbid love, what a sick uselessness and limpness. I'd like to vomit with whole stomach and to repeat it few of times... Or, at least, to close eyes and to vanish – in something tangibly more aimful and freed from burden of such meets."

VIII
And once again the same apartment and same vast hugs of sofa's pier. This time in company of Igor.
"Speak up, my dear gentle tempter – I'm harshly waiting for some fun, for shocking news and scandal gossips. Like straying wanderer is waiting for new countries. Or as dried lips for saving sip."
"I think, I’ll start with new at work – one prompt and abrupt week ago I've been in lands of town Dusky – for to complete last tasks on ground, which I, of course, most deftly done, so from today it's creepy time to delve in calling depths of papers and to get lost in drawings' storm. And if of wonderful and catchy, I cannot name you new of facts. All things are going into ordinary manner – with deadly average conditions and on far distance from bright deeds. But I am bottomlessly glad - with our meeting and with talking and with this fervent glances' play. It's dose of paradise, not smaller, at least, for modest world of me."
"Oh, hugs of heaven, opened bushes, forbidden fruits and taste of sin. True path to dreams is long and languid. And you've, I see, already stepped... So do not stumble by the road. Sometimes it's possible to fail – at every way and any soil."
"At here I'll certainly agree. World's pit is scariest of piers. But losses' pull we'll leave for others, for us we'll rest sky's heights and flying."
"You have already spreaded wings and even trampled air's widths and tinted heart in crazy tones. Oh, how ambitious it seems - to wait for something so much shameful. But we are sitting, holding dreams and weaving flash of expectation. While doing really big things, sometimes we can afford short tiny loafing. And you're so busy, so unthinkably imposing..."
And once again, brief row of kisses, meek time of walk, vain empty phrases and usual parting till new bonds – in same plot's essence, style and spirit as into former loving case – with equal scale and strength of boredom and with repeating passion's lack – without sinfulness and lewdness and with no chance on proper vice or on, at least, tart decent madness.

IX
And once again pale walls of tragical apartment and sad ensemble of two souls – frail sleepy featureless Stepan and his same comrade in regretings weak full of wretchedness Andrei, who, as in previous of talks, was wholly lifeless and reflective, from time to time performing nodding and throwing rare hopeless words.
"Why all around is so tricky, so harshly difficult and hard - in any sphere and each starting, at every single given way one endless chaos, swamp and hurry, thick mix of falsehood, fog and risks, deceit, duplicity and danger. Each step brings uselessness and torments, despair, losses, gloom and pain. And the more pure you are and honest, the more effectively you sink and more incurable of problems invite in future course of fate. And too much baleful and strong are dreary nets of inner fading. Past path is always madly shaky, unsteady, breakable and thin..." - has asked with apathy Stepan and feebly lowered his eyes till dusty floor .
"What's more, for sharper horror's presence and for more distinct lack of hope, it's one of mainest being's basics. Sick knot of trustfulness and lie is much much firmer than steel chains. Such fact is frighteningly old. So, blame own flawfulness, not world. Rights' absence injuries and cripples, makes hurted, purposeless and cracked. And wrongness also isn't new. As soon as you'll transform in worthy stone, you'll definitely get some worthless sculptor. We have no place, no single moment for either victories or pleasures, or even simple banal peace, so unfamiliar and rare. You cannot fall from poor sky on lavish ground. The more persistent are your strivings, the smaller weight will have their fruits. For player game is close to god. While you are planning to draw clouds, at first, do not erase the sun. And even thoughts are rather helpless, such ones do not deny life's laws. No matter, how much long you look at picture, you'll never notice painter's face. Days' course is windy, strange and empty. Vain tears never stop to leak, true tears never start own pouring. All what is given is full void, faked trifling fiction and pure circus. We wait, believe and move ahead. And time gets mercilessly shallowed and rolls with speed to ending point – most tragic, terrible and numb. It's cause to hate each single clocks. We catch for chances, this is mindless. Life's luck is greatly close to torch – you either hold it by its handle and path through darkness teems with light or you grab such one by the flame - and there's neither former gleaming, nor visibility of road, nor even hand, which had transformed in smoking coal. The question is what you'll prefer. All roles – both tearful and funny get played, as rule, at common stage, but, what's the main, not by same actors. You do not know, what you'll get, what will be sent by will of fortune. But all will occur, all will come. If world has hands, which have made nails, believe, it'll certainly will find enough of hands, which will be able to use hummer. It's incorrigible and static. But don't be sad for too much long - if water has offended you and left, don’t worry, drought will do the same."
"I guess, all problems grow from mind. Such one is always crooked and broken. The hunger of the smart ones means food's absence, the hunger of the fools means spices' lack. We always look for certain reasons, await for help and fully optimal of frames, for wholly favorable moment for smooth fulfillment of each plan. But this is abysmally rare and torn from real course of fate. We must be soberer and bolder, best rescue – friendship with yourself."
"And what's of happiness? If frankly."
Andrei has caught short hesitation and then with tiresomeness sighed: "What this happiness is – what makes its evidence and frames? What it is to be happy? We haven't strict criteria or tests. We have one strange and vague feeling, one shacky personal conviction in true obtaining of this state. It's highly close to ring of bell: you sleep and hear doorbell's ringing, and you, still lying into bed, already cleanly understand, that some of visitors has come and that in couple of brief seconds you'll deftly jump away of bed, will make few steps and, having fiddled with your key, will find a silhouette ahead – will shake his hand and help with coat. But it can happen such a way, that doorway's space will be just empty – last night was rain, old roof was leaking, wet doorbell's contacts were connected by the water and inadvertently brought close, having given shy birth to the call, which has equipped you with your faith in real visitor's upcoming. How can you check, that you are needed, are truly loved and understood, indeed desired and supported. Here is whole burden of this feeling – you cannot prove it, can't confirm. You can be trusting to deceit and calmly think, that you are absolutely happy. It can be so, that world is rid of happy people, that every happiness is false. When I've been born, I had desire to announce - let's skip all pages of delight and start to move to disappointment and vainness. My life was always seeming totally improper for being happy, right or good. I'm sure, yours is just the same."
Stepan has frozen into fear.

X
In midst of gray and foggy skys, in clothes of thickly spreaded clouds, was hanging balcony with flowers and Tatyana. Cold, heavy air, swiftly gathering in winds, was harshly bursting in heart's cradle and chilling arrogance and blood. Weak rare foliage, meekly turning dry and yellow, was sadly ringing with fresh bitterness and pain, with anguish falling from the branches and coyly rustling at flat surfaces of pavements. And even glad and vivid yard, most always full of life and moving, was deadly silent, bleak and empty - without faces, cars and tints.
"Well, autumn – dreariness and wilting. No heat, no sun, no blooming gardens. I'm almost totally alone. Yes, I have meetings, plans and playing. But it's so burdensome and boring, so madly primitive and sick. I need for fire, blood and fullness. For restless rampage for my soul and reckless tempest for my body. But all is passive, frail and mournful. What can I get from these two fools. Are they true partners, are they lovers... Just useless objects for to wipe of them my feet and to be cruel, if I'm angry. I even maybe am unhappy. With so gray chapter in so colorful life's course. But what to do – who'll risk to tell..." - Tatyana has pathetically yawned and then got melted into spaces of apartment – in dreams and being with oneself.

XI
All, what's alive, has need to move. And time is also not for standing. So, after term of rainy autumn and of next whitish winter's snows, has promptly come young mellow spring. Past strange relations of Tatiana for days and months of coldness' term have climbed till highest possible of levels, which can be met in one dreams' labyrinths and books. So, as before in slushy season, she was at balcony's expanses, in midst of lavish daisies' sea, with usual massive can of water and into changeless windy thoughts of further fate and loving matters.
"And again new young spring and new blooming, new greedy greenness and new breathing of fresh breeze. New chance for previous affairs and for past purposes and plans. And it’s my turn to burn and blossom, to rise and shine, to laugh and play and to strive up to grace and pleasures. I'm here, with can and in plain dress, in midst of fussiness and flowers and onto distance from great deeds, but in my mind I sit with Gods, drink wine and teach to look for being. World's pier is made for me and daisies. All other things are simply trifling and rid of value, weight and sense. From whole humanity one me is real secret. One me is mystery and treasure, most truly able to rewrite main earthly plots and to submit each single share. I'm full of yearning for big games - without presence of small blood and with most frightening of bettings. With long and tireless applause and with unshakable stern absence of any possible regrets. Life's frames and laws, no slightest doubts, were made exactly for my whims. I'm match, which's hotter, than sun's surface. And I am ready to gift scalds. To let my will in freedom's abyss and to unleash my inner hell. I'm almost queen, if I'm in fervor. World's pier is made for me and daisies. I do not care of all rest. My choice is me and my cute flowers. I'm also flower in some way. And whole life's cradle is not more than my playground – for tricks, temptation and obsessions. So, get prepared, breed of people, your main adventures are in me."
Small dose of boastfulness and fuss and then again inside of room – to spend habitual day's schedule: drink juice, take walk and look at world, which by deceptive will of fortune without waverings or shame has so much heedlessly permitted to her person to get dissolved in motley crowds of never ending net of streets, most gladly suitable and cozy for any known sorts and forms of all indecent dark beginnings and inappropriate sinned plans.

XII
And once again bleak gray apartment with nude and pallid faceless walls and bitter dialogue of fate's going, which has stayed free from any changes for cold and painful winter's months.
"Why any choices are so vain - both in life's learning and in love. We try and rush, persist, strive forward and keep mad readiness for all – for any possible of torments, omissions, sufferings and griefs, just for to get short vague chance or wholly empty fruitless promise, for to be fooled, deceived and hurted and then rejected, cracked and smashed. We fight for nothingness, for void. And the more frank are asks for meal, the more excessive are its poisons." - has claimed with hopelessness Stepan and left his glance in gap of window – at stingy colorless horizon and hazy lifelessness of lands.
"It shows full essence of new living. Full depth of tragedy and hell. Just try to feel and to pretend – how sadly useless, weak and lonely is every single human soul. Enslaved by microscope's observing and clung to spreaded knowledge's flash coy wistful scientist with greediest of joys will most undoubtedly fall in strongest love with any morbific bacterium or virus, no matter how much dangerous and plagued is last one's influence on health. And he will happily release it from lab's prison - without even shortest thinking and with full gladness from oneself: this damned bacillus is so beautiful and tempting, so much heart-warming and enchanting, so sweetly pretty, neat and cute. No heavy trouble, if humanity will die. Such empty happenings don't puzzle. And this bacterium, what's truly most upsetting, is hundred times more pure and precious, supportive, mutual and close, than any burdensome of members of current family of our poor fellow. We're used to share most sincere, frank and sacred just with some passer-by or stranger, with unfamiliar far person, who is torn off from former unity of fates and freed from commonness of shares, not with the one, who is most relative and native and who inhabits same flat's nest and feeds self belly with same soup. And even love at rotten here is nothing else than sort of hatred, most stably equalized in measure and rather masterfully mixed with faked concern and dummy passion, which time from time can make it even quite exalted for far viewers, who will be trying to build judments by one external of details. We look at partner as at foe, as at receiver of main anger. We cannot trust to damned each other, at least, most tiny part of self – most trifling piece of inner cradle. We're neatly watching thrilling tapes and pouring tears over victims, and then, returning back to life, proceed to act as film's aggressor. It's strange to faith or to keep hopes, to be supportive or to dream. No human features can be blameless, no single quality is able not to fade or to stay constantly away from dirt and vice. Words are false, deeds are vain, souls are barren. The ones, who're free to blind with beauty, can't gift you safe blindfolded future. All types of merciful beginnings take roots from bloodiness and pains. And even empathy grows up from self-rejection. It kills, upsets and throws in horror, not leaving minimal of questions, but giving confident desire not to find answers or solutions and not to strive or to gain plans. You cannot change it, cannot fix. The only use from having mind is daily readiness to fooling. No ones of waters are preserved from state of freezing. No ones of promises are true. We can't refuse from path of falsehood and betrayals, can't paint heart's cradle into purity and bliss. All deeply precious, saint and flawless can calmly squeeze in heap of dust. It’s not so scary to be pushed in hugs of abyss as to find out who has pushed. We live away of any purpose and move without of straight route. We're trained to be rejoicing with last trifles and to get sad without cause. It's rather normal not to guess, why you was crying, but wrong and dreary not to guess, why you was glad. We live in permanence of fuss, in pit of void, gloom and sickness. It's not so difficult for bird to part with wings, as hard for cage to part with previous bird's presence. This broken world is not for good. Each former memory of roses is fine exclusively in pair with full unknowingness of thorns. Do not await for hand of help and don't believe, that it will never bring you harm – not stopping process of compassion and not enfeebling care's strength. No one loves trees as much as axes. True kindness always needs in guillotine or noose. It's greatest burden to belong to people's flock – more even damaging than art of acids' drinking. Life's pier is wrong location for survival. But who we are – weak will-less shadows. And even acting as main string of being's music, you can be easily torn out without wavering and trace – by inattentiveness of playing or by excessiveness of zeal. Sometimes it has been doubtlessly seeming, that time is hurrying so much promptly, that clocks are ready to explode, but nothing new was close to happen and all was staying as before - without miracles or progress and with no chances on some grace. It's too appalling, too frustrating, too much unbearable for mind. The only outlet is bliss of independence – from all of borders and taboos: from thoughts, society and religion. Such one is also not for good. And yes - don't idealize God. Most shyly serving as straight author of all given, he must not be more wise than you – the very people, who've invented great computers, are most assuredly unable to do at least the smallest part of last one's plainest calculations. You have to find enough of courage for to admit, that fate can also make mistakes. And no one, except of you, will ever manage with their fixing. But don't believe, that you'll succeed. Each ardent longing for perfection, with vainly lasting share's course, leads up exclusively in horror, in bonds of tragedies and pain. This fact, as you've already guessed, is also terribly upsetting. The more convenient is cage, the more it looks as sky or better. But still keep fighting, try and rush – pretend, whole world is just a toy for your desires: all motley shops, all bleak gray clouds, each noise of leaves and every rain. Not too much, I suppose. Just dead rubbish. We're not in kingdom, where you want to be its king..."
Stepan has frowned his eyes and sighed: "What sort of living do we have. Hell, garbage, nastiness and sorrows. Fog, darkness, aimlessness and murk. If we'll examine all accessible delusions, which ones of truths we'll cope to reach... The more you're here, the less you're happy. It's too regrettable, too wrong. Wrong is all. People, principles, routes. All is wrong, all is totally cracked..."
 
XIII
All sorts of things are free to happen. And this strange day is best of proofs of such unusual equation. In small cafe, in midst of cozy vacant hall, have met each other two of figures, whose common sitting has been definitely absent both in their plans and in scenarios of fate. By will of habit deeply pensive, frail, pale and doleful Stepan, who has arrived to meet Tatyana, just having barely stepped in, has nimbly noticed one shy silhouette in coat with rather native face's features, who was relaxing right at place, which had been aimed for his own person. This fact, of course, most madly weird, at first has bottomlessly shocked and thrown in horrible confusion and then turned out in full stupor and morbid readiness to all.
"Good day you, Igor Alekseich." - has said with timidness Stepan: "You're also here? For which of targets? I guess, an interview - of bridge, they still attack you with damned questions, not giving shortest term of rest for your extremely busy person and sternly hunting for fat news of paper zeal and ground working?"
"Oh no, all things are much more simple. I'm just awaiting for my lady and for romantic type of plot."
"Still how much tricky are world's plays. I'm here by same of needs and reasons – have also meet with love and dream. What an amazing joke of fortune – one place, one purpose and one time..."
"I'm also utterly bemused and even certainly dumbfounded... All looks as start of some wrong trick."
And just at end of this coy phrase, enchaining hearts in hardest fear and sowing panic and alarm, has briskly entered the guiltress - of aforementioned slippy state, as free to guess, of course, Tatyana, who by the reason of exhaustive daily boredom had with indifference arranged whole mash of current situation.
"Well, you have met, it's full of sense. Which way you're going to decide, who one is worthy of possession with all my treasures, sins and charms? Reveal, confess, repent and burst. If I had task to choose myself, I would prefer the soonest duel - with leaving answers for last blood and ending action with dot's putting. I do not see another ways. And what's, proclaim, of your suggestions? I seek for logical response."
The speech was met by loud silence and vastest abyss of strong fright, which has encircled both of fellows in veil of numbness stress and strain.
"I even cannot say a word for to describe all gloom of happened..." - has sharply frozen in perplexity Stepan, with shiver trying to give value to squall of occurring events.
"I'm also stuffed with same emotions. But if her nature asks for shooting, then other methods aren't for us. So, let's fulfill what is determined – without meaningless delayings and with cold confidence in moods." - has drily told stiff muted Igor: "Whole deal is magically small – to cope with dose of fatal minutes and then to fall in one of trips – in nets of passion, love and joys or in fresh hungry hugs of coffin. And for to make it less unfair and more convenient for you – I'll risk to come with starting offer and to call out for this game. You'll have first shot – quite fine advantage, if to be trusting to brave books."
"It's rather relevant and sober, I have no chances to refuse. So, I'm awaiting for last trifles – time, place, gun's brand and sum of steps..."
"Think, let's appoint at tomorrow. At six and half. In Rakish Lands, next to old dams. Let's take two Colts and leave twelve steps. And here it's time for us to part."
And once again thick liquid silence, swift shaky gazes and routes back, in three of different directions - till future tearful events and till denouement of plot's questions, which ask for straightest of fulfillments – by blood and ticket to death's hands.

XIV
Before each hard and heavy starting, it's right to fall in pit of thinking and to weave askings for advice, perplexing brain with taste of sorrow and feeding heart with doubts' flesh. Stepan, not breaking this tradition, just having barely gone out of gun-store's entrance's door and having catiously grasped fresh shining metal of Colt's body, still unfamiliar with blood, has sent his legs in only logical location – to walls of cradle of Andrei – for holding joyless conversation of what to do in hell of actual conditions and which of actions to prefer. So, having hastily rushed up and weakly shared with description of last deplorable events, he has got frozen and closed eyes in meek awaiting for solution, which was as needed as an air for his defeated bleeding soul.
"Well, horrors also are life's guests..." - has broken silence limp Andrey and stretched with passiveness in voice: "No sure difference and matter, which way you'll dare to behave. Each one approach will be resulted with regrettings. If he will kill you, what is worst, it will be me, who will be sobbing, and if you'll manage to survive and to dilute fate's route with murder, then it'll be you, who will regret. Regret, that further heights and pleasures will be provided by death's act. And not to answer with agreement is sadly also not a case – you'll leave your goal, not even fighting, not even trying to resist. It's also ladder in despair, in silent bitterness and guilt. Or even straightly into noose – at dreary end of wasted years. And, what's assuredly most gloomy, you cannot fix it, can't untie - without tragedy at ending and not with apathy ahead."
"I'll tell most heedfully and simply: regrets are not of my mind's essence. I live away of last ones' breed, not letting waverings or doubts and not admitting going back. For me it's easier to dare, to take whole risk and to make step, than to await or to have feeling, that you're at point of soon parting with former givenness of luck. It's firmest part of inner me, you'll never cure this, just believe."
"Life's route, where you're unknown with regrettings, is truly scary, sick and wrong. World's frames are full of pain and horror, of falsehood, torments, lie and dirt, but you, existing in same being, keep staying happy and successful and bath in peacefulness and sense, not meeting troubles and upsetness and writing perfect fate's direction above of tears, griefs and deaths. Your bright smooth days, if to be frank in views at facts, are based on sufferings of others, on someone's losses and omissions and on distortedness of plots. We all are fruits of common living, of its realities and laws. All you have managed to achieve, to get and gain for days of share, in current volume, width and scale, would not be possible at all in any different conditions. What's more, you wouldn't be yourself with any other course of past and with another twists of actions. All deeds are mixed and interwoven and deeply rooted in time's flesh. And if at earliest world's start some walking stranger wouldn't stumble, would not fall down and get dead, we, maybe, wouldn't live at all, would not sit here and keep this talkings. If to be thoughtful and attentive and not to shy of taste of truth, all sins – of every single sinner, must lie on whole humanity, not less. Each robbing, violence and murder in full amount of its reasons, no even tiniest of doubts, hides certain drop of our guilt."
"It's mad, we're living in nightmare. But I'm surprised by something else – by fact, that she herself had made such offer – of solving question right by blood."
"It shows main sides of people's essence – soul's absence, heartlessness and hatred – most frequent qualities at Earth. No things have changed from first world's chapters – same hellish dominance of wildness, same wars, atrocities and gloom. Played faked morality and care have face of rich and splendid coat, which was with arrogance stretched over of inly rotten swollen corpse. All living principles are ancient, all needs and tools are old and worn - so much, that if you'll look more aptly, you quite effortlessly will notice, that they repeat and even copy such ones from distant age of stones."
"Nice dose of history, I'll answer, but is it able to console..."

XV
At cold fresh land, placed under dark and foggy sky, full of numb sorrow and perplexion, next to forsaken somber dams, was standing modest group of people - Stepan was busy with his Colt, meek wordless Igor was beholding this persistence, not spending time on such a fuss and showing readiness for shooting, but not for garbage of delays. Tatyana also was just looking, with gladness melting in awaiting for soon beginning of brave action in sake of demon of her love, what was most lavishly endowing with satisfaction and delight.
And here, when last of preparations have calmly met with sure end, in midst of thick encircling haze was started counting of steps.
"Exactly twelve. Let's get positions." - has with decisiveness reported zestful Igor and stiffly frozen at his line.
"Let's shoot!" - has shouted Tatiana and sternly stared at performance, with zeal intending to explode.
Stepan has shyly caught an aim and with thick trembling pulled gun's trigger. Smoke's sea has swiftly risen up, fixed steady Igor, who was serving as a target, at first has powerlessly shaken and then with shiver fallen down, with one hand squeezing hurted chest and weakly aiming in response with rid of firmness feebling other. And once again new shooting sound and new gray smoke above of lands. This time in vain – away of goal.
Few fleeting seconds and Tatyana with Stepan are bending over Igor's body.
"Well done. I'm dying with defeating – quite common plot. Sometimes we lose." - has mumbled Igor and got numb.
"You are not only a fool, but also seemingly a shooter." - has said with playfulness Tatiana, who has returned in vivid mood: "Let's look for somebody from guarders. Or you will face with accusations in being murderer and scum. Nice chance to spend next days at mines."
They've gone, then peacefully come back.
"You say, you've killed him in a duel?" - has asked with dryness bald plump guard.
"Yes sir. From barrel of this Colt."
"And who was managing with judging and with establishing of terms?"
"I was." - has said with quickness pleased Tatiana, who has made abrupt step ahead.
"I have seen lots and lots of duels, but to take girl as own assistant... I guess, you was main cause of act."
"Oh, yes, you're absolutely right."
"Then, let’s describe from start to ending. With names, lifes' facts and date's of births."
So, having told all what was asked and having left both guard and corpse, soothed tired heroes have moved in timid walk to bonds of placed one half of dozen miles inviting house of Tatiana.
"Are you glad, my fresh-made heartful lover?"
"I’m still in shock, in horror's nets..."- has sighed with hesitance Stepan and then with passiveness continued: "I see, I've won, but what's the price..."
"Breathe, blink and catch this sultry air. You're lucky idiot, I'll say. Let's step, don't waste remaining time."
So, having reached demanded door and having landed at free sofa, pleased languid lovers once again have delved in dialogue, discussing course of further going of newly minted instant bonds.
"I guess, you're measurelessly happy - you've got main victory, main prize. Long years after you can easily forget - both of this day and of won duel, but you will certainly remember each single moment of this night - in all details and till last breath." - Tatyana has alluringly got up and freed from dress and then, with deftness having sat at sofa's edge, in most impudent lustful manner put few of fingers in between of own legs and, having spreaded tempting hips, leaned back, exposing whole mad splendor of sweet and fervent body's bloom. Stepan has fallen in confusion and, having frozen in beholding, got fully silent, weak and pale.
"Wake up, you're not in art museum, it's not for viewing, it's for more..."- Tatyana has invitingly bent down and, briskly adding into pose excess of lecherousness' presence, with stopless storm of shameful notes, intoxicating mind with passion, sent smile and, having slowly removed her humid fingers, placed them in mouth and licked up, with immense craving into movements of chained with lewdness melting lips, already sunk in omnipotence of inly bursting heat of sins.
"Come on, taste too." - has told the lady and, promptly flooding heart with courage, returned her hand in wet locations and, having catiously slipped by tender folds, put two soaked fingers into mouth of Stepan and then with sharpness taken back: "Are you in paradise, my toy?"
Tatyana has with quickness turned around and, having land herself on knees and lifted ass up into air, in teasing manner nimbly grabbed it with her hands and gently pulled in both of sides, most fully opening for eying whole lot of mysteries and charms, already teeming with sweet dews and sternly calling for denouement. Stepan has timidly moved closer, bent down, shortening last distance, and sticked himself to honey buds of lost in warmness piquant places, with shiver merging in one creature with greedy blossoming of flash. Hot boiling process has got passionate unleashing and, after flurry of repeatable delight, in imperceptibly smooth pace faced up with rays of growing morning.
"Get up, my prisoner of shameful. For you it's time to trudge to home – I truly have to stay alone – to think of matters and next plannings and to pet flowers with my love. Jump back from heaven to earth's ground and take your way away of here."
Stepan has passively obeyed, got dressed in crumpled rags of clothes and, having meekly said goodbye, in fright gone out with weak steps.

XVI
Not all, what has begun in lavish manner, saves former prudence, grace and strength. Stepan has learnt it on himself – his frisky promising love story has promptly lost past willful breath and turned in emptiness and ashes without right on any chances and with no prospects of new warmth. Tatiana's nature has upsettingly got cold and calmly freed from any interest in bonds, she has refused from any meetings and left herself on longest distance from any mutual of things. Cracked faded hero has remarkably got closed, delved into apathy and limpness and deadly killed last rescued hopes. At inconsolably dark now, depressed, exhausted, crooked and frail, he was indifferently crawling to waiting house of Andrei – to share sadness and to claim.
"I am most definitely killed, destroyed, harmed, emptified and broken. My soul is mortified and torn, my thoughts are drowned in endless sorrow. Each day I'm feeling only worse... As if I'm staying at death's porch and getting ready to grave's cradle."
"It's rather trivial fate's course. When you have managed to save life, main thing is not to loose it's meaning. In dreary givenness of now, all heights and victories are vain – resultless, pointless and tragic, rid of right future and of sense. Such life's distortedness makes crippled, it puts in torments, in distress. If to chew gingerbread for long, at once you'll start to feel whip's savor. It's madly bitter, sick and wrong, but this is working of existence, you cannot heal it or avoid. Both breed of losers and of winners at end gets hopelessness and gloom. You just was living with no winnings, but then you've won and got straight proofs. Sometimes pain's cup gets fully dry, but what's unable to dry out – the ones, who're ready to refill. And not to guess, where you'll get crashed. When people look at light of sun, they never think of it's eclipses. It's sort of lesson, of advice: we can be moving with same roads, but due to different of signs. It's also given to ignore them and to move randomly at all. But is this ticket in solution... If you've assembled some carved tower, or perfect telescope or even time machine from wreckage's scopes of rubbish dump, you'll still remain in midst of garbage, in past surrounding of wastes. No slightest matter how unique you are yourself, how much of wisdom, luck and greatness you have extracted from this world – no one will notice it or value – nor flock of people, neither fate. Life's pier is not a stage of circus: long painful dozens of attempts will never lead to graceful pose or to successful trick's performing. All needs in reason, in luck's help. And you don't know, how much burdensome and twisty must be your circumstances' volume, which will permit you to succeed. Sometimes, in order of match's litting, you have at first to build match's plant."
"And even this can't stably promise, that you will never lose this light." - Stepan has tragically sighed and with despondency and turned out: "I once again fall in despair. I guess, I'm slowly going mad..."
"If you will look at one mistakes, you will unlearn of seeing rightness. You've meekly stood at line of edge and started waiting for the moment, when forward abyss will make step. It's not for hopeful, not for good. You have been ended, it can happen – you're not the first and not the last. If you have found proper ladder, try not to lose past need to climb. As rule, dreams' splinters are just fatal, but don't judge night by evening's course, you have to start to bet on changes, on will of risks and fortune's work. Each feast today is part of plague. All flames are temporary, short. You can't lose more, than you've acquired. It doesn't rescue, but it's so."
And once again long static silence, and once again despair's nets.

XVII
Sometimes time's going is just absurd – at first it hurries, then gets stuck. Some days are passing as long weeks, some months are flying as short minutes. Right five of years have gone out since that duel. Far cold Tatyana have give up her needless lover and then in one of sunny seasons returned from splendid rest at sea with new tart dose of carnal heat and with fresh pregnancy as trophy, at end of winter having given lucky birth to two of nice and healthy childs and having proudly remained in stubborn unity with self, again not letting to Stepan, who was most ready to gift help, to bring participance in share. One day Stepan, awaiting her, has caught a cold and then got morbid – completely pale and deadly weak. Now he was walking by dark street, with pain and purposeless himself, beholding gloominess of places of so familiar locations, which were so faded, frail and bleak. In midst of sluggishness and slush, between of houses and boredom, were meekly crawling faceless clouds, encircling heart with static sadness and throwing mind in chains of pain. Exhausted wind, full of hard anguish, was coyly wandering through places – ahead in permanence of fog. Thick heavy shadows were pathetically huddling in pits of peopleless crossroads, converging, vanishing and freezing in dense and humid air's masses, with sorrow calling in regrets.
"Hey, dear balcony, my friend. I'm once again next to your cradle – wait for her silhouette in you. For to return with purest nothing, but having pleased torn heart with dream. It has no sanity, no logic. But I'm unable  to unlearn – to come at here for long awaiting and to keep illness with her charms. And what's most firm, I'll never stop it." - the hero has leaned back and slowly frozen - to hope for unity of glances and to get filled with taste of pain.


AFTERWORD:
In midst of hospital hall's spaces, is stably standing reigning fuss – in walls of tiny cramped chamber one of new wards is getting dead – is catching air and suffocating, most sternly leaving bonds of world. Pale poor fellow is in trouble, his flesh is frighteningly trembling and skin is promptly getting wet. He is awaiting for some person – for whom, of course, no people know.
Soon, deftly passing through of nurses, some pallid, decently tall man has swiftly rushed in his tight room – with tray of oranges in hands and with most ample storm of greetings.
"Andrey! I have been greatly waiting. It's so much hard to die alone. And you, my only friend and fellow. We've seen so much for years' row, so much were talking and discussing. But, as I guess, it's last of times."
"So much of life has gone away. From days of youth and of its blooming. For thirty years town Dusky is sadly staying with no bridge – since day, when you have killed Stavretsky, he was quite glorious guy too. Are you regretting of that shooting? At very ending of own fate."
Stepan has hesitantly sighed: "Of course, I'll tell you only truth. I don't regret – not even slightly. And, what is more, I never was. Was not regretting, that I've shot him, but I'm most heavily regretting, that he has missed in his response..."
The patient has begun to shake and shiver and after minute has got numb. Andrei, to mad surprise of others, has strongly bursted with hard sobbing and plunged in agony and cries. Whole fate is over, whole life's voyage. It's more than nothing, by the way.
At old graveyard – small modest hill, inside of short and faceless fence – not too much bulky square stone with unremarkable inscription – Stepan Grigoryevich Iznankin, a printer, has died by reason of health's loss. In third of mile away to side of south, one other hill, more large and old, again with stone and inscription – Stavretsky Igor Alekseich, a draftsman, has been killed in duel.
On little balcony's expanses – vast splendid beautiness of bloom.





Out of sort.

I
Right at most far and distant edge of living area of city, in midst of outskirts and gloom, were calmly living in two similar worn buildings two meek and doleful of Stepans - Stepan Valeryevich in house, named 7a, Stepan Kirillovich in house, named 7alpha. Such way it ramblingly has happened, that for these two alike of persons, world's pier had sorely not coped to find more different of symbols. Both poor persons were of equally sad shares – with timeless loneliness and vainness and with full vagueness in future, which into practice was just absent - replaced on nothingness and fog. Main roots of tragedy were lying in barren field of loving nets, which in both cases were including common causes and common twistings of heart's plots. By windy will of former days each needless hero had got fruitless bitter bonds, which were existing on one paper – in short and rare modest letters, transformed for powerless receivers in highest mercy, gift and joy. All things and facts of these relations were tightly full of dense oppression and constant tireless distress. Both plots were started from brief meeting, the one – at shore of local river, the other one - at exhibition, among of paintings and art's fruits, each case has got development and growth from instant falling in affection and next shy plea for writing letters as chance on unity's supporting, at least, in frames of constant distance and with no presence of some hope. What's more – as stern coldhearted lady of pensive dweller from 7alpha as her entirely full copy of wistful liver from 7a, still having finally agreed to send one letter in one year, have most decisively refused to leave them any information of so much greedily requested and so much needed self-address. All future messages, of course, were deadly meager, short and empty and rid of personal details. What else was certainly noteworthy – both of two passions, by some mystical hazed reasons, were of one common name Marina, nice, sweet and pretty, but as practice has performed, not in all cases reciprocal. And if to tell of other facts of fates of two rejected Stepans, it makes huge sense to add in body of description, that they had similar appearance and were acquainted with each other since rather early ones of days.
So at this carefree young morning, just only having opened eyes and promptly eaten modest breakfast of roasted bird and garlic's bulb, Stepan Kirillovich without of vain pauses has most straightforwardly decided to fall in path from home to home – to walls and corners of another pensive Stepan - for timid thoughtful conversations of life and meaning of its plots. He has made several of sighs, then thrown few glances into window, and, having put his flesh in jacket, trudged up directly to fresh talks.
In midst of sleepy tired street, is humbly reigning warmth of autumn, still full and hospitably rich. Sweet pleasant air, dense and sticky, is tart, immovable and thick, constrained by laziness and languor and neatly soaked with last remains of swiftly ending fading blooming and of enfeebling summer heat. Old skimpy faces of downtrodden gloomy facades are deeply sunk in breathless peace and in forgetfulness and torpor. Stern harsh oblivion and wilting, not having time for self-postponing, are vastly occupying being with catchy nets of greedy slush, which by ensemble of strange reasons has look of something highly friendly and inly merciful and kind. Few steps, and bonds of meek demanded house – worn, gray and frighteningly native – till most unstoppable of squeals. The owner, what is certain luck, is by odd randomness of causes already earlily awoken and rid of any urgent deals.
"And I was going to start sobbing and even had assured zeal to drug myself in equal voids of your inviting lonely flat. And you've arrived to me yourself. What a nice happening – pure present. Let's go – to table and to chair. To talks and questions. And to food." - Stepan Valeryevich, whose pale and pensive lifeless look at once has instantly got vivid, has given hand and let friend in.
"Well, due to being here together, it's not a sin to fall in thoughts – of fate and days and of life's laws. If to delve deeper in existence, it's not too difficult to see, that each of facts has certain source – each fact, each reason and intention. All gets beginning for some purpose, for next endowing of some role, not by omission or mistake, but as result of some straight will. The only secret - of whose one..."
"This is exuberantly true. Whole being's history in practice is just not more than one long game. One strange and meaningless performance, which is prescribed from start till end. Prescribed in each detail and action. From smallest drops on someone's clothes till hugest tragedies of nations. World's pier is rid of any trifles. All deeds get constantly controlled. And even tiniest of matters sometimes have scariest of fruits. Do not forget, that each strong fire, as rule, is project of weak match. And not to fix your course of living, not to disturb its further twists. This is sad givenness of days - fate's flesh is obstinate and stiff. And not so easy it's to curb it – at least, for term of single minute. No one of commanders of ships can turn in commander of water. You cannot argue with this truth, it's too much powerful, too firm. But still keep hoping and step forward. And not without space for faith. Sometimes old nails are also able to get acquainted with new hats. For weaklings hardships serve as burden, for brave and dashing – as springboard..."
"All things depend on share's going and on imputedness of path. If it's inglorious and aimless, then any tryings and efforts will be frustratingly in vain and rid of prudence, weight or value. Worn broken planes, as you are guessing, don't have good parachutes on board. Faint empty sound, what is changeless, is not a source of echo's strength."
"And again so much hellishly fair. Closed circle never has self end. The shortest way to big mistake is an attempt to fix some small one. But being lost and cracked inside is by itself a sort of torment. If you've got faded with soul's essence, then all next chapters of life's voyage will last in darkness and distress. Hope's absence always ends with murk. While healthy bushes are afraid to meet with drought, dried shrunken one - to meet with water."
"Hope's fruits are close to wasteland's harvest. It's life – imaginary dishes, as rule, are free from real crumbs. And even outward perfection is not a source of inner grace. The more attractive is performance, the higher sorrows fill its twists. And the more beautiful and rich is surrounding gloss of the scenery, the higher is the sorrow of the plays. But state of weakness and upsetness indeed is path, which leads to hell. Sometimes a lot depends on mood. The ones of us have lack of air, the other ones – of need to breathe..."
"This also has to hide some reason. The more chaotic is mind's work, the greater harmony shows madness. Each start depends on single finish. There is no grief in chill of spring, if further autumn will be fruitful. Each current spark is source of fire, each current fire – fruit of spark. But, what's most painful and most sad - not each life's lock implies key's presence. True state of happiness is absent – only parts, small and meaningless pieces. No one can have both beads and thread. Days' course is frighteningly aimless, distorted, stupid, sick and wrong. It has one tireless despair, one endless nets of grief or guilt. One trees don't have enough of water, the other ones - of soil's depth, ones else – of eaters of their fruits. And not so easy to prevent it. But still stay strong and keep zeal's flame. If life perceives you as a garbage, perceive the last one as a toy..."
At this, both speakers have turned silent and firmly fallen into thoughts and then, few empty phrases later, got unemotionally parted – till new dispassionate of talkings in one of two of seventh homes.

II
Day is weak. Wind's sound – tedious and far. Dim pale landscape is wholly lifeless, full of tart haziness and frail. Among of cloudy roofs' vastness, are meekly creeping washy fogs. At blurred edge of nude horizon – tight mix of grayness, gloom and rain. Inside of soul – deep static anguish.
Stepan Kirillovich, dissolved in space of room, is humbly looking through of window at bad weather and melts in dreariness and thoughts. On smooth and shiny table's surface is shyly hiding tiny flesh of coy and modest pallid latter. From distant passionless Marina, who is still writting once a year. Text's length again is not too lavish – without any of details and with cold strictness in reporting. The lady lives with plots of present and has no need to delve in past and to leaf memories and stories of nimbly ended times of youth and of unneeded hero's person, who into currentness' conditions is as indifferent as dust. All other facts were simply absent.
Stepan has read text's lines again and sighed with tremor into breathing: "Most sad, that I don't even know – where is she living and with whom... How to guess – maybe, even alone. After all, she still writes, sends these mails. It warms my soul and feeds with hope. And if to stay as frank as physically given, I'm madly pleased and greatly glad – to have this precious sacred ticket in most unthinkable of dreams. My ways to happiness are morbid. It's not a thing you'll ever manage to make explained to someone else. What to conclude – I can't even explain it to self. But with full sharpness understanding whole depth of bitterness of choice, I still continue to persist – to wait, to faith and to keep patience. For me such strange anticipation is sweetest form of inner bliss."
At this frustrated wistful moment, frowned lifeless hero has got suddenly distracted and payed offhanded fleeting glance at indistinguishable square of modest painting on room's wall: "Oh, yes, the very lump of luck. Not for my fate its light, I'm guessing."
Here it's noteworthy to explain, that onto abstract ashen canvas was set of oddly shapeless figures and numb indistinct river's features in bleak and faint background's depths with shy small sign of lamp in corner. As picture's author, local postman Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, was assuring – it's not a joke, it's lamp of luck. It lights and people feel joy's presence – the very ones, who live in need - of care, happiness and passion. Some passer-by will buy my picture, will bring it home and see this lamp. And he himself will light with blooming, will start to hope and to believe. In love, in unity, in better. The very painter, by the way, was stably lonely and unneeded, as well as both of our Stepans, to whom his person was delivering short letters from distant alien Marinas, who were unreachable as stars. At sluggish morning of today, Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, just only having made step in for to bring envelop with bliss, has promptly started to apologize and redden, that he has come without pictures, end even heartfully invited for tea evening and gladly gifted cup of plums. Stepan, of course, most vastly nodding, in highest hurry has begun to look for something, what had nice role of worthy trifle, which could be gifted in response, but, having found only nothing, was humbly forced to hand one honest pile of firmest promises to feed friend into tavern – till hardest gluttony and death.
And here, examining the picture and reproducing this short talk, Stepan Kirillovich has fallen in coy smile and said with sadness into voice: "What an incredibly fine person – always calm and polite, full of soul. But also lonely, broken, lost. He also faith and try to struggle – to fight with pain and to move up. Just right as me – in all of moments. But time from time you want to fade, to close your eyes and disappear – as most unneeded part of world..."
The hero has dejectedly stretched out and delved in waiting for rain's end.

III
In hugs of pale and grayish fogs, among of cloudy worn quarters, was meekly trudging faceless figure with tired look and sluggish gait. In role of figure was without any doubts Stepan Valeryevich, who now has gone out - for idle walk without aim. In cracked and breathless bleeding soul is tartly huddling stern oppression. In thoughts - destructive ruthless pain.
"Rich day - no happiness, no weather. No single drop of good or new. Two days ago I've once again received fresh letter. And all two days I bath in gloom and in incessant rampant sadness. Once again no of facts or of feelings, no slightest promises, no charms. One static vacuum and coldness – same stiff indifference and frost. For her it's fun and entertainment – odd trifling game for laugh and smirks. And I indeed believe and hope, build dreams and die from separation. And she gets happier and sweeter, keeps inner blossoming, tastes joys, reaps splendid harvests of achievements and shares tons and tons of plenties of rich on ampliness life's feast. But maybe even after years she still recalls me time from time, not cutting out these strange bonds and leaving chance on unpredictable returning at one of future better days – in role of miracle and treasure and with the only of intentions - to stay till ending of fate's term. But this is fantasy, delusion, sick empty rave, torn off from art of coming true. What to expect from given void, from nets of bitterness and grief and from eternal prospects' absence. It's strange – to hope or to await. But I still try. Of course, in vain, I with whole fullness understand it, albeit sometimes deny mind's voice and let myself to keep faint faith and then return in being sober, admit reality's decaying and once again get inly lost."
The hero has dispiritedly sighed and trudged with apathy away – in slush, mist's vagueness and dusk.

IV
And again peaceful talkative bonds – of two Stepanovs, engaged in abyss of discussion in friendly midst of current night.
"Still what a swamp is being's abyss – vile mix of ugliness and flaws. Of dirt, disorder and deception. Sick filthy fuss and wrecking pain. But even this mad nasty horror must have some variant of meaning, some sort of common global aim, implied directly by fate's flesh and implemented in its essence." - Stepan Kirillovich has yawned and feebly lowered his eyes.
"Such thoughts are pestilently barren. It's madly pointless and strange to judge of scale of vase's beauty by scale of splinters' lack of grace. This world is crippled and distorted. And even if it had to have some sort of meaning – at start of earliest of times, today such one, believe, just absents – as object, totally inept for to exist. To live with hope at here is illness. Each better chance is just a myth. It's greatly odd to buy new oars, when you've already sold your boat. It's truly stupid to refuse from fire stopper, when you've agreed on matches box. If you've accepted rules of playing, you are already almost lost. There are no tools, no proper vectors. There is a way to disappear, to fall for not to rise again. If you don't cope to be an eater, you'll be most likely used as food. You can't survive, can't get escaped, can't fix all gaps and holes of share. No slightest matter how much risky you behave, or how much trustful you to route, one small mistake – and you're numb corpse, with all of previous achievements and all of formerly reached heights. If you've been made in prudent manner, it doesn't mean, that you are similarly able to be repaired with no flaws. This is main soil for oppression – for fears, tears and regrets. If you proceed to fight with errors, at first - do not defeat yourself."
"Life's path is close to labyrinth or thickets – if you have stayed there for too long, it doesn’t matter anymore – from which of points have you started, you anyway will never manage to get out. This is the dreariest of truths. With older years, we don't sob at small defeats, but also don't exalt with big of winnings. All heights are temporary, fleeting – till new of troubles and of pains. And you can't guess – which thing will kill you, which step will hurt you and destroy. If you are rushing from huge stone, you rather easily can slip on tiny fluff. There is no logic in believings, in faith in properness or luck. With lousy music and worn shoes, do not await for perfect dances."
"This is unboundedly true. But real senses hide much deeper. And it's much worse, much more wrong. If you is rid of wound's maker, you'll hardly cope to find it's healer. We all are having two of options: you either try to give refusal to your headsman, or get accustomed to refuse from having head. What's more, both choices can't be helpful. The breed of losers get offended by the rules, the breed of winners – by game's prizes. Life's days are made of constant risk. The more fragile is cutting tool, the more resistant is blank's body. This world is morbid, broken, vain. You can't submit it or make tamed. If you suspect, that fishing rod has stopped right working, at first check out workability of sea. And, even knowing laws of fate, you'll never guess of its next turnings. All is too difficult, too dark. Both drops and waves sometimes are equal. This world is rid of small of games, which can't provide you with huge losses."
"If you'll renew your set of wounds, your salt can also get much younger. This is main principle of time. But it's too sad just to give up - without proper scale of struggle. It's vain to hope, but what to do. Soul's flames are hungry for fresh fuels. If you have finished to await for gingerbread, please, don't begin to pray for whip..."
And once again few sluggish sighs and back in endlessness of silence.

V
In empty colorless apartment, among of oldness and thick books, was coyly sitting pensive postman - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov. The hero was enveiled in pain and boredom and drowned in hopelessness and thoughts. He was submerging into memories of past and feeding nature with despair. For whole life's term he was unfixably alone, detached from any forms of bonds and any cases of relations, not knowing tempting thrill of dates and languid trembling of first kisses. His only episode of love was implemented into clumsy strange occasion, which was experienced age of being 12, when poor fellow, shyly standing into queue in local circus, has payed attention to unknown girl with flag. He had desire to call out, but due to frightfulness and fear, has kept full silence and ignored, for long examining with glance her unattainable blessed features and after endlessly regretting – for whole rest life till current day.
So here and now, once again recalling past, Boris Andreevich has fallen into sorrow and, sadly sighing, with unbearable annoyance made long and tearfully thin yawn: "Again alone, again with nothing – right as in past, right as before."
The hero has thrown walk from wall to wall and, having sat inside armchair, dissolved in hopelessness of thoughts: "What a life, what a merciless share – one endless emptiness and pain. No dreams, no happiness, no passion. No even will to change such state. Why I have failed with tries to dare, why haven't grabbed her and preserve. I had nice chance, nice opportunity of rescue. The one, which can be not repeated for whole remaining length of life. And here one vacuum and vainness. Stern stopless tears and regrets. With hurting constancy of void and heaps of broken expectations, harsh gnawing anguish and despair and with desire to get dead. I am already kind of corpse – completely faded, lost and aimless, as wilted flower in ill hands. What can I have except of silent decomposing – as bored uranium in mines or as rejected wrong idea."
Boris Arsenievich has will-lessly got up and, having thrown his coat on, gone into emptiness of street – to walk and bath in waves of pain.

VI
In bleak and tightly cramped hall is swarming usual restless crowd. Main sewing studio is always rich on guests. This day, the same as tons of others, of course, not turning in exception, has brought fresh motleyness of comers, with zeal and flurry amply flooded whole inner space of foyer's room, where slightly deeper in small chamber, among of bulky piles of silk, few huge machines and stitching tools, was meekly huddling timid figure - Stepan Kirillovich, creator - expert in sewing and in fabrics. By sides habitual work's fuss: swift flocks of hastening colleagues and tons of duties, needs and tasks. Each one is stuck in utter hurry – damned orders' volume has already calmly beaten all of expected frames of norms.
"Let’s decide, what to do – how to be: they ask for dress – made of best velvet, done in sky's color, with two long bows on place of back and with some catchy polka dots along neckline and on sleeves' surface, ask for cute skirt from scarlet chintz, for shameful ribbon for night stockings, for hat of cotton and guipure, for linen pants and for brisk fashionable scarf in pink and lemon. It’s certain nonsense to fulfill - all of this crazy mindless wishes!" - has cried returned from breed of buyers Yegor Andreich Chistomoev, low puffy manager of sales.
"It’s not first time, such hell is known." - has sighed the hero in weak tone and pulled thick stack of fresh bright fabrics.
"I've almost died! It's true nightmare. Whole bunch of orders in one time."
"Again not new and not surprising. Lay orders' list and seek for next."
This has brought temporary peace. But soon the last one was disturbed – has rushed deliverer of tissues Khvostoklyuev, who has begun to blame plant's work: "No proper linen, no beads, no metal rivets. I feel someday I'll kill them all."
"Do not waste time, fulfill it now." - Stepan has sighed and slowly stretched: "It's my own problem – how to cope, both with this lack and with your howls."
And once again blessed relaxation - shy playful rustle of fresh fabrics, calm sleepy sound of swift needle and fairy whisper of threads' rolls. Serene and sacredly saint process - with secret miracle of labor, most amply full of purest art and of bewitching hidden beauty. If you will heed it – you'll discover certain treasure. Enchanting, charming, frank and true. But world is ugly, dumb and empty. It doesn't cherish such allurement. It's made for idiots, for dirt.
Meanwhile it's lunch. And then young evening.
"I'm dried and tired as squeezed fish. I'll go to tavern to hook whores. Are you with me? Or in flat's walls?" - has asked with sneering Khvostoklyuev, with slightness hitting shoulder's hump.
"In walls..." - has said Stepan without strength and started packing of belongings.
"You are weird. Maybe sick. Don't get vexed." - Yegor Andreevich has smirked.
"The day has passed. The life still not." - Stepan Kirillovich has sluggishly got dressed, closed lock and limply moved away.

VII
Among of narrowness of walls of small and crowded apartment, spends time tight company of three - Stepan Kirillovich in chair, Stepan Valeryevich at window, Boris Arsenyevich at door. All keep meek torpid conversation and drink dark liquid of strong tea.
"It’s real luck to be together – inside of hospitable place and with excess of food for talks." - Boris Arsenyevich has yawned and with coy mercifulness smiled: "I guess, we'll sit till rays of morning."
"No frailest doubts, you are fair." - Stepan Valeryevich has made long blissful sip.
"Well, great and splendid, let's begin." - Stepan Kirillovich has nodded, proclaiming start of dialogue's depths.
"How did this world cope to enslave us, to catch in nets of fuss and trifles and to transform in will-less pawns. And even being built of horror, of dirt, despair, pain and lie, it still has managed to submit and to attach to frames of living." - Boris Arsenievich has frozen and put his gaze in window's gap.
"At here exactly we are guilty ourselves, what's incorrigible and timeless. The more intensive is whip's hitting, the more assured are beliefs in immense tastefulness and sweetness of all forthcoming gingerbreads. For us it's better to get choked on spoon of honey than to get sated with tar's keg. But this is frighteningly rare – left for one fairy tales and dreams, when you don't suffer, don't regret, don't get deceived and don't pour tears. Long stable harmony of share is as unreachable as moon. What's more, strong dish, as practice proofs, is always rid of weak of poisons. We are accustomed to imprudence, to having hopes and drawing plans. The very presence cup's splinters gives instant birth to hottest faith in obligatory existence of breed of healthy pristine cups – without scratchings, cracks or holes. But such a state is just a fiction, you can't attain it, build or meet. True life is horror and nightmare, mad hellish risk and constant pain. If you keep friendship with a fire, be each of seconds fully ready to start soon friendship with an ash. You can't avoid this sad truth. Can't fix distorted being's essence, can't part with laws of given life or lessen volume of its victims. It's deadly stupid to believe, that one, who did not see the shooter, will cope to see his let up bullet and to get saved from loss of head."
"Such things require mental sharpness, deep static sternness of mind's work. Afraid of rain needs in umbrella, afraid of fate needs in brain's force."
"In current time mind's help is useless. Each one awoken with his head prefers to fall in fervent dreaming of prompt perennial returning in past forgetfulness and sleep. Long being mindful is disease. Each truly tasteless gingerbread is greatly terribler and worse than any possible of whips. And breed of trifles is just fatal, caustic, damaging and harsh. It plunge in nothingness, in void, in storm of hollowness and fuss. Wrong lessons rarely get canceled. But way of thinking still can matter. While stupid poisoner arranges lack of poison, smart one arranges lack of food. In terms of pain, it looks as answer. Results depend on way of views. While ones request for list of prizes, the other ones, not losing ardor, stay glad with single fact of rules."
"I want to talk about people. Want to dissect their filthy breed."
"They are worst thinkable of shits. Vile, empty, rotten, rude and vain. Disgusting, morbid, crooked and ugly. Such ones aren't able to get changed - as food's diversity in hunger. They never stop to fix their previous mistakes, as well as never practice pauses in daily making of new ones – most firmly limping with left foot, they praise as possible the right one, and when it also starts to limp, they most sincerely get puzzled and fall in eminent surprise. And, even after tasting slops, they wait for aftertaste's grace. Keep most long distance with society, at first with idiots and fools. Their stubborn faith in incomparably strong power and flawless swiftness of own mind was always totally unable to give some notable protection from devastating painful fruits of most explicit last one's absence. Each single human here is wrong, unfair, violent and filthy. No slightest matter how you trust to someone bottomlessly native, to someone honest, close and pure – one day he'll suddenly get turned in nasty wastage, who'll with cold easiness betray all former bonds of seeming friendship. And even loving shooter's person, please, try to hide from bullets' flight. If someone's palm suggests you roses, at first remember with full tension – was not it handing you a bayonet before. What else to add of people's essence... They've coped to tame all sorts of beasts – dogs, cats, ducks, chickens, huge graceful ostriches and clumsy lazy rhinos, all ones, except of damned each other. They have remained freaked and barbaric, stuffed with sins, dirtiness and shit. And what's most sick, the more of people are together, the more pernicious they are. Big joint crowd is much scarier than poison. One isolated single human and society are like a snowflake and snow – so madly beautiful, unique and gorgeous form of lonely snowflake, in combination with the others transforms in bunch of messy mash – dull, faceless, primitive and aimless, rid of obtaining with past greatness and not inviting in delight. In case with person - all the same: full of exclusive features human, just having barely got fallen in society, get promptly turned in empty shadow – extinguished, faded, lost and gray, with price of tiniest of pennies. Each one of small and modest pairs of worn gears hides into hundreds times much more of selfless usefulness and prudence, than whole humanity of Earth. And what's of bonds, of mutuality and feelings - this is main source of hugest tragedies and griefs. Today each search of future partner is most assuredly reduced to ill inglorious attempts to change old sleeplessness on plots of new nightmare and to leave puddle of sad truth by soonest delving into sea of sweety lyings."
"I most decisively agree. Till loud squeals and boiling tears. And most especially with essence of last thought - of reciprocity of souls. Today each weak and vague promise of some fidelity or love is by itself already almost certain sign of its undoubted full absence..."
At this has placed long dreary pause, which, after few of wrecking minutes, was once again exchanged on speech, which, after several of phrases, was slowly changed on numb tea drinking, which soon was also changed - again on pause.

VIII
In midst of lonely sleepy street was humbly crawling idle figure - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who, with no purpose, aim or need, has left frail boredom of home's walls and gone to look at life and people of local latitudes of lands. By sides – excessiveness of void, deep tart oblivion and fog. Dense coldish air is immovable and frail. Faint bleak environment is breathless. Dim views are blurred, gray and pale. From all available of states – one deadly barren hopeless peace - no fuss, no noises and no meetings.
"Again day's length, again street voyage... Again with apathy and vainness and with no flame or inner zeal. Nothing new, nothing fresh, nothing hopeful. No sweet acquaintances, no ardor, no fervid bloom of hungry hearts. No tempting chances on next unity and passion. No shameful promises of heat. One sullen rottening and wilting. No vacant souls, no waiting bonds. One endless uselessness and feebling, decaying, sufferings and gloom. No joys, no pleasures, no salvation. No greedy keenness, no concern. But I'm still seeking, still believing, not understanding even why..."
The hero has revived gait's pace with quickness and, nimbly melting into distance, stepped up in liquid mass of haze, which was encircling white horizon in washy thickets of mist's veil.

IX
On old toy factory - brave hurry of swiftly widening workday - sharp noisy voices and enstrengthening tight rustling. Each one is clamoring and swirling, maintaining hastening and fuss and keeping rambling and disorder. At sort of distance from main rampage, in unremarkable shy nook in farest end of common hall – Stepan Valeryevich, toys' stuffer and also master of creation of ears, eyes, claws' peaks and paws. The hero is predictably cold-blooded and irreversibly detached - from any variants of worries and from surrounding perplexion, caused by appalling incompleteness of always troublesome month plan.
"Horns! Who is maker of the horns?!" - has harshly shouted Oleg Evgenievich Bezvkusin, engaged in panic estimator, inflamed and furiously nervous, as agonizing scalded beast.
"So many times I am repeating - horns, hooves and tails, it's not my job. I'm doing stuffing, eyes, paws and ears with claws' peaks. I'm not involved in making horns."
"Oh, grief of griefs and curse of curses. I still persist, response for horns - at least one single working person!"
"Same thing as hundreds times before. What an unfixable disaster!" - Stepan Valeryevich has sighed and, slowly coming back in comfort, delved into thoughtfulness and peace, but once again was sharply hailed, right after couple of short minutes.
"Tails!!! What's of devilish damned tails?!"
"Of tails of devils?"
"No, of foxes."
"I'm not the one, who works with tails."
And once again meek silent calmness – till new of questions and new peace. Soon one of workers has brought several of squirrels - of course, for sake of further stuffing and for implanting eyes and claws. Skilled hand has fallen into labor, work's storm has sternly rushed ahead. So, after few of rightful hours, completely tired from stiff pose and from exhaustingness of work, without pauses having stuffed both decent dozen of small squirrels, two heavy deers and one hedgehog, enfeebled hero has arranged term of distraction and taken route for rest and lunch.
In midst of hall of small canteen, among of sleepiness and tables - few flocks of gray and boring crowd. In corner - hole of distribution, in other – tap for washing mugs. Food is plane and persistently tasteless. But people like and even praise. So having squeezen through of shoulders and taken little coldish scoop of some unsafe and nasty slurry, coy languid fellow, having plunged self into loafing, has sat at edge of middle row and started frail and sluggish sipping. One minute later, have arrived two grumpy women and firmly landed on next row, with zeal preparing to unfold large conversation.
"I'll tell you greatest of affairs." - has opened dialogue one of them.
"Pie! Take a pie and eat! I have been dragging it from other part of city." - has interrupted speech the other.
"I take it, take. Becalm and listen – I will describe you my past day: I have been treating my heart's nature – from irritating foolish husband, annoying, pestering and dull, so much, that time from time I want to puke. So, being questionlessly smart, I've grabbed myself and taken voyage to next house – to my friend Mishka Kuzmichev, who is storekeeper in bathhouse. So we have drunk huge jug of wine and delved in abyss of excitement - like hungry mouse in cheese pile. We've almost broken oak bed – such pace of fury was performed. My hips were chained by waves of languor, and butt was ready to explode. We've stopped already into morning. So I, by will of some damned reasons, have caught some sort of mind's eclipse and organized him heavy quarrel – have thrown floor lamp and smashed few windows and then quite naked rushed away. And what you think - as soon as I have left his house, I've met my former classmate Peter, who had been chasing me since youth. I've gone to him and, as you guess, he was perceiving me as queen - has polished all my shameful places with his submissive sloppy tongue – as mix of dog and morbid whore. When I have left him, I was laughing for an hour. And then, of course, I have returned again to husband. This moron bought me bunch of roses, and with great tremor veiled in pleadings to stay home. Such fun is certainly unique. I'm so much happy – as blessed angel. Remember – craziness is gift!"
"What a damned hellishness and horror. I feel, I no longer want to eat." - has sighed shocked terrified Stepan and, having abruptly gone out, with disappointment trudged back – to ears, eyes, claws' peaks and paws and to vain searchings of tails' makers.

X
And again lonely room and pale shadows. Faint lamp and heavy oldish chair. Stepan Kirillovich reads letter - one other year is behind.
"By strange and rid of purpose habit, I send you regular brief sheet with fleeting summary of me. Again without of details and with no drop of loving rubbish. I, as before, am wholly fine and even excellent in moments. No griefs, no hardships, no regrets. I'm glad and lucky, hope – you too. At this enough of aimless writings, time to say bye and to let envelope in trip."
"As always nothing great or new. No warmth, no unity, no care. No keen permissions, no sweet hints. One inconsolably stiff coldness and steel indifference's nets, which hurt, frustrate, annoy and wreck. And once again long painful waiting, time to reap sorrows and regrets and to bath soul in gloom and torments. For whole next endlessly long year I'm left to spend my daily being in same past hopelessness and fog. I guess, my share is just broken, torn off from usefulness or luck and rid of any distinct prospects. Not to get out of fate's shackles, not to escape its worst of twists. Just to admit all given burdens and to get finally destroyed. But maybe once we still will manage to couple hearts and lines of lifes and to forget of separation. At least at one of last of days. But it's just aimlessness of dreams. Whole my vain century I hold them. Whole hazed resultless earthly term. What for – who'll ever give an answer... Who'll ever cope to heal my griefs... Till end of route I'm pawn and slave. Till grave I'm prisoner of void. It's close to horror, to true curse." - has sighed with helplessness the hero and, sadly plunging in thoughts' abyss, put gaze in depths of window's blur.

XI
Among of walls and joyless vacuum of room, were calmly sitting two engaged in thinking figures - Stepan Valeryevich in abyss of armchair, Stepan Kirillovich at door. "What kind of people do we live with – one total idiots and fools, both in decisions, views and talks, in all, what demonstrates mind's essence."
"It's part of time, of main world's basics. Days' truth is always sick and wrong, disgusting, valueless and ugly. And even proper of ideas can get maintained by fullest nits. There are no smart and weighty words, which will escape cheap stupid mouths. You're either broken or distorted. Ones wait for saving of oneselves, ones – for destruction of the others. Being bad, don't forget to seem good, and being good, do not forget not to agree on learning badness. In current madness it's too actual, too fair. Is greatly silly and imprudent to overestimate strong qualities of self, the only sillier and vainer – to underestimate weak qualities of others. Not to untie it, not to cut. And search of causes is just doomed – each canvas starts to blame paint's oil, paint's oil starts to blame hand's skill, shoe's sole sees guiltiness in road, last one – in legs and pace of gait. And the more mindless are conditions, the more we help them to remain - with passion clinging for rave's soil and getting abysmally pleased from being rid of need in brain. It's not an error or a negative exception, but just a simple sort of habit, which forms most frequent of traditions and shows most popular approach – to cherish wrongness, flaws and filth. And what hides highest scale of pain – each short indifference to plate gets indeclinably combined with longest care of its splinters. This is too steady, too unbeatable and true. It's greatly fine to meet with presence of right people, but deadly sad to live in world, where right humanity is absent. But even seeing world's decaying, still don't give up and keep persistence, be firm and obstinately restless and do not shy to share risks. For to preserve access to road sometimes we have to part with horse. And even if you've calmly managed to get escaped from hummer's fall, do not forget of equal need to hide yourself from fall of anvil."
"This is too tragical, to bitter. Like worst of possible nightmares, by will of horrible mistake, transformed in givenness of time. Not to survive here, I am guessing, not to get out from pain's nets."
"But do we need in some salvation? What does it carry and impute – except of sorrow, dirt and falsehood. Does life bring logic, hope or joy? Sometimes you're writing and your inks are getting ended right with phrases. Some lifes have look of something short, of something cutted just at middle. Each one pours tears and regrets, that person's way, fresh, young and strong, was closed and rid of any future. But had it chances on this future – on its smooth properness and grace. Frank answer cripples and destroys, oppresses, hurts and turns in dust. If you will delve in real essence of fate's plays, you will surprisingly find out, that you're most heavily determined not by amount of experienced and tasted, but by amount of avoided and escaped. Most glad and happy here are ones who've got less scope of filth and horrors. We live in fear, in disgust, in mix of ugliness and sickness, in grayness, aimlessness and gloom, where all of ways provide exclusively with void, with disappointment and grief."
At this both talkers have gone silent and plunged in hopelessness and thoughts, with limpness stucking in despair and putting souls in depths of bitterness and longing, frustration, helplessness and murk.

XII
Among of empty lifeless vastness, oppressed and somberly forlorn, was humbly wandering through fog lonely doleful ownerless figure – Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who was observing drowsy quarters, enshrouding every last soul's corner in sticky apathy and gloom.
"Again just vacuum and me, just one pain's endlessness and sorrows – caustic, merciless and stern, assertive, hurting and incessant. I have no happiness, no hope. No smallest joy or cause for gladness. Just constant aimlessness and fading – undying, wrecking, harsh and stiff. From youngest years and till now I live in tears and regrets. What a path, what a role, what a lot. No of love, no of warmth, no of care. One dreary permanence of vainness, dense static loneliness and fog. But, what's most tragic and upsetting – at least at once I had true chance: that precious time in queue at circus... If I had coped some way to dare, to call her out and to risk to fall in abyss of acquaintance, we perhaps could remain together right till this point of life's length. In fullness, unity and pleasures and into sacredness of bliss, with outlandishly rich deepness, fulfilled in holy priceless bonds of inner harmony and blooming, which each of seconds of fate's term without pauses and enfeebling capture with bottomless delight all sides and limits of both natures - all thoughts, all feelings, all desires and all most piquant body's nooks, replacing heart in lands of heaven, where it will always stay unbreakably preserved from separation, pain and sadness, not knowing any other states, except of mutual devotion and stealing breath excitement's storm. But life has sorely refused from such of prospects and taken pitiful decision not to blossom and to prefer another course – with nets of emptiness, despair and forlornness and with incessant bitter burden of being needless, cracked and lost. And only me myself is guilty – my lack of courage and of will. And my passivity and weakness – eternal cargo, pest and curse." - the hero has dispiritedly sighed and, smoothly melting into distance, trudged up in lonely blurred thickets of hazy featureless landscape.

XIII
In midst of sorrowful sky's abyss, among of sluggishness of clouds, were meekly fading faceless heights, most tightly full of grayish fog and sticky dreariness and faintness. Cold lifeless latitudes were keeping devastation. Week and exhausted humid wind, serene, pacific and forgetful, was vainly passing back and forth above of outskirts' expanses, forsaken, deserted and naked and chained with bitterness and dusk. Submerged in steadiness and chill sharp and caustic air's masses were feebly getting inly flooded with abrupt prickliness and frost. With passion biting lines of lands, was slowly creeping growing sadness. Along of dismal faceless quarters, was shyly dragging through of mist perplexed and wistful timid figure, Stepan Kirillovich's, of course.
"Again I'm straying with no purpose and getting inwardly destroyed. Again am sipping tart despair and bathing soul in mourning's depths, which are more fatal and erosive, than all most dangerous of acids and all most sorrowful of griefs. But what else to extract from days' void – except of bitterness and pain. Life keeps past rushing and enlarging and sows complexity and tricks, world grows and boils, time flies forward. And my lost share stays identically broken, forlorn, futile and devastated and plunged in hopelessness and gloom. In nets of fading and frustration and into mash of barren dreams. Without progress, hope and chances on any changes or updates. I have one vagueness, one waiting – oppressive, tiresome and long. With tragic absence of salvation and with stern constancy of pain. No frailest joys, no shortest meetings. No drop of meaning, weight or grace. Just one numb perishing and fainting, one hidden dying – way to grave. To bonds of nothingness and void – the same as currently I have, what is especially ironic."
The hero has vexatedly clenched fingers, which have already agonizingly proceeded to achy covering with hoar, and, feebly yawning, turned around and sent legs' pair back to home.

XIV
Inside toys' factory – day's rampage: noise, swarming, hastening and fuss. Stepan Valerievich, involved in witchery of stuffing, is calmly sitting in work nook – with bonds of loneliness and thinking and with plump squirrel into hands, without vividness or zeal and with no interest to living. Time's pace is also frail and flaccid, mood's style - downtrodden and upset, drowned into boredom and prostration and rid of activeness and flame. No slightest cause for inspiration, no weakest reason for concern.
Soon, not permitting to proceed to long and lingering awaiting, has most predictably arisen engaged in fervency Bezvkusin, who once again has caught necessity in tails and deadly fallen into search of guilty person.
"Damned you!" - has looked he at the hero, and then, with instance having suddenly becalmed, switched off intensiveness of tone: "And you, as I perplexingly remember, is not the one, who works with tails..."
"You are right, not my job."
Bemused employer has vexatedly got silent and started staring with both eyes in angry seeking for responsible for tails, but, once again not having found any guilter, without passion gone away.
"I guess, quite soon he will return. And even bet on breed of horns." - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and plunged in peacefulness of work, where he has lost few pensive hours, and then, replacing back to rest, delved into thoughtfulness and sadness: "Eh, life – futility and vainness. Mix of despondency and pain. Of fading, sufferings and losses. Of waitings, tryings and regrets. Not to reject it, not to pause. Each path is doomed, each chance is false. All roles are equally predicted, prescribed from starting and till death. All fates are pitiful and useless. All days are barren, worn and gray, soaked with decay and imperfection. And to survive here is worst grief, which brings one troubles and omissions and rids of last remained of joys."
The hero has dispiritedly sighed: "Where is damned simpleton Bezvkusin... With him it really was brighter – with his hysterical attempts to find and nullify tails' makers. Without him indeed too sad..."
And once again work day is over. Without happenings and trace. Stepan Valeryevich has sluggishly got up, put on his jacket and unhurriedly directed to wait for coming of last tram.
At stop hard loneliness - no faces, no jams, no sounds, no fuss. In tram unbearably tight crowd. At misted window sits pale youth, with timid eyes and sunken cheeks. On narrow distance from his person – full of impudence flashy girl, with shaggy fashionable hair, in brisk short skirt and with silk lace. Both characters, of course, are not acquainted and rid of any sorts of link, remote and mentally distracted and wholly busy just with self, but at some sudden awkward point, enfrenzied lady, having falling in harsh anger, has taken bashful guy by scarf and firmly slapped him into face: "Where are you staring, nasty pig? Am I a worker of pole dances?! Or life-size puppet? Or showcase? You, ugly scum, where are you shoving your sick eyes? Roll out, deviant dull moron. Don't feed your demons with excitement of my flesh."
Shocked poor fellow has proceeded to coy mumbling, to explanations and excuses, but slapping act was pretty instantly repeated, and at next station youth was ruthlessly kicked out in opened abyss of door's gap to common loud laugh of crowd.
"What an unthinkable nightmare!" - Stepan Valeryevich has fallen into stupor and, turning out, closed his eyes: "Here, all of doings are forbidden. You cannot look, can't think, can't dream. Can't even sit and stay unharmed. World's pier has turned in feast of madness. In nest of hellishness and filth. Such life is crippled and distorted. It's not for blooming, not for grace."
The hero has immovably got frozen and lost in listening to wheels and into waiting for his stop, for to accomplish row of steps and to dissolve inside walls' abyss, which till upcoming of next morning will gift salvatory protection from ruinating horrors' storm.

XV
In empty colorless hallway, in midst of modesty and fading, were humbly standing two coy figures - Stepan Kirillovich in mantle, Boris Arsenyevich in coat. The cause of meeting - tiny envelope with lines from far unreachable Marina.
"Well, I've delivered, receive. Your fervid squall of passions' storm and your main jewel, prize and trophy. I am most boundlessly glad to see your happiness and bliss." - with indecisive liquid smiling and timid trembling into voice, has shyly handed thin gray package forgetful fatigued Boris and then insipidly continued: "You are so lucky - letters, care. I even fall sometimes in envy, not in too furious, but still."
"Some people think, that I am lucky. What an insulting crippling joke." - has promptly thought drained letter's getter and then with flaccid languor yawned: "Believe, you'll also find your goddess, who, I am rid of any doubts, will make you equally obsessed, exalted, happy and excited."
At this, they've briefly shaken hands and, after little silent pause, told standard mutual goodbyes and unemotionally parted. Stepan has taken text of message and, with intensive flamy trembling, begun to read small modest letters of inconsolably short lines, submerging brokenness of heart in greedy heat of expectation, which due to triflingness of size of inessential cold writing has coped to last for less than minute and turned in anguish and distress.
"And someones even fall in envy, perceiving pitiful cursed row of my pains, torments and vexations as something happy and attractive and truly able to cause joy. Can I indeed be named successful, be named demanded, close and glad. It's quite amazing, quite confusing. But into practice too much sad – to wait, to hope and to stay needless and rejected. It's too much fruitless to believe, to burn in fire of devotion and to remain away of love. With breathless ashes of desires and with harsh abyss of regrets. With constant bitterness and tears and with excessive blooming pain. What for to try and to move forward, if all will perish, fade and pass. Without trace from past beginnings and with one nothingness ahead. I'm slave of dreams, of vain illusions, slave of pure void, of full fog. And not to fix it, not to break. Life is too obstinate, to mighty. It's always bigger, always stronger. And not to stop it, not to tame."
The hero has pacifically sighed, looked meekly out of the window and, having frozen for a moment, begun to read text's length again - for to dilute one pain with other and to remain in its dead bonds for dreary term of whole next year – without outlets and pauses and with no single spot for hope.

XVI
In midst of doleful ensemble of veiled in morning lonely room has got awoken in bed's voids Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who was wholeheartedly involving own lost nature in most destructive boredom's forms, endowing soul with ruthless sorrow and inexpressibly tart pain, in inexhaustible amounts produced by thoughts of share's course and of futility of prospects.
"Most warm and plentiful of greetings to all of new and old of guests of our regular broadcasting, you're having luck to heed to daily music program "The chord of timelessness and time.". We're once again with whole assuredness repeating, that world and songs are truly endless, as well as similarly endless are turns and wanderings of fate, what into frames of usual rubric for sad people "In front of loneliest of doors." will be unquestionably proven by newly written composition with timid sorrowful name "Longing", which is already shyly waiting to meet your ears and apartments with set of dreariest of notes:
Once again I am lost into longing
Once again grief enslaves my cracked heart
Once again only bottomless void
As before amply blossoms inside

I will take this stray longing as jewel
And will hug as most favourite pet
Sleepless nights, till perfection examined
Will be glad to invite such a guest

I spend time into thoughts of world's essence
Send numb questions and fall in regrets
From all facts only one seems me fair
That true longing is thing with no end...
"Yes, rather helpful inspiration, now, after listening of this, it's more convenient and easy – to cut own throat or to get hung. I had intention just to fill my mood with brightness, to cheer me up and to receive some consolation. But, as I currently can see, such harmless innocent attempt has sadly turned to be mistaken. Right as whole course of my life's term." - the hero has inactively got up and, having switched receiver off, stepped up to keep vain lonely walk.

XVII
In full of crowd sewing studio's cramped foyer – harsh noise and hastening of fuss. Stepan Kirillovich is busy and tightly lost in tons of work, with inexhaustible smooth neatness fulfilling tailoring of hat of pearly violet brocade. In spicy air – taste of hurry. By sides – habitual disorder: thick static permanence of roar, quick loud twaddling and stern chaos, without ending amply blooming at every single vacant spot. With vigor trying to survive, lost thoughtful hero is wholeheartedly persisting at shapeless piece of shy frail fabric, in fright deciding how to sew. Soon, breaking peacefulness of labor, has grown wild boiling Chistomoev: "They once again demand to kill me, want all of orders till day's end - all outstandingly tart madness: slim eastern-looking leather coat, sleek cotton suit with metal buttons, silk raggy jacket with wide ribbon and richly done plush woven scarf with tiny eyelet for to hang it, what will salvatingly free up from irritating ugly need to put this item into pocket."
"Well, if they want, we have to make it. Let them wait, and all asks will come true."
"As soon as possible, my dear. Or they will definitely tear me – in smallest thinkable of parts."
"If they will tear, I will fix you, will sew as artfully as clothes."
"No, I'll prefer to stay holistic. And what's of you – keep highest hurry, do not postpone this stuff till night."
"Believe, I'm far from idle leisure... And work so hard, that drown in sweat."
"It's right, all other ways of labor are unacceptable and wrong."
"Oh, yes, most proper is till death."
"My life is also not a honey, I'm here as squirrel into wheel."
"Then do not stop – for not to fall and not to fly away of track."
And once again meek pensive calmness: shy silent process of neat work with soothing timidness of moves and sacred pleasure of creation. What else can be as pure and honest as things, produced by human hands. Each tiny stitch is key from heaven, each little knot – access to bliss. If you had luck to realize it, than you'll obtain with certain treasure – most fair, sinless, pure and frank. Meanwhile, day's length has reached own ending. Stepan Kirillovich has lazily got up and, having put all tools away, sent route in latitudes of home, right at the exit having met with till disgust well-known faces of two most hateful working mates.
"Well, what's of news, my godless fellow - of something crazy, odd and reckless and tartly teeming with hard shame. Do you have notable occasions within of frames of recent time?" - has asked plump lousy Chistomoev, with vivid bravery and smirking replacing gaze at Khvostoklyuev, who into every inner feature was also equally same nit.
"All is calm..."
"And what's of me – I, as before, not losing restlessness of pace, am right in midst of brazen doings - in most hot point of sins' storm: one day ago, thanks to damned playfulness of fortune, I, boldly taking highest risks, was sharing bed with one incurably lewd lady, quite vastly famous for brakes' lack, I'm of Mikhailovna, milk seller, whose scale of lust is truly awesome and rid of ways to be described. We were so active and forgetful, so madly careless and wild, that I have almost met her husband, when in breathtaking fussy hurry, erasing shoes, was rushing back. At least one single extra minute, and I, extinguishing regrets, would stand here mercilessly beaten - with swollen eyes and bleeding lips..."
"And I have parted with my wife. She has collected her belongings and, having left dumbfounded me without any explanations, ignoring questions, gone away..." - has, after long bemusing pause, with fright declared Khvostoklyuev, by some unknown inner reasons completely pale and full of doom.
Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and, not proceeding to goodbyings, with utter promptness led his voyage in saving outlet of door.

XVIII
Among of street – thick static fog. Faint hazy houses are blurred, dim sleepy world is far and numb. Stepan Valeryevich, forlorn and firmly lost in depths of thinking, is meekly keeping silent walk, observing views of lonely streets and gaining dreariness and sadness. In all accessible of features – cold lifeless bleakness, tart oppression and coy ill apathy and frailness, with painful richness amply blooming at every visible land's spot. Each single corner of damp vastness is sternly teeming with exhaustedness and languor, most harshly reigning in wet frost of swiftly chilling air's masses. Heart's cradle, what is quite expected, is also rid of vivid tones. Pale tired hero is dispassionately sighing, beholding deserted expenses and letting legs to write vain route without purpose and direction – just for to leave four naked walls and to return in them again.
"What a life, after all, what a path... What an improper sort of presence? Does my existence have some aiming or any cause to be excused? Does this appalling tragic set of constant barrenness and fading, of daily hopelessness and pain and of tart bitterness and gloom can be transformed in something fruitful, in something sensible and right. Long six months to await till next letter, for me it's close to purest hell, to certain endlessness, not shorter. And not to fix this dreary curse, not to reduce entrusted parting. And even letter, what's most sad, will, as each single time before, bring one upsetting dose of coldness, one extra bunch of fresh regrets. What for, explain me, do I live, if best of ways for my doomed share is nothing else than to get lost, to leave world's frames and disappear – not having need to cling for pointless survival and not agreeing to remain in nullifying role of wastage."
The hero once again has made deep sigh and, with frail sluggishness dissolving in fog's thickets, gone up to sleepy peaceful pier of hazy featureless horizon, prolonging unity with thoughts and devastation and getting risen to new levels of longing, anguish and distress.

XIX
At amply splendid shining stage – swift vivid marvel of performance: one of stray circuses, not huge, as well as not too vastly famous, is gifting rich flamboyant show. Small hall is tightly full of people, glad eyes are satisfied and bright, at one of sits in first of rows - Boris Arsenyevich Bezlykov, who with remarkable attention is learning motleyness of costumes, perceiving every single movement of feathers, ribbons, hats and legs, beholding bursts of flashy fire and meekly falling in enchantment with unenfeebling restless squall of poses, faces, tricks and dances, mixed up in common endless sea of outlandishness and passion. In every action – joy and fervor, in all accesible for eyes – delight, exaltedness and bliss. Play's pace is brazen, wild and zestful. Heat's storm, with vigor amply blooming at each observable of spots, is all-consumingly insistent and freed from limits, stops and brakes. Songs' rhythm is dashing, brisk and frisky. Whole set of colors, sparks and sounds, of splendor, magic, grace and ardor is close to particle of heaven, to dose of paradise, not less.
Soon, right at peak point of increasing frenzy's boiling, in midst of process has arisen purest angel - among of abysses of smoke has grown small silhouette of lady in short lewd skirt and with long whip, who has come up with dancing program. Boris Arsenyevich has frozen and unintentionally limped - in distant features of this figure he has with fear recognized that girl with flag, so sadly missed at age of 12 right in the very hall of circus. Shocked pallid hero has got fallen into shaking and, promptly sinking confusion, clung with both eyes to tempting beauty of her body, intoxicating mind with lust. The plot of scenery has speedily rushed forward and, having ended with denouement of hardest thunder of applause, in most prompt manner met with finish. Then, after lurking, hero's legs have coped to find shy narrow door, which was providing with saint route to backstage's depths. Among of tons of lamps and plywood, in hugs of ribbons, racks and hoops, on red silk chair was relaxedly placed out so madly needed lovely cutie, with languor stretching some strange song.
"Good night... I've come for sake of you, of your enslaving honey person, not even partially guessing of my existence in this world. I've seen you once – at age of 12, so madly madly long ago, that not so tricky to forget. It was exactly in these walls. And what's most painful and upsetting, I haven't dared to approach... "
"I was alone that distant time, was into search of love and partner. Right as today to my deep shame. Of course, no slightest drop of love has met myself inside this cradle, but I have found future job and left to swirl in dances' rush, what is enough to be symbolic."
"This is unthinkable, bemusing. It's sort of sorcery, of voodoo. I'm even out of right words..." - the hero has departed in perplexion and strongly stuck in instant fright.
"Well, let me kiss you – for appropriate beginning. And then you'll answer what you want."
And here, when bliss of lips was tasted, last shades of confidence have gone, erasing any self-control and putting mind in shiver's abyss.
"I... I..." - Boris Arsenyevich was lost, was trembling, muttering and shaking.
"I guess, it's time to show myself, to splash all beauty, all flesh's heat."
She has with elegance and deftness placed up at edge of chair's sit and, having hastily stripped naked and lewdly spreaded thirsty hips, with utter lavishness and straightness revealing up for vast observing all humid mellowness and sweetness of her most keen and tempting places, so much alluringly exposed in such impudent piquant manner, shown urgent readiness for more. The hero, endlessly surprised, completely pale and firmly puzzled, has shyly taken little step and, having cautiously bent to sinful blossoming of wetness, was wholly free to get submerged in yummy bloom of carnal fruits, when all around has dissolved and flown away, with hurting sadness having silently disclosed thick painful canopy of darkness - Boris has abruptly awoken inside of cold and lonely bed, among of numbly huddling void and faceless nudity of walls. Short melted paradise, of course, was nothing else than vain night dreaming, so unforgivably addictive and so unfeasible in life.
The hero has released downtrodden sigh and, humbly hiding into fabric of fluffy blanket's friendly width, got lost in bitterness of cry.

XX
Inside of featureless apartment – coy pensive trinity of friends. Boris Arsenievich Bezlykov and two of Stepans by both sides. The hero once again has brought his pictures, and, having taken them from bag, was with devotedness explaining main meanings, secrets and ideas of complicated paintings' plots: "Here we see vastness with no limits, what's proving endlessness of space. At top of canvas – era's flesh, made of decaying, blood and dirt. At vacant bottom – some strange sign, it's presence hasn't any purpose and cannot claim to be explained. And into corner – usual symbol of never fainting lamp of luck. It gleams, and everyone of us, who asks for love and understanding, gets chance on needfulness and hope, what, giving birth to faith in better, fills up with priceless confirmation of fact, that happiness exists. This is main remedy, main rescue, main source of soothening and peace."
"Well, proper point to get frozen and to loose mind in depths of thought." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and, coyly shrugging with his shoulders, delved in embraces of distress.
"Let's switch attention to food's eating." - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and, redirecting tired gaze at calmly waiting dishes plenties, invited others to the table – for common tasting of sweet buns. Boris Arsenevich has taken biggest bun and with inconfidence begun: "This world... It's stupid, broken, aimless, full of absurdity and flaws. For which of whims it was invented, for which strange purposes and goals? Not to reveal true being's targets, not to explain with sober head. What do we have, if to be honest – fuss, pain and boredom, nothing else. Mix of unending gloom and anguish, of timeless tragedies and griefs — without any of exceptions in daily set of given states. It's rather scary to admit, since farest youth, I am such person, who is in friendship with one thoughts. With one nude restlessness of mind, for tricky term of former years erased till heaviest of holes. And what I sadly have to mention, it's not the easiest of lots – to keep perpetual concern, without stopping sternly learning imputed principles and laws and always trying to extract most deeply hidden sense and essence of each surrounding event, arising up to highest harmonies of being and with annoyance falling back in all-consuming sticky pit of weakness, helplessness and fright. Such constant tension of perception, of every single mental string is close to torment, to damnation, which lasts since earliest of days and doesn't promise to be ended. It hurts and cripples, wrecks, destroys, throws into panic and oppression and leaves in bottomless distress. It's madly wrong not to be able to ignore what no one else will even ever cope to notice. But this is probably whole me. We write and send a lot of letters, wait for some answers, for response. And time from time it fully seems, that every line of every message with all its variable words was most indubiously known and most unbreakably determined – long long before of first created piece of paper. The more I live, the more profound is my faithing, that all of choices are prescribed, that share's going can't be tamed or redirected, that each of deeds is not a fruit of someone's will, but a result of fate's scenarios and plannings. It's deadly hard to save brain's health with so much morbid information. In world, where craziness is normal, remaining sane transforms in curse, which rids of any zeal to struggle and any thirst for having hope."
"What's both most frightening and sad, you are inarguably fair. Attentive heeding to first note can by itself report a lot of tone and loudness of last one. Of course, life's paths, made up of doom, as rule, confirm this dreary statement, but still don't hurry to lose hope. Try, strive and less faith in ideas – in last ones' power, weight and strength. True role of mind is not too huge. For smart of people thoughts are slaves, for others – commanders and masters. Take this plain principle for law, and being's portrait will get fixed – right into couple of next seconds. I know, how sticky and addictive can be devotedness to sense, to sacred heat of understanding, of constant need to seek and learn, but don't forget to stay yourself, your mind, remember this forever, is nothing more than just a pet..."
"We cannot catch all real reasons, can't find all mysteries and keys, can't calm days' pace or tame life's essence. Between of darkness and of light – one single step, between of human and his fate – not less than abyss. And world is truly quite unhealthy. You can't rebuild it, cannot save. Can't wrap in dominance of prudence and free from pestilence of fuss. Don't try to fight with whole existence, it's vain to waste last strengths such way, don't rush - you can't make others smarter by more stern fooling of yourself."
"This is as frightening as fair, what for to burn, if flame is cold. It simply nullifies all hopings, all use and sense to be alive. And what's of personal, of feelings – do fields of love have any chances to gift some notably rich fruits?"
"Same empty letters, nothing else. Without warmth and with one fog." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and sadly dropped his tired gaze at faded grayness of floor's surface.
"I'm in identical conditions – no hope, no miracles, no pleasures, one endless waiting and pain's taste – as well as every former year." - Stepan Valeryevich has numbed and slowly fallen into silence.
"World is sick. Sick and dead. As worst curse. It's made for sufferings, for grief." - Boris Arsenevich has sighed and lose oneself in depths of thought.
"I guess, it's main life's explanation – that it was made for ours pain. For constant unity of hope and need to struggle and for perpetual regrets..."
At this each talker has got silent. Got not from lack of proper words, but from excess of pain and anguish.

XXI
Again coy company of three. The only thing, this time much older. And even not without reason - Stepan Kirillovich not more than day ago has got a medal for fidelity to labor – for term of thirty working years, which ones have helped to get one fatigue and wornness, not having given any richness or any colorful recallings of any moment of long past. On steady flatness of awaiting lavish table - three crystal plates of foreign fruits, huge thick decanter of cold drink and two small envelops with letters - from both unreachable Marina's, which for whole life have not got closer and left identically far.
Letter 1:
"One extra year has gone out, and I am writing you again. All my life I've been keeping such contacts. This time is probably the last. It's hardly useful to continue. What's of me, I was living quite brightly. Got swiftly married at the age of 25. Then after year we've got parted. Then was long period of seeking. I've even spent some time abroad, but still returned – I guess, not mine. Then, year after of returning, have given birth to two nice children, as it by fate's will has turned out – away of limits of wedlock. I wasn't trying to keep link with children's father, but it was probably for better – close to their going to we school I've got acquainted with another fonding man, who was with me for long ten years, then also something has gone wrong. Then also seeking, partners' switching. So I have met with my today. Too busy route was, I will say, at times too strange, at times too twisted. I think, I'll barely be named indeed successful, but in a fact I am quite glad. I guess, you're sitting into laughing. But it was solely your offer to be your trouble, dream and muse. At here goodbye and all the best."
Letter 2:
"Hello, I'm writing you again. As always. As each year before. I guess this time should be the last. My life was peaceful, nice and vivid. At first I was with flock of partners – was choosing, playing and gain sins. Then at my thirty I've got married and given birth to quite fine child. For long twelve years we were constantly together, then have got parted and I've married once again and keep this marriage till today. We live successfully and richly, at morning - pool, on weekends - movies. Life was surprising, kind and sweet. I don't regret, that now it's ending. I hope, you're also fully happy and even happier than me. So, thanks for fun of writing letters, it was the best of entertainments. At now bye. And thanks once more."
And this, both Stepans, having read each other's letters, have delved in silence, gloom and pain. Boris was also wholly silent.
"Love is most painful of beginnings. Both you and I are longing's pieces, piles of despair and regrets..." - Stepan Kirillovich has sighed and with forlornness squeezed his palms.
"No pier, no sea. One chance to sink." - Stepan Valeryevich has yawned and sadly fallen in oppression.
"What a life, rubbish, shit. Hard to imagine more vain path than two of ours living courses. The plot, which's worthy of one grave. No slightest difference were born we or were not."
"Just to regret, to sob and howl."
"Until last moment, I was utterly believing – that fate will cope to bring together, that I will find her and make mine."
"I'm just the same. Each day and second."
And again static wordlessness' pit and row of glances at gray floor. Then hopeless silence of two Stepans was interrupted by announcement of Boris: "I feel your sorrow, feel your pain. This world is not for to await. I've brought some pictures – time to nail. For not to fade with whole soul's mass."
Indeed, this fuss has slightly muted taste of grief. They've eaten food, stayed fully silent for a while, drunk apple syrup, discussed next days and close to evening gone apart.
Boris Arsenievich Bezlykov, inhaling sleepiness of air, has slowly trudged in hazy distance of foggy latitudes of street, expressing apathy and pain and realizing depth of doom: "They both are happier than me – even this wholly lost and cracked shares were much more colorful and bright: at least, they both were having someone, who had agreed to write to them, to be devoting part of self. Yes, it was false, was just for fun – for sneering smirking over feelings. And me at all was just alone. And all I have – just vague memories of girl, who had been missed by me at 12. I'm empty, useless, wasted, vain. What do I actually have here, what is still given to be done, what I'm still able of at now, what is accessible today – to lay in coffin and close eyes. To leave this damned distorted being and to forget of useless self. It's even shameful to admit, to tell to this world's void's abyss, that I'm less meaningful than nothing, than most last garbage at road's side. Sad to say, I am out of sort. But what to do, if it's my lot..." His shaky silhouette has melted into darkness, in cheerless depths of slush and mist, like liquid shadow, passed away without traces. Landscape has started to get emptier and darker. No single vehicle or walker, just rain and haze, as if at all this world has never been acquainted with any single human fate.


AFTERWORD:
In small dark room, excited pair of two shamelessly young lovers. He's holding lady by her shoulder, she's looking up at blizzard's dance.
"You know, I'm so much glad, so happy – to be with you, to know it's true." - the young man has with tenderness got clung to silent girlfriend, enshrouding last one into hugs of puffy blanket.
"Me too. I'm feeling like a goddess. I can't believe that all this happens with myself. Like dose of fairy tale, of heaven, which by some miracle have turned in part of life. Do you remember, day ago we've dragged strange picture – not too much special or pretty, but I was asking and you've bought. So, I have hung it and looked closer. And what I've actually seen, damn me, this is pure masterpiece, not smaller. It also has small lamp in corner. What for it's added, I don't know. Now I am looking right at last one, and, by some secret sacred reasons, it starts to seem, that it can gleam..."






By rules of fate.

I
Among of sleepiness of flat, next to old frame of hazy window - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, an archive's worker and a passionate collector of all unusual trifling trinkets, made of fabric or clay, or old copper and aimed for every sort of use, but by some pitiful sad reasons rid of belonging to some owner and of obtaining with demand. He is pathetically sighing and weakly paying lonely gazes at languid colorless landscape, most sternly purified from brightness and any other signs of life and irreversibly prepared to time of withering and fading, with whole assertiveness and zeal already frightening to spread sick mourning nets of slush and raining, dense all-consuming autumn sadness and inexhaustible distress. Thick humid air is indifferently freezing and getting tragically filled with bitter taste of rotten herbs and promptly perishing wet leafage. Vast silent passionless expanses, completely faceless, numb and faint, are slowly letting summer heat away from bonds of inner voids, with inconsolable despair inviting windiness and frosts to shackle lands with gloom and snows. In all accessible for eyes, from closest objects of the room till farest points of horizon – one single pessimism and doom, torn off from tiniest of prospects to get diluted with some joy. Andrei Efimovich is tediously longing, exploring rags of tired shadows, grouped up in steady shapeless flocks on vacant space of bleak nude walls, and feebly plunging puzzled mind in mash of apathy and boredom: "Still how much small is all what's given, how sadly modest, weak and vain – to wait, to ill with fright and hope and to gain volume of endurance. Each step is fruit of fortune's whims, each day from morning and till night is nothing else than just a script, detaily written in accordance with world's plannings and uncorrectable by will or by irrelevant bold faithing in higher chosenness of self. All is not firmer than delusion, long, static, stubborn, stiff, but faked. And even craving for awakening's upcoming is also usually not more than just a way to fall asleep, but only heavier and deeper – with getting rid of last connection between reality and head. All is too dummy, too deceptive for to be tamed by mind's control or by apt use of intuition. What can you actually take as always workable example of proper soil for next hopes, for fair presence of trustworthiness to prospects and for supportive priceless guarantees of prudence of each imputed path and deed. Day's swamp is bottomless, almighty, exhausting, ugly, sick and wrong. If you aren't careful, you're dead. You can't survive without rushing, can't bet on rescue as on norm. And the more wide is living abyss, the less you're trying to to resist. And even bursting into tears and harshly howling with no rest, you'll never change accepted rules or shake main essence of foundations. The most unbrekable of shackles are ones, which are assigned by fate. Such sort of burden stays till grave, till ending point of whole voyage."
The hero has perplexedly got up, put on worn crumpled leather jacket and, overcoming inner numbness, led route in net of local streets – to hide from limits of room's prison and to get freed both from abundance of tart void and from excess of gnawing thoughts.
Here it makes sense to give report of inclination and specificity of views of our mentally inflicted, lost in incessant seeking hero, who right from term of farest youth has been most heavily infected with hardest possible of forms of disappointment in world, and by this reason with full strength was deadly faithing in determinism's conception, with almost every single minute increasing measure of devotion to frames of given from above. "In game of life, no hesitations, I would wholeheartedly prefer to play each time in one same manner – in full accordance with fate's rules." - this daily phrase was with the highest scale of aptness and with no needing in additional details depicting both his main position and approach. Such simple postulate, to positive surprise, was wholly cozy and convenient in use, not even nearly demanding to spend strengths and calling only to maintain shy calm beholding of self-embodiment of facts. The first of aims was not to hinder to life's going, not to forbid its plans and laws and not to try to interfere in share's mechanisms and twists, without minimal of questions with utter nimbleness agreeing with any thinkable of changes of your inconstant earthly plot, no slightest matter, how much burdensome and tragic it will unfortunately be.
Among of deserted streets' abyss – deep static silence and tart dominance of gloom. No motley passers-by, no noises, no superfluousness of fuss. Meek boring route crawls from home's walls to trading square – to look at products and at faces and to distract ill cracked attention from bonds of permanent distress. Inside of shaky wooden fence - vast set of barrels, carts and tents. Large, tightly loaded long rows are full of any kinds of rubbish – lamps, honey, ladles, rags, fish, brooms. Brave brazen sellers are frustratingly persistent, completely tactless and explicitly dishonest. Swift restless buyers aren't much better – same morbid obstinacy's flurry and same desire to deceive. One single dollar is enough for to be killed or torn apart. So, nothing rare, odd or new.
"Where are you squeezing? Stupid donkey!" - plump, slightly baldish wrinkled man with heavy bulky shabby bag has unrestrainably gone mad and given instant abrupt roaring, preventing youth from opportunity to move: "I've torn your ear year ago. Have you got tired of another? Where are you rushing, moron's piece - one extra step, and I'll destroy you!"
Shocked scared kid, not tasting luck, has in frustration run away, threat of fresh conflict has retreated.
"They once again fight, drink and shout. All as millenniums before. In lands of jesters you don't need to visit circus. Shame, sadness, bitterness, annoyance." - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, shyly shrinking, led his current voyage back.
And, as not more than just an hour's half ago, nude faceless walls and languor's pit.
"Eh world, not most appropriate of places. Yes, we can live, can dream and hope. But we're unable to fix being, to change its tunings, broads and laws. The very lasting of existence is less essential and weighty than smallest particle of dust. No drop of difference at all, how much insistent and assertive will be your tryings and attempts – it's not an option to reject what is entrusted by fate's plannings. I'm deadly fed with such delusions as faith in better or in chance or as relying on some prudence and on supremacy of luck. Let's simply dare to admit – we live for sufferings, for nothing. And what is even more exhausting – one day we all will have to die."
The hero has got delved in bonds of blanket and, swiftly melting in deep sleep, gone into thickets of night dreamings, with indescribable success at once not only having freed from any troubles, but also having emptified mind's cradle from constant tireless reflexions of imperfection and distortedness of living and, what is even more upsetting, of wrecking needlessness of self, for whole imputed earthly presence torn off from happiness and pleasures and from intimacy and warmth.

II
Above of silent copper roofs – meek graceful ballet of sun's rays: inertly fading summer's heat is coyly paying frail goodbyings by lavish painting of bleak desolate expanses with last remainings of bright tints. On lonely bench two modest silhouettes of resters - Andrei Efimovich, with suitcase, and next to him, with fresh newspaper, Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin, his oldest friend and co-observer of life's display, well-educated thoughtful library's employee in local history museum.
"I once again am in concernings of existence, of given vectors, paths and roles, of frames and limits of reality's obsession, of its eternal flaws and risks..." - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and numbly fallen in prostration.
"There are no worlds without risks. And the more ample is their presence, the more eventful are your plots. So, any fear, fright or shyness are just unjustified and strange. Without coldness of acceptance you'll never reap indeed huge fruits. If you're afraid, that some wrong force at one of days will break your branches, just keep in mind, that your whole tree could rather easily be simply just not planted. Each one of matters, things and thoughts is under prominent control. Both you, you doings and attainments are too adjustable, too pure. In truly wonderful of worlds, not only actions and ideas are assigned, but even every single atom is most exotically tamed, what is as stunning as frustrating. It's madly stupid and resultless to be afraid of speed of time or of excessiveness of crowds, such things are not much more than noise – dead, useless, dummy, far and vain, it can perplex or disappoint just few last sober types of people as total idiots and kids. Best way to handle with small people is right implying of big numbers. This is the durablest of facts. But it's not tricky to lose balance or to get hurted and erased. The more immacuate is person, the more upsetting is his end. The more exalted is the cup, the more bloodthirsty is its hammer. And even coping with resistance, you'll never manage to beat fate. In incorrigible wall's absence, nail's presence starts to look as joke. You're free to hurry and persist, but this is far from way to progress and from right key from better lot. Do not forget, as life confirms, in coffin all will be in time, and what's of other of locations, such ones, without of exceptions, depend on schedule of your days, which, as a rule, not too much frequently are lavish and full of blossoming and bliss."
"Yes, world is ugly and unhealthy, disgusting, baleful and sick. Some ones with gladness pay for splinters, some ones with anger and annoyance refuse from free holistic cup. You cannot heal this, cannot stop it. We're truly capable to reach all sorts of targets, the only question – at what cost. Indeed good ticket time from time is more expensive than whole ship. Such state is scarier than horror. And not to answer - how to live, with what to start and where to go..."
"It's sad, but gaining of a spark is much more difficult and tricky than next maintaining of a flame. Such law is almost all-consuming. It's greatly painful to build plans just for to see – how they'll be broken. No weighty matter, which a way you'll write your vector, it will not keep itself for long. The worst of things is that not written text at all is also tragically able to carry abyss of mistakes. But still don't darken from despair – try, struggle, obstinate and climb. It's madly vain to talk of prizes without entering in game."
"But what to do, if all attempts are stably torn from any prudence. If each accessible of deeds is wholly barren and resultless. At twisted route straight legs are worse than their absence. And not to guess, where is seductively good poison and where disgustingly bad food. It's much more easy to be clinging for last trifles, than to agree on getting rid of their unneeded aimless presence. And what is certainly more awful, all weighty things are also temporary, mortal – as sudden trace on humid sand, made by one wind for to be blown away by other. But such ill state is nothing else than just plain fog, frail and indifferent background. The more unsteady is the choir, the more assured is its singing. Laugh is belonging of one single stage of circus, and life is mainly just one horror, one tight stiff mix of lie and dirt. But is this really hope's end? Or cause to fall and start to weep? If so it happened, that some idiots and fools have irritating morbid habit of throwing stones in your peace-loving modest garden, then simply try to figure out – for which of heads these stones will suit."
"This is most frequent truth of days – if you have learned how to enjoy with right on head, learn to enjoy with right on guillotine and noose. For sure presence of the light, one single presence of light bulbs is not an option; the most important here is absence - of ones, who're trying them to break. Gloom and vexation are much stronger – than any arguments to hope. The less of chances on success, the more of chances at one moment to get accustomed to their end."
"And what about flock of people – so much dishonest, sick and mad, bloodthirsty, cruel, dull and low, is there something not disgusting and not distorted in their breed?"
"Yes, current people are pure garbage. Worst of all evils and not less. For them it's usually quite easy to part with fruitful and majestic, but hard with purposeless and gray. No given tools can change their essence – pain, horror, power, all is helpless, they will remain to be the same. The more unbreakable is forehead, the less it hides from bullets' flight. Do not expect to fix this curse. You can't turn guillotine in head. Ones, who are suitable for taming, for tricky art of education are inappropriate at all. For to get rid of faith in life, all you may need is just to be one moment born, for to get rid of faith in person, all you may need is just to notice, what whole humanity here is. This is too static, too undying  And even rare shy exceptions can't make some influence at rules. If you will add gold's drop in copper, you'll never cope to reap gold's piece. Leave faith and hoping for weak-minded. Bad sound never brings nice echo. I'll even tell you slightly sharper - the more innumerous is group, the more improper are its members."
"But how much proud all here are, how much persistent, harsh and stern."
"The less remarkable is circus, the more unbeatable is arrogance of clown. We live at bottom, this is fact. It fills each wastage with inhuman inspiration by giving chance to any shit to get same cost as decent honey. Such truth destroys and floods with pain. The more dishonest is game's plot, the less essential is winning. You can't create such sort of thing, which will be free from risk to perish. There is no place for real fire in artificial stove's vent."
"Yes, the more promising is forecast, the less enjoyable and friendly will be in practice weather's state. This is most stubborn of life's laws. It's sad and useless to be burning, if you have no one to be warmed. Meek frank idea to make sky keeps sense exclusively in pair with ardent hope, that someone else at one of days will unalterably be able of to invent such tool as wings. It's too much natural and plain to fall in faith in logic's presence. We think, that stably meeting nails, we have to manage to meet hummer. But this is fair for one dreams. And what's of frames of earthly being, at here same optimism is doomed. And the more harmless is event, the more frustrating are its outcomes and endings. The more defenseless is the match, the more destructive is its fire."
Semyon Kirillovich has sighed and, having risen collar's contour, with silent helplessness reported: "World's pier is stupid. Hopeless, sad. And autumn season is already just at porch, what even more will strengthen acuteness of pain and thicken tartness of despair."
"All is dead. Land and soul. Leaves and plans. No joy, no power, no belifs." - Andrei Efimovich has faded and, clenching palms, got lost in thought.
"And even trees are almost nude. Last dreary steps before of snows. At least, let's trample width of streets – for to find rescue in coy art of observation." - Semyon Kirillovich has lazily got up and, into pair with his speech-mate, sent path in greediness of murk.

III
At local square feast of fullness: lights, tents, carts, crowds, music, fuss – brisk vivid act of fair's swirling is right at point of its peak: each one is rushing, laughing, dancing, consuming drinks and eating food. For ones, who're thirsty for some fun, takes place whole abyss of adventures: all sorts of alcochol and dishes, few vacant stages for legs' madness and stands with ribbons and balloons. Wild restless flock of motley people is amply teeming with delight, rejoicing, swarming, squealing, smiling and losing mind from storm of fun. Heels are destroying ground's surface. Hands are performing random movements.
"Looks rather similar to life... But still not catchy, not alluring. Yes, world around, being stubborn, with passion trys to stay alive – bursts, boils, widens, tempests, boasts, prolonging agony's maintaining for undisturbably long term and even filling such one's lasting with sort of ardor, zeal and heat. I'm not amazed with facts like this, from some time's point, thanks to share, I have become most incorrigibly unable to get enchanted or surprised with such unthinkable of turnings and transformations of days' plots, as scale of trickery and horror and depth of lie, decay and dirt." - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov has only ended to complete his sad downtroddening conclusion, as at lefthanded side from him, one of the passers-by, not waiting, has made short obstinate step forward and slapped another one in face: "Have you forgotten of last beatings? Or lost ability to die? Damned brainless scum, I have been warning your dumb muzzle, that if I'll notice you with Tanya, I’ll smash your forehead, nose and ears and then tear off your f*cking skin." - strong, red from anger stumpy man has swiftly caught same one, but pallid, and hitted him in one of eyes: "You're lost. You've wasted last way out. Last chance to stay, at least, alive."
Soon, right in midst of fierce beatings, combined in smooth melodic noise, has unexpectedly flown straightly into action some sudden screaming female figure, who has insistently proceeded to pinch and shake aggressor's neck: "I've been seducing him myself and was most thankful for agreement as for the sacredest of joys. And you, damned stupid scarecrow, have undermined me whole enjoyment, whole my forbidden piquant buzz."
"You want your mug to be smashed too? It’s not a question to arrange." - disturbed offender has reluctantly stood up and, keeping threatening, gone back: "See you soon, hold eyes opened: if I will meet you once again, you'll find yourself as corpse or cripple, don't even try to check this promise, I never joke - you're informed."
"How are you feeling after knocking? My sweety dear little thing. I hope, that mainly fine and save. Oh, what a trouble – face is broken, but still it's cutest of all rest. I'm most wholeheartedly assured, without waverings at all - you will get healed in term of days, no single shade of any doubts. What an incredibly sad pity – I, right as always, have to run – soon my Oleg will come to here – he has been sent to buy some food and to take children and in few minutes must return. And, please, don't miss remains of temper - don't fall too much in blaming Dmitriy. Yes, he has injured you now, but is this reason for to cry, he monthly sponsors my existence and helps in many other ways. Guess, quite enough for tiny chance to be forgiven. Right at this point I'm goodbyeing - love you, kiss, wish to jump in your care. Do not give up, all of your hardships will pass out – without notable of traces and with no soil for regrets."
The poor fellow has stood up, hugged up his chosen for her waist and, limply hobbling, left away. And indeed, after couple of minutes, thin, tall, pale youth with product basket and with two little lovely childs, each of which ones with both of palms full of rich mix of sweets and apples, has as it was proclaimed by lady indeed successfully approached her: "I'm glad to soothe you - we've arrived. So, we are free to send route's going towards home."
"Did you accomplish all of buyings? Hope, you have coped not to forget of need to gather every item. As well as coped not to forget to clean floor's carpet at the hallway. And what is wrong with son's panama - where has he crumpled it such way?"
Young man has fall in explanations and then with timidness remarked: "You looks a little bit disheveled..."
"It’s not a matter of your mind. Don't make me angry, let’s move home. I want to check what's with my tasks. I bet, you've failed in almost all..."
Here mentioned company has left.
"Oh, Tanka, brave flamboyant helltress. Such cunts reap fire with no scalds." - one of old ladies has in vivid zestful voice with admiration told to other, with idle laziness performing half of turn to side, containing interlocutor's location: "And Oleg is indeed gift of fortune – so immense care in her sake, so deep devoting of attention. He has admitted her as wife, agreed to feed, warm, clothe and learn two juveniles from her first marriage and sickly fallen into heaviest of loves. And Dmitriy is well-known scoundrel. He's keeping sworling next to her for almost thirty of last years, since distant times she was young innocent school-girl. And beaten one, to utter shame, is not familiar at all, at least, for frames of my attention. As I suspect, he is her newly minted boyfriend. I've never seen him in these latitudes before."
"This damned example is quite famous, it's jester Prokhor, local clerk. Last dulard, drunkard, jerk and buffoon. She plays with him for term of single recent year. I can't explain, what did she find in his lost person. Guess, sort of sorcery or magic, or mind's blackout - also cause." - with instant quickness has replied her wholly equal in senility co-twaddler.
"This is exactly what I truly love the most in breed of mediocre people - that all their vices, flaws and sins are brighly displayed for the vastest observation. Ones, who are tricky and exalted, behave more hiddenly, more quietly, committing meanness and atrocities much smarter – in highly secretive and complicated manner and with no spotably straight evidence of guilt. But in main essence all is same – same endless rottenness, same lowness, same sneering, mockeries and dirt. New days' humanity is broken, it's poisoned, wasted, crippled, ill. The fact of birth itself is tragedy and sorrow. No weighty matter how you live and what you strive to, you'll never cope to find such things as love and pleasure, as understanding and support or as, at least, plain banal peace, preserved from sudden aimless failure. All is immeasurably vain - all of beginnings and awaitings. We'll never outplay time's going, as well as never will get chance to curb its plots. Life is just meaningless, mistaken - as act of filling of cracked pot." - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and feebly walked back into home, away from muzzles, fuss and filth, from wrecking hopelessness and anguish and from unneeded useless self, too incombinable with being - as key with door without lock.

IV
In midst of lonely faded room, in sleepy passionless dim twilight, was meekly sitting female figure, completely sunk in sea of sadness and lost in bitterness of thoughts. In tragic role of such doomed person was coyly acting pale and frail Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, tavern worker, cute and affectionate shy lady with empty fate and joyless views - both on oneself and onto prospects of own future, in all of seeming variations in same scale dismal and oppressive and rid of any shade of hope.
"Well, almost noon, and I have only got awoken. Have only parted with my sleep. And once again right in despondency and boredom, in cage of walls and into apathy and pain. Stagnation, hollowness, frustration. Deep tart oblivion and me. What can I do for it could bring me dose of pleasure and pass exactly not in vain. It’s not an easy task at all – to spend lifetime with sort of meaning or with, at least, some drop of bliss."
Madame has carelessly yawned and, putting clothes, gone to pour coffee into stomach. So, having drunk three honest quarters of one gallon and eaten yesterday's mint cake, she has indifferently taken her umbrella and stepped to wander and to gaze at local nature, enshrouding mind, already gnawned till holes by doubts, in shawl of gloominess and grief.
Nude faceless street is full of fog, bleak hazy houses are blurred, wet static air – thick and cool. Faint gray landscape is timid, silent and dejected. Thin shapeless lines, politely smooth, but numbly stiff, are independently chaotic. Day is downtroddingly forsaken. Views are unfriendly, damp and dim. Dark ground's surface is intensively washed out and almost turned in state of mash due to long permanence of raining. Vast lifeless latitudes are drearily detached and harshly purified from splendor. No single car among whole endless net of roads, no one pedestrian at width of last one's pavements. Just slush and autumn, wilting nature and acute smell of dying leafs – all what is given for perception and consuming by sad variety of world's pier.
Irina Pavlovna, enveloping in stupor, is shyly sliding into distance of street's line, exploring sleepiness of facades and neatly catching rare tints of sadly powerless frail beauty, already vanishing away.
"Goodbye – past season of warm days, hello – surroundings' extinction. What is ahead, except of fading, murk and frosts. No slightest cause to get consoled or to aquire inner balance. Not to be hidden from despair, not to inhabit heart with joy. Not to reap hope from field of vainness. No flame, no bliss, no expectations. One breathless coldness of soon winter and inexcusable distress."
Irina Pavlovna has sighed and trudged ahead between of puddles with weak impassive languid gait, completely losing needless self in sticky abyss of opression, mixed up with memories and fog, leaked over voyage of her fate, already tasted deadlock's presence. It's hard to say, what time from time is wrong with wholy vivid nature, quite full of chances, plans and dreams, if at some point it gets parted with own will, with zeal to live, to wait for future, to seek, to strive and to persist. It’s scary state not to be wanting to remain here, but even scarier and darker not to be knowing what you want. Irina Pavlovna was one of such cracked persons, from start of youth and till today, to greatest tragedy and sorrow, in hardest possible of measures in all of senses being broken and freed from any drop of passion to stay alive and to participate in twistings of strange and boring living's games, so madly allien and irksome both for mind's cradle, soul and views.

V
In midst of gloomy windy weather, in thick tart wilderness of darkness, is slightly trudging sluggish figure - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov: is sadly looking at surroundings of world, involved in sleepy evening's magic, with frail unsteady lazy gait, without goal and destination, exloring emptiness of places and losing gaze in depths of facelessness and murk, in cold oblivion and bleakness, most stably frozen over distance with dense impenetrable veil.
"No lights, no faces, no life's signs. As if reality is dead. You cannot find here, cannot catch — at least, the smallest ones of joys as warmth, devotion, love and care. I once again am wasting time in aimless walking, in vain observing and doomed thoughts. In long awaiting for some changes and for upcoming of alluring prudent plots, what's fully useless and resultless and even straightly wholly funny – as rod in lands without fish. But heart requests its right on pleasure – on feelings, passions, bliss and heat, on secret meetings and confessions, keen shameful quivering permissions and lewd desires, asks and tries. But all I have - just street and me. Just one vast endlessness of slush and all-consuming sticky fog, frustrating, breathless and opaque, as if made out of pure plumbum and left for stealing flame from souls. No hopes, no plannings, no emotions. No bloom, no ardor, no delight. As if indeed frames of this world are torn from any form of better."
The hero has infirmly sighed and, with forlornly languid step, led his vain path back towards void of home's prison, away from painfulness and self, too much unable to get fairly awaken as well as equally remoted from decent chance to fall asleep.

VI
At local history museum, to meek excitement of its holders, is day of broadly opened doors. Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin, completely ready for first guests, is coyly waiting for their coming. Day's pace is peaceful, smooth and calm. Hall's space is desertedly vacant. For whole unbearably long length of first resultless working hour, no single person has appeared, maintaining prevalence of boredom and keeping emptiness intact. Close to the lunchtime, has arisen strange strict lady with outstandingly huge pile of tightly groupped in few folds papers and in dark hat with quite immodest width of brims.
"I’m from inspection, from main governing commission. What is about exposition and land's stand? Where're maps, showpieces and brochures? Where're, tell me, diagrams? Where're schemes? I'm making notes of each of items and details. We have to calculate foundations – for to explain, desribe and justify spent money, just all, believe me, all of them – till every single rusted penny will be few times most deeply checked and then depicted in report. So, as you guess, it favours you to help to me to make your cloudy affairs look wholly innocent and rightful for ones, who'll verify my claims. Because of otherwise, you know, it will be counted as crime, you'll have to pay and pay a lot. If you'll refuse, you'll go to jail. Not safest theme for you to play with. Hope, you're informed indeed enough of what habitually happens with such madmen, who ever, losing mind and fear, take risk to dare to break law."
"We're having all – all what's announced. All, what was bought on allocations and all, we've managed to collect by ourselves. Here you can see huge realictic learning stand, few graphic maps, each day enlargening in size exclusive rarities' assembling and even modest room of books of local authors for last five centuries or more."
"It’s not important for my deals, I am of indexes, of numbers, of obligations, spendings, debts."
"I’m plain librarian, accept it, I'm not of documents or money, it's even nearly not mine. For such of answers you should ask administration."
"Well, as I see, you are pure nothing. Vain piece of uselessness and faults. Slug with no future and no rights. I do not know any maps, I even have no drop of knowledge, how to use them. But I'm the one, who works with money, one, who're aware – which a way such thing gets gained. And you are loser, flunkey, wickling, you always study, think, strive, seek, but still remain same helpless zero, resultless, funny, weird and lost. You even cannot find yourself, maintaining state of total wastage, rid of ability to live. Your grasp for profit and success is less essential and zestful then blowing's strength of corpse's breath..." - has ended gnawings mocking lady and walked away with loud steps.
"How many monsters are around... At each unoccupied of spots. " - Semyon Kirillovich has sighed and sadly fallen in numb silence: "Now all excitement to exist has unreturnably gone out. The very fact, that world gives birth to such of people is by itself not less than curse. What for to be, if both these elements and you have here same air, sky and water, same pull of passions, joys and heights. This is immeasureably wrong, destructive, pestilent, oppressive - as worst and deadliest disease. And not to crush, not to reject nets of reality's extinction, not to get saved from swamp of madness and decaying, not to find rescue from world's hell..."
One or two hours after this, have come two lovely stylish girls, in wholly shameless dashing dresses and under covering of tons of flashy jewelry and feathers, grouped up in common motley splendor, for unexperienced of eyes excessive, screaming, weird and funny and for more skillful and attentive – enchanting, pretty, fresh and cute and even partially full of some impalpable uniqueness.
"We were examining street's line and then vain wandering through quarters, by sort of mystery, I'm guessing, has led us straightly to your gates, where, due to catchiness of plate, fixed right at middle of main facade, each one of us has sharply felt most utter need of to look in and to research what kind of items has met with chance to be exposed. We're deadly suffering from boredom, that's why, relying on luck's mercy, most wildly asking you for dose of etertainments, for piece of marvel and surprise."
"Well, then, let’s start from viewing stand – this is small model of whole city. It aptly imitates relief and unmistakably repeats both contour, order and direction of every single local street, here are all buildings, all main parks, full river with true line of shore, closed ancient chapel and voodoo tumbleweed ravine. Below of ground all rocks' slices – to one kilometer of depth. And even ferries, dam, depot and railway node are taking place in proper parts of land's expances."
"It's even possible to find at here own house?" - one of the ladies has with curiousness asked.
"Of course, it's possible, you're right, what's more – quite easily and promptly. Just name details of your adress."
At this short point, having shown demanded trick and given meet with native roof, the hero has led girls to hall with rare set of local costumes for few last centuries of past.
"Have they indeed been daily walking just like that?"
"They've even honestly been faithing, it's best fashion." - Semyon Kirillovich has yawned with timid smile.
"I would never agree on such style!"
"Me the same."
"So, no one forces you to do so."
At this young ladies have got tired and soon indifferently left.
And once again has hung deep silence and started thickening of usual desolation. As if whole city has forgotten of vain culture and of same purposeless themselves. And only almost towards evening, has come small barefooted boy, most hardly sloppy and uncombed, with shabby cap and into worn old-fashioned jacket, ragged till few holes at one of sleeves.
"I want to read, no matter what - about life, about feats, about honesty and frankness. Both with tart dashingness and meaning and unpredictable plot's end."
"There is thin book of one lost boat – its main projector and designer has known of incident and then, unfortunately having most harshly fallen into shock, let pistol's bullet in own forehead, and boat later has been found – as it has turned, has dropped right course..."
"Yes, that’s exactly what I'm looking for at now. What I'm so wildly inly needing." - the boy has jumped and gladly nodded and, having grabbed worn out book, with greatest hastiness and zeal got firmly settled in hall's center and in delight begun to read.
"Yes, priceless, powerful, shakes soul!" - has sighed the boy and gently asked: "May I take book to home – when I'll read, I'll return."
"Tell of yourself, at least, few words – your life, you dreams, your views and faithings. And what's of book – just take for any needful term, for such mad interest to reading, it's even not a sin at all to give to you some sort of medal."
"Oh, no, medals are for others. For medal prise is one – it's life. And what's of me, all is quite simple – son of cathedral clergyman and washerwoman, live with all mortal, visit school and fight with hunger, but into thoughts, in spite of givenneas of days, I seek for greatness, for life's meaning, for truth, for answers, for world's aim..."
"Me too... But out of results..."
Semyon Kirillovich has suddenly got frozen and, having fallen in short stupor, lost in silence. At this stange pause, they've gradually parted. One - to plunge consciousness in reading, and other one – to sink in thoughts, what even slightly wasn't new, but still was throwing into anguish, destroyng inwardness of nature and sadly ringing with its splinters, already dead and tightly mixed with inner void, so amply flooded with numb hopelessness and sorrow from understanding and accepting of utter bitterness of self, comletely alien and needless, forgotten, futureless and cracked, distressed and injuringly empty.

VII
Along of deserted street's length is shyly sliding thin hazed silhouette of woman - Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, with mourning drowning in despondency and fright, keeps silent walking through of blurredness of world. By sides – thick gloominess and boredom, deep lifeless fadedness and grayness. Inside same apathy and doom. No zeal, no optimism, no warmth.
"No flame, no strengths, no tints, no faces. One darkness, steadiness and murk. No slightest vividness, no movement. No hope, no pleasure, no escape. As into cage, in squeezing noose.."
Frail tired heroine has let coy bitter sigh and turned her voyage back to home.
In bonds of walls, to squall of tears, all is entirely the same. Same utter emptiness and sadness and hurting loneliness – worst curse, caustic, stubborn, restless.
"Again I'm fatally alone. No tender hand, no loving gaze, no languid unity of natures. What a life, what a lot... Torment, horror. What to rely on in such hell..."
Irina Pavlovna has yawned and fixed her gaze at own hazed figure into mirror. "What an incredible great miracle is body – bunch of all sweetest earthly feelings and key to all most sacred joys. And how much stupidly infrequent are our meetings with this marvel of carnal closeness with self. How sadly rare we let body in sinful bliss of lust and passion, in magic storm of lewd forbiddenness and shame. And life is frighteningly short and unforgivably imprudent. How madly mindless and mistaken not to devote time to oneself, not to ascend to trembling ecstasy of heat and not to tease own thirsty flesh with tempting yearning for new fallings into love."
Irina Pavlovna, in few short seconds having deftly put away all what at here is called as clothes, has placed herself on sofa's vastness and with no shade of hesitation most widely spreaded waiting legs and dropped quick skillful fingers down, with moans collapsing in hard flurry of all-consuming tart delight.
"Oh, how much nice! How sweet and wonderful, how great! As into latitudes of heaven." - with growing swiftness limping lady has slided up with tips of fingers by wet folds and then again removed them back – for to lick taste of own excitement and to get charmed and thrilled once more - in even more profound measure from so deep lecherousness of self.
"Oh yes, pure feast, pure admiration. Oh, how I love this sinful holiday of bliss! How much good, how serene and how joyful. As in best possible of worlds."
Madame has slided with palm lower - to most forbidden of locations and, having opened pale plump buttocks, delved in most piquant ways of meeting with enjoyment, so much untamably demanded at gray and tiresome today. Soon, having ended act of passion, she has stretched out over sofa and turned small radio at edge of table on, releasing sadly languid notes of some unknown wistful melody of love:
"Your soul still burns with sort of fire
You still have zeal to breathe and dream
You drive away your inner dying
What tries to dwell inside of heart
But role has almost been played out
What with despondency reminds
That your lost path, cracked from pain's gnawing
Is not a place for any warmth..."
"And once again my pain has caught me. How short and fleeting was escape. And, as before, my thoughts again are deadly falling into longing. I guess, it's time to try to sleep, to hide myself in fog of dreamings – away from sorrows and distress. At least, for term of few next hours. At least, for last ones' modest length..."
Irina Pavlovna has yawned and, having sunk inside of blanket, left self in wilderness of sleep.

VIII
In midst of tragical room's prison, between of hopelessness and walls, are two dim silhouettes of talkers - Semyon Kirillovich at left side, Andrei Efimovich at right. The aim of meeting, as before, without tiniest of changes, is inccorrigibly the same - to weave doomed thoughts and to keep search for seeds of meaning.
"Still how unbeatably caustic and undemolishably firm can be infectedness with fears, how madly powerless and weak is every single human mind in front of grasp of last ones' fetters. And not to part with such dependence, not to extract it from head's depths, not to remove, not to erase, not to wash out – no smallest drop of any matter, how much assertively you try..." - Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, hiding heaviness of voice, with strong despondency continued: "There is no need to look a lot for to have tragedy to notice, how shaky, fleeting and fragile is all, each one of us obtain with - both you, your fate and its past aiming, weight and sense, with every first most little risk, can get effortlessly destroyed and turned in handful of vain wreckage. If you have stumbled – you get lost, if you've mistaken – you get wasted."
"This is reality of being, its all-consuming modern truth, disgusting, merciless and wrong. The more close, plentiful and ample is bunch of chances on mistake, the more it's scary not to make it. The more intensive is your fear, the more frustrating and ruining will be upcoming of its cause. You can't be saved from timeless burden to play by false offensuve rules. The more inviting, bright and hot is flame of luck, success and fortune, the more it's easy to get scalds. And not to find right hopeful vector, not to build soil for beliefs. Not many people at today can feel big difference between of leash and owner. And too much easy it's to fall —to fool onerself and to lose faith. A lot of things can rid smart person from mind's presence, but no of things can steal mind's absence - away from head of stupid one. World's pier is crazily chaotic, it's freed from logical of laws. If you have horse, you are already fair rider. If you have cards, you are in game. What to look at within sick frames of this damned planet – at dirt, betrayls, pain and grief – this hell at here is everywhere, at every spot with signs of life. And even most unknown dish can hide quite native sort of poison. The worst of facts of such sad state – no one will ever cope to fix it, I bet, no one will even try, don't think, it's feasible at all – to stop and cure what is as old as earth itself. Both world and people are immeasurably steady – as most unbreakable of stones. Excess of flies, as you can guess, is not a guarantee of elephants' abundance. All deeds are equally resultless, all hopes are similarly vain. There are no ideals, no treasures, one empty valueless replacements, torn off from any prudent use. Ones, who're unable to reap buds, as rule, proceed to gather thorns."
"All is so hazy, so deceptive. Each opportunity, each chance. Each human fate, each dream and planning. Each one of lifes, if to observe it, is less than particle of sand – today you live, and at tomorrow feed worms' plenty. Just lose attention for a second, and you're already swollen corpse. And all your thoughts and expectations are turned in nothingness, in dust. It kills, frustrates and leaves distorted – as sip of poison with full throat."
"At here, risks' presence is as air – it's truly almost everywhere, at every single spot and place. But is this cause for fright and tears... Such state, if you'll fall in researchings, is source of skillfulness and grace. The more elusive is your bet, the more perceptible is playing. Don’t be afraid to run by razor, or to waste life for sudden whim. Just keep in mind, that strongest notes at here, most often, belong to weakest ones of strings. The more worn out are the keys, the more fresh melodies they gift us. It's sad and tragical, but horror is main helper, main local sharpener of tempers, minds and deeds. Don't shy of twistedness of plots, just stay yourself and keep ignorance of all others. As if there is no single person at whole world's stage, except of you. As if all strangers are just dummies, and all of facts right from birth's time are not much more than faked obsession – dishonest, pointless and false. If you indeed want to get turned in proper apple, the first of all don't heed to worms."
"But how disgusting it's to be here – among of filth of people's breed, where from most ancient of foundations till today all is unchangeably distorted, deceptive, dubious, two-faced..."
"This is as old as flesh of being. And not to kill it, not to smash. The more attractive is buds' blooming, the more profound, tight and skillful is depth of hiddenness of thorns. The more exposed and tart is greenery of leaves, the less observable are roots. But don’t give up to all-consumingness of wrongness. Strive, struggle, climb, resist and bet on best. If you can't dare to ask question, who'll risk to dare to give answer. Yes, all is endlessly distorted. There are no actual examples of such problems, which due to craziness of world can't be presented to frail heads as own solution. But, if you cannot find what's lost, at least, have strength to fall in search. Spoon is bad company for hunger as well as hammer for cup's clay, but game of life is going further and we are forced to try to play. It's not too difficult to fade and disapper, but not a coffin serves as target and not a dying works as aim."
"All is too primitive, too hopeless – till beastful howling and wild screams."
"Such days' simplicity is worst of complicators. Keys are for all of us, it's fact – both for most wise and for most stupid. Ones get defeated by addition of bad poison, ones by removing of good food. And even after right conclusions, you can't reap much from share's fields. One errors' absence, as you know, is far from properness as Moon. And world is tragedy, nightmare, dead and disgusting morbid swamp. Where only sickness is in favor and only flaws are in demand. The less essential is winning, the more magnificent is loss. But still move forward and keep faithing. Things must come true within of life. No slightest matter, how much loud will be music at rite of funeral of you, you'll never cope to hear its playing. One nude result is truly weighty and important, and methods aren't much more than dust. The more significant is product, the less significant is price. Take this plain principle for law, and any hardships will surrender."
Here, having fallen into wordlessness and thoughts, an hour later guests have parted – till new of meets and conversations and new frustratedness and pain.

IX
In midst of emptified street's abyss, in painful nets of gloom and fog, is meekly wandering frail figure - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, who once again with vainness trying to get hidden from pain, despair and lost self, is stepping forward into distance with no direction and no zeal, researching steadiness of places and spending time in fright and anguish.
"Same world, same hopelessness, same slush. Same mix of bitterness and void. Fall into frenzy, burst with tears – not to exchange entrusted role, not to rewrite what is imputed. And only vainness into pair and devastation into friends. No plans, no strengths, no expectations. No proper routes, no opened roads. No single chance on any outlet from doom. We can just wait – behold and suffer, rely on path and burn life's turm. Not to decline predestination. What's more it's rid of any sense. There is no weight in what's not given from above. True flame of meaning gets appointed by fate, all other burning is just useless. I want to faith, that at days' end I'll cope to find here more than nothing, that this is able to come true."
Andrei Efimovich has sighed and, getting sunk in depths of thoughts, without passion, zeal and ardor, gone into gloom of wet gray quarter, in bonds of dreariness and doom.

X
In full of crowd restless tavern is reigning utterest impudence, grouped up in common idle loafing of all of types and sorts of people's mass: brave rakish youths, old nasty moneybags, deft gamblers, drunk and unbridled brazen girls, thin hunchy beggars and all other human wastage, with zeal united with each other in one holistic motley flock.
At kind of distance from guests' crowd – coy silent silhouette of woman: Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh is keeping waiting for new visitors' requests and looking up at fresh incomers. Work's tasks are tediously banal – to make observings of hall's space, to send food orders to th kitchen and to announce names and programs of the ascenders at free stage. At now, of course, as usual, tired, she is examining rest's process and losing mind in dreary thoughts. Tight set of public is diversive: no end of muzzles and tailcoats, each one is dancing, spinning, fussing. Next to the semicircled window - two lovely ladies, eating fish, next to the entrance into kitchen - bald fat redneck with heavy portion of meatballs, in farest corner, closed from pressure of attention, three slightly weird demandless jesters in screaming colorful frock coats.
Soon, not involving in awaiting, has come and bursted first eventfulness of day – brisk vacant fashionable guy has crept inside through slit of doors and stopped at ladies, tasting fish: "Good day, sweet flowers, I am Igor – luck's seeker, gambler and seducer. I see, you still have mind and moral, I've come to steal them and to smash."
"You're even not afraid of husband?" - with dose of mockery in voice and with tart sparkling into eyeballs first one of ladies has quite curiously asked. The second one has simply laughed.
"What is this husband - law or idol? Such goats never were too strong..."
"My gingerbread boy, you're so reckless, so badly poor and alone..."
"You not just look, but also see. What a smart-headed watchful creature, I most straightforwardly aprove. I’ll land at neighboring free chair, and you, not wasting our time, get up and gather your belongings, while I by ruthless lot of fate will bravely share scary burden of awaiting, restraining beastfulness of boredom and catching minutes for their tails. I'll even mercifully help – to end these frail remains of fish and to consume slops of your tea. My soul prefers, when it's strong-brewed. But not each time life copies dreams. I've taken living room in hostel – the smallest one, with single window. Till morning last one will be mine – just right as you. We'll close frame's curtains and then, not losing any second, will fall in artful depths of process, which helps soceity to enjoy and reproduce. And hurry up, I'm not a man of high aesthetics and not accustomed to keep waiting for too long."
Madame has dropped in slight uncertain hesitation, and then, submerging in excitement, without questions left her sit and, having taken dashing gentleman by hand, with fair quickness gone away.
Another girl, her former friendmate and co-eater, has got perceptibly upset and even delved in short frustration, but then, returning back in courage, asked to bring glass of some strong wine and let both spirit, thoughts and body in bliss, delight and relaxation. Few minutes later, limply hobbling, has come unkown feeble man, not too much tall and quite gray-haired, and, having fixed himself in front of resting lady, with lifeless voice infirmly asked: "Where is my Katya? I've heard, she had to be with you."
This seeking citizen, as it has nextly turned, was no one else than current husband of the very Katerina, who has departed into room with single window with sudden brazen stranger, helped to reduce her tea and fish.
"She... She has literally vanished. As I suppose, without traces and for indefinitely long. I even bet, you'll hardly manage to return – at least, essentially soon." - with liquid smile responded yawning tipsy lady.
The hero, falling into pause, has got holistically silent and rather notably confused, not understanding sense words, met with unready to them ears, but stupor's lasting was immediately broken, as soon as only it has joint with own start, because of further elongation of discussion: "So, is it logical at all – to figure out her location. World's stage is wide, I hope, you know it. Free girls are also at each step. Just take first one and do all worst. So much of ladies at these days are unforgivably unneeded, completely ownerless and free – for all most piquant ways of use. I bet each gram of planet's gold, there is no woman at whole earth, who isn't rid of something special – of tempting words of consolation, of carnal ardor of extasis, of tight strong grip of loving hands or of mind-blowing dirty compliments and jokes. Take me myself – grab me right here, I'll only fall in utter thankfulness and gladness, as if from precious foreign gift or from the rarest of stars, dropped aptly straight from dome of sky in my awaiting spreaded palms. Just throw one single glance ahead, and you'll identify the loneliest of persons. And not just lonely, but quite thirsty for adventures, for quick enjoyment and lewd shameless occupation for sinful soul and playful flesh. So, whom you have indeed to be for not to notice - so much explicit naked hints, already turning in pure plea..."
Pink from amount of drunk alcochol hetaera has lost last modesty and care and, adding lecherousness in pose, with tartest fervor vastly separated hips, without single sign of fright, revealing all of her most sacred hidden places for richest limitless review, what by itself was superfluously enough for instant wordless understanding of main intention of past speech: "Well, look, admire and enjoy – with all, what moral ones so stubbornly keep closed, in spite of sternest asks to show..."
The hero, having quickly heeded to situation's inclination, with deftest instancy has brightly realized, what type of leisure at day's end by incomparably huge lenience of fortune will with full lavishness be shared in all accessible of forms. So, not submerging in long thinking, he has affectionately kneeled in front of lovable harlot and, gently holding her by elbow, with pleasing feeling of excitement in blissful dreamings stepped away.
"What an unbearable disaster! What kind of illness has insulted our world? What deadly tragedy has fallen at society, that it has turned so much distorted, so much dishonest, sick and lost. Which scary way have people coped to get so wrong, so morbid, valueless and shallowed. Till so much horrible degrees. But if to look at them from distance - quite decent persons, even nice. If you don't delve in them too deeply, you'll never notice any flaws. And if to try to dig till core – one freaks and scoundrels, whores and jesters. No single tolerable soul. No truly proper way of living. And what's most hurting and annoying – both greatest thinkers and worst idiots at here has equal brightness of cheeks' blush and equal speed of hairs' growth. Both you and they belong to humans, to one identic living form. World's pier today is purest abyss. Vast devastating fatal swamp. How madly want I to forget all this unending ugly horror, all dirt, duplicity and filth. I want my mind to throw it out, to wipe away like bunch of crumbs – without any slightest trace of former memory of being, which one in any of amounts is deadly harmful and destructive, as worstly pestilent of weeds. I'd like to have another living – with prudence, aimfulness and weight and with no hastening and fussing, with no involvement in lie's feast and no excess of sneering grins. I seek for rescue, for salvation, but, to incurably dark sorrow, still stay unable to attain. At least, for tiniest of moments, most fleeting, doubtful and frail." - Irina Pavlovna has sighed and, plunging thoughts in depths of anguish, directed gaze at blur of window and lost in nets of inner pain.

XI
In midst of hall of local history museum, which has survived act of renewing and repair, is sitting couple of two figures - Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin and same uncombed and sloppy boy, this time more old and more matured, about seventeen of years, but still unchangeably untidy and rid of presence of high manners, by some of reasons with quite strongly broken eye, fixed with thick covering of patch.
"I’m back for wisdom and exploring, for something deep, unique and great and, out hesitance's taste, most truly different from nothing..." - the youth has cautiously smiled and shyly yawned.
"And what's with eye? What a disturbing hellish failure?"
"Not much, just side effects of love."
"Of love?"
"Of love, each one of times ill-fated..."
"What sort of love can leave so beaten?"
"I haven't managed to get circled with another – without fighting and with presence of response. And even fighting isn't helpful – this is the worst, what I am having to admit..."
"No fist can work as key from heart. You need in sameness, into unity of natures. And even having perfect soil for connection, you can't be sure, that it'll actually happen and turn in something close to love, at least, most shaky, frail and vague, short-living, doubtful and weak, as tiny motley paper ship among of amply boiling puddle, which is already getting wet. And you've decided to begin your plot with fight – what an unthinkably mad nonsense..."
"This time I want to read of feelings, of passion, trembling, trust and heat. For to prepare useless me for future victories and heights, triumphs and harvests of devotion. Because of now all is hopeless – no melted hearts, no darkened minds, no piercing squeals, no timid whisperings at nights, no sacred fearful confessions..."
"Dreams' poison, what's most devastating, is much more tempting, sweet and catching than any honey, this is fact, but each wrong tasting ends with death... And what's of book – it's not a problem, I'll try to choose the thickest one. Hope, it will cope to correspond to your requestings." - Semyon Kirillovich has languidly got up and, having swirled at rack of shelves, with gladness handed two worn out heavy tomes: "For sake of start more than enough: first thing - Imaginary Flight and second one - Enchanted Abyss. For to leave few of scars at soul's flesh, I think, these ones will be most right."
"Well, I was looking just for such ones. So, now I’m grateful with whole heart. Till end of day I'll learn each paige as well as letters of my name."
"For you it's better to take care of yourself – to try to shy away from troubles and to put energy and strength in art of permanent maintaining of never ending daily peace." "I anyway will cope to find some risks and problems. Without them, life is too plain." "If your soul truly has got suddenly addicted to storm's presence, then, to worst dreariness and sorrow, no ones of tools will ever manage to attach you to any variant of calm, you, as before, will seek for restlessness and fury, for taste of rakishness and rave..."
"It's also art – to live as fool. And, as I guess, I have already turned too skillful in daily delving in its tragic bitter routine..."
At here they've dolefully parted. Semyon Kirillovich has mournfully got silent and lost in heaviness of thoughts: "Young hopeful life, but how much madly full of doom, how much already cracked and broken and fed with feeling of regrets. He has already coped to turn in being's victim, coped to agree to get transformed in one of others, without faith in own uniqueness and with one vainness next to fate – completely meaningless and weightless as frailest particle of sand in empty meaningless sandglass of nullifying crippling endlessness of ages. Had he at least most tiny chance on some another path of share, not too much lonely and rejected and at same time not too dependent on will and wants of someone else. This is indeed quite tricky question – the very one, what I so changelessly keep asking for so much frighteningly long... Days rush, time passes and dissolves, new ones of centuries replace exhausted old. But pain and needlessnes remain. Both with me, and with him, and with others – with all unfortunate, who ever have been born at this eternally lost planet, which, as I'm currently assured, is just unsuitable at all for to impute us any happiness and prudence." - has sighed the hero in confusion and dropped in fading and distress.

XII
In bonds of walls of empty archive of museum - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov, who once again is getting lost in bursting anguish and weaving thoughts of earthly matters, maintaing silence, doom and longing and growing hopelessness and pain.
"Eh, world - no brightfulness, no joys, no hope, no soil for good changings. If death will come to me right now, I'll have no reason to regret. All is pointless, vain, rid of sense. Till each most meaningless detail and each most secondary moment. And not to break what is assigned by plots of share, not to rewrite imputed routes. You're getting fed with food, what's given you by being, and getting poisoned too exclusively with poison, which it has chosen for to put. I am aware – I'm unable to decline this, such state remains as long as time. And at the end I'll simply die – not fact, that certainly as happy and successful, but with no single drop of doubts most unrejectably as person, I have been programmed to become."
The hero has idifferently frozen and, having lost oneself in thinking and prostration till ending point of work day, without hurry taken things and led legs' route in walls of home. Among of gloominess of streets – numb lifeless languidness and peace. Time is weak. Sky is faint. No of noise, no of people or fuss. In midst of second half of walk, at one sides of vacant road, in liquid shadowing of lonely askew fir, was met small modest trinkets' shop with oldly looking bluish roofing: not less than paradise for fans of handmade trifles. Andrei Efimovich, by useless childish habit, has crept inside and, with shy carefulness looking at the items, begun to study last ones' row, with utter swiftness having melted in excitement and waves of cuteness and delight. In role of catcher of attention this time has acted tiny doll in weird red hat and with ski stick in one of hands. The hero, fallen in enchantment, not holding fruit of artless work in hands for long, has opened worn by years wallet and, having payed, with shining happiness, stepped home.

XIII
Above of city – viscous endlessness of fog. Day is gray and oppressingly frail. Land is damp and impassively cold. Faded street is deplorably empty. Alone its lonely lifeless line, completely deserted and dreary, is slowly sliding lost in apathy and doom full of perplexion timid silhouette of woman - Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, who once again is drinking bitterness of grief and bathing soul in pain and sorrow.
"Again damn burden of existing, again frustration and distress — from days, from nothingness, from thoughts. From timeless needlessness of self. From incompleteness of life's voyage, from imperfection of its course, from changeless constancy of routine, from lack of usefulness and hope. I, as before, am incorrigibly alone. And, as before, just wait and suffer and, what's the saddest, get more old. As if I do not live at all. As if for whole my former presence I no one second was alive. No one of most infirm of moments was truly happy, pleased or glad. No one... For all past wasted years..."
Madame has tragically sighed and soon thrown glance at askew fir and at small shop with bluish roofing, placed next to basement of its trunk. Due to too curious soul's nature, she has looked in and promptly fallen into love with one quite average of toys – frail doll in weirdly looking hat of reddish color and with ski stick in one of hands.
"What an amazing piece of cuteness. So much familiar and native, as if we some strange tricky way have spent whole century together. I'll take it. Take and leave with me. Will give it care and affection. And perhaps next at one of days will truly cope to find some love. And it will turn in common toy. Or maybe all will be more hopeless and it'll just stay in vain in dust. How to predict, what lot I'll get..."
She has dropped coin, took toy doll, wrapped it up and with quickness gone out - again in abyss of dark city, in desolation, fog and gloom.


XIV
In local history museum, not changed for flown from time's length years, same changeless company of two - Semyon Kirillovich Eroshin and his eternal willful prisoner of knowledge, this time about thirty years, but still uncombed and full of zeal.
"I want to read about lecherousness and lust. I hope, you'll try to find such sort of writage... What will you answer to my plea?" - has sighed young visitor and yawned.
"Since which of times your taste has turned so much distorted? Who has addicted to such trash?"
"Once again game of fate. I've come together with one woman. With three times formerly divorced. And hundreds times loved by each stranger. But still - at least, not from whorehouse. And even careful and tender – both with me and with fatherless childs. She also makes great homemade hooch. So deadly strong, that I sometimes can't stand on feet."
"I was preserving you exactly from such share, and you have fallen in its pit with so stern zestfulness and ardor and with no yearning to resist. How inexcusably regretful and sadly stupid are lifes' paths... How madly painful to admit, that world is stronger. That each of us is just a pawn in its almighty ruthless abyss." - Semyon Kirillovich has pensively got up and dragged himself to rack of shelves.
"And what's of me, I feel immeasurably easy - like stumps in watering, not less. No plans, no worries, no awaitings. No long-term prospects, no unneeded expectations. Only permanent living with now, with all its hardships, tricks and flaws. No risks, no purposes, no duties. No gnawing brain uncertain tasks. No tying falsehood of confessions."
"Eh, as I see, world's laws have won. Without questions of replaying and with no right on other lot. But it was doubtlessly seeming, that there was some sort of chance..."
"All is not stronger than illusion, what's more – till utterest of levels, till purest paradox and rave. All things and states are just fate's toys, parts of surrounding bemusement. Game is wrong, scary, vain – rid both of meaning and of prizes. I've simply minimized my bets – the more low is your fall, the more safe it's to act into falling."
"Do you have any moments of comfort? At least, most rare and most weak..."
The hero has forlornly nodded: "Most sad, that comfort, right as peace, cannot be equalized to fair being happy. This is main tragedy, main grief. And if to deepen even more – no one of feelings and of last ones' combinations will ever manage to replace that priceless state, when you are happy."
"I'm harshly wanting to console you, but I am wordless in this case..." - Semyon Kirillovich has languidly returned and slowly handed small thin book: "It's most lewd, what we have. Not frequent topic for these walls."
"With all my sinfulness of heart I am most bottomlessly grateful. And, please, forgive me such request."
And once again one static loneliness and silence. Semyon Kirillovich has yawned and dropped his gaze: "How madly painful is existing. As worst atrocities and tortures. And each of us has some exact entrusted burden, some deeply hiding spot for crack. And even poisons here are personally chosen. Either teasingly sweet, or uneatably bitter, or just insipid – as life's taste."
The hero has infirmly sighed and, losing gaze in depths of void, submerged in dreariness and doom.

XV
In midst of tiresome room's boredom – two timid silhouettes of talkers: Semyon Kirillovich the first, Andrei Efimovich the second. Sad dialogue's essence, as before, is incorrigibly devoted to vain attempts to understand entrusted being and to detect its real sense.
"How madly huge and unconstrainable is word... How wildly difficult and tricky, how much deceptive and unsafe... Both days and people, roles and routes are full of mysteries and sercets, of straightly tons of dangers, twistedness and traps, of unexpectedness and hardships..." - Andrei Efimovich has yawned and slowly fixed his gaze at floor, involving self in thinking's thickets: "From what to start, from which of things... For to get chance to realize what's truly going at this planet."
"Start from yourself, then move to others. This is main way to climb till truth. If you've learnt everything of harbor, it's time to start to learn of ships. World's pier indeed is quite confusing, quite mashy, dubious and slick. You cannot guess, for what to cling, on what to bet and whom to trust. It's not a grief, if whip is painful, grief is when, after of its hittings, you see, that gingerbread is also already close to being stale. We can't predict – what will destroy and what will save, preserve and soothe. But still don't rush with giving up, take risks, persist and strive to goals. Don't be afraid of clumsy throwing of a pebble, shy to provoke wrong start of avalanche at end. And don’t rely on someone's helpfulness or warmth. From oldest days true people's tenderness and care have taste of genocide and hell."
"Here I entirely agree. Till most profuse and stern of tears. It's sad, but sympathy to match is always mightier and hotter, than to the breed of poor ones, who by this match were deadly burned."
"It’s so, world's pity for the bullets is hundreds times more pure and strong, than for the any ones of heads. Please note, that art not no believe in any scale of tears' presence comes up exclusively with art not to get shocked with last ones' absence. But we still keep mad morbid eagerness to faith, to seek for newness and to hope. So, don't feel wonder or surprise. It's not so difficult to trust oneself to storm as hard to stop to trust to calmness. But still who'll answer – where we'll fall. And who will push us in this falling. If someone hasn't coped with fire, do not entrust him even ash. And never look for compromises. They are worst possible mistake. Keep in mind – any fruits of bad love are much more terrible than fruits of proper hatred."
"But what to choose, what to prefer, in common abyss of decay..."
"The more affectionate is owner, the more fragile and thin is leash. This is eternaler than world. But still stay sober and hide hope - for good, for aimfulness, for sense. World's stage can be not more than toy, than tool for pleasing of your whims and implementing of your wantings. For truly huge and priceless play, it’s not a sin to build whole theater."
At this they both have dropped in silence, with dolor melting into sadness and losing last remains of ardor and zeal to struggle and insist.

XVI
In midst deserted park's darkness, in depths of dreariness and slush, is slowly walking feebly visible frail figure - Andrei Efimovich, who, as before, is wholly needless and alone.
"Only darkness and me. That is all. All given world, all life's variety. Was this what I indeed was born for... For this damned endlessness of void... What sort of use does have such role? What kind of aim could hide my being? All its sunrises and sunsets. To be, to suffer, to behold. And then to die and to dissolve. I have been dreaming of obtaining with some purpose, of priceless chance to hold saint burden of prescibtion, of constant trustful palpability of fate, of something certainly eternal, freed from devotedness to trifles and rid of influence of fuss. And what I've found here for wasted days of share, what I have managed to aquire and accomplish, what I have actually got. I have been trying to exist by rules of fate, not even thinking to forbid or contradict and never asking or performing disbelief. I had so fervent faith in reason, in something meaningful above, in sacred right on higher prospect, in timeless unity with sense. It's so much painful to admit, that whole my past was made of garbage. Of purest nothingness and dust. That I myself am just plain shadow, piece of dellusions and regrets, who'll never cope to get completeness or to turn happy and consoled. I'm just a fool, a life-long loser. Can I be even named as person, as one belonging to rest part of human breed. The only thing, that I am able to achieve – to spend remains of useless years and to end path as breathless corpse. This is the only plot of future. The only variant of next. The only outlet and rescue - from wrongness, worthlessness and self. Space of good coffin will endure all upcomers. I'll risk to parry, that me too..." - the hero has submerged in doom and, having sighed, trudged voyage further.

XVII
In local history museum – same stable company of two - Semyon Kirillovich, impassive, dark and exeptionally sad, and even sadder and upseter guesting ward – already almost forty years old, quite strongly drunk and rather heavily gray-haired.
"I once again want to re-read that hopeless book... My most favorite one - of Kospiriyal the destroyer, who has created ray of death and killed with last one each of humans. With every single spent of days, I more and more begin to feel, that I entirely agree with his irregular decision."
Semyon Kirillovich has flaccidly stood up and, after searching, calmly handed worn gray tome, so much familiar and native for fingers, memory and soul of its most careful of readers: "Here it is – take, rejoice, learn by heart. You're almost relative to these ragged out yellowed pages. But I will give you something else. At former week I had a grief: my only friend - Andrei Efimovich Shirokov has unexpectedly gone dead. Like me myself, he was not young. And, right as me, was wholly lonely. As if he somehow was foreseeing this disappearing of self, because of straightly month ago he has invited me to talk and gifted figurine of doll – in weirdly looking reddish hat and with ski stick in one of hands. It has become for him his mainest soul consoler – both helper, talisman and friend. Source of support and fate's co-player. And here this fate has simply ended. Without even single trace and with one memories as final living fruits. So, doll this time have to make travelling to you. And what's of me – I never had here even doll. All life – just constant endless search – for mutuality and purpose, for bliss of needfulness and love. But, after all, as you can see, at end of days I'm left with nothing. And now one coffin is ahead, the only finish for my being, so deadly barren, lost and vain..."
"Quite apt description of myself - same ruined route, the only difference - with less beliefs in search. And in all rest, in each of moments wholly equal – till last of trifles and details."
"Sad to admit, that being seeking here for something, at least, just deeper than decay, you vice versa get one purest decomposing, just void's cargo and not more. Andrei Efimovich was bottomlessly faithing, that all is timelessly prescribed - all days and years of your living. So, maybe, this was just bad show, which we've mistakenly percieved for real life..."
"Here I agree – with most extreme and hungry deepness. All is too dummy, too in vain. But is it source of consolation. If you exist by rules of fate, there is huge risk of finding out, that it has no rules at all. And do these rules have any sense – for to, at least, remain as human - without turning into fool and with no wanting to give up. View into memory with faith, that all is real, pace of the years from far past in void's pit, mash of facts, laws and limits, bunch of principles, swarm of affairs, rush of days, dance of news and events, storm of risks, fog of paths, feast of madness, ring of griefs, row of faces and fates... If to be honest with oneself - this does not look as life at all. Whole world, whole givenness of being, for me, is not more true than dream – false, stupid, pointless and ugly, rid of resultfulness and sense. There is no choice, no right on freedom, one pure prescribtion, plan of plot. But even if to live for real, will it be able of to add some drop of sense or to erase excess of anguish, or to endow with ghost of magic and with remotedness from pain. The only state, that each tomorrow here is hidden, that you must wait, rely and think, is much more horrible than hell. The very need to be alive and to depend on something vague, on something even not created, but only promised to come true, is not just torture, but not less than real curse. For me it's frighteningly strange – to fall asleep and to wake up, to see repeating of commitings, to share changeless incompleteness and to replay same useless actions for once and once, and once again. Not all will dare of to think, that life itself is form of burden, of something measurelessly wrong. Where are the roots of hopes and plannings - in thoughtless betting on nude chance, on game of distant blurred future, not on conditions of today. Such set is utterly uncertain, made up of rubbishness and lie, of tartest possible annoyance and taste of bitterness and pain. Fruits of faith, as a rule, are frustrating. And even totally embraced with strongest luck and fully freed from any losses, life'll never cope to give you feeling of completeness, of pleasing endedness of all and of exhaustedness of roads. The only happiness is finish, last given ticket in away. Where all of dots are stably placed and all of chances are consumed and turned in fruits. And, when you live, you have one constancy of lasting, white sheet of paper, opened play. Unended portrait, as you know, can't be a masterpiece, it's fact. So, full prescription is quite hopeful. Your path is startingly predicted and can't be fixed, exchanged or turned. All what is given – to behold and to accept, you are unable to improve what is assigned as well as equally aren't capable to spoil. Your life's scenario was written long ago, you are just temporary actor on this unsteady earthly stage. It's mad to dream, to be afraid or to gain hurry. You can't get rid of what is aimed. No one of steps can land on not awaited place. You can't get more. Can't break plot's frames. All, what you can - just to increase scale of own pain, what's even piquant, if to look in. And what's of ideals, of greatness - of highest one of forms and states... It's hardly possible at all. The very morbid need of presence, of writting path, fulfilling tasks, collecting chances and attainments is inexcusably unhealthy, distressing, burdening and wrong. The only heaven is eternal static now, without past and future days and with no motion and prolonging. It's also scary, I agree. But life is scarier, believe me. But what's of ideal as item: the brightest ray, the greatest painting, the most exalted type of sence. Yes, perhaps, somewhere they exist. But much more logical, that not. Each most bright ray will calmly meet one which's brighter, and no of paintings will turn able to stay best as no of meanings and ideas. There is no chance on true perfection. It's achievable at earth. The very fact of time and presence is nothing else than utter flaw: right of choice is straight ladder in troubles, incompleteness is torture and hell, mistakes are authors of days' going. All what's connected with the life or any other form of being, where start is torn away from end, is purest tragedy and farce. The only source of real comfort here is coffin, meek gates of finishing and freeing from all and everything you had – from fuss, from uselessness, from falsehood, from trifling victories and gainings and fatal losses and defeats – so madly frequent, when you're breathing..."
"You drink so much, that time from time it's hard to watch. But mind still faithfully with you. What's more – how brilliant and acute are your conclusions, views and notes!"
"The saddest thing, this doesn't save. Today mind's presence serves as burden. As most unbearable of flaws. With last one being feels more painful, more inappropriate and wrong. And the more endless is your mind, the more unshakable are chances, that you will die as total fool. But as for me, death by itself is quite good option. At least, more promising and hopeful, than any components of life. Death is an outlet, an exit – away from all of things and people, from every deal and occupation and each participant and guest of share's personal encircling, which never helps you to turn happy, no slightest matter, whom it's formed and how much vastly and diversively it's tailored. No smallest difference at all, who are inhabiting your being – either charmingly smart and exalted or frustratingly stupid and plain, either come to decieve and leave broken or vice verse with whole fervidness and passion performing zeal of to be tricked and cracked themselves. They all are equally unable as to free route from crippling shakles of prescription, as to endow with taste of sense. What to await for, if the very damned encircling is by itself, to tartest apathy, not more than straightest outcome and fruit of your significance and value for plans and purposes of doom..."

XVIII
In midst of lonely alley's twilight, is weakly crawling hunched silhouette of woman: Irina Pavlovna Besprudnykh, completely rid of hopeful spirit and of past zestfulness to live, already noticeably aged and rather seriously faded. And, as before, again alone.
"Am I indeed again alone? Has it indeed coped of to happen, that I will always stay like that? Till ending one of days and minutes. Is it really true? For whole my life I was so zealously asking for selfless unity and love, for mutuality and frankness, and I'm still totally alone - without tenderness and care, without passion, warmth and bliss, without someone’s timid speech and with no joy of understanding. No slightest drop of even frailest explanation, for what of aims I have been born. For what unknown vague use I have been breathing here and blinking, awaiting, trying, keeping faith. From such of thoughts all of insides get taken out – like from huge splash of boiling water straight into farest depths of soul. I guess, life simply brewing pain before of giving me to drink it. How much unbearable to be. And at same time, how madly funny, that I'm still striving, changing days, not going crazy and not howling, but simply getting more upset. How wild and strange it's, that I stay able to believe, that even look sometimes in mirror..."
Irina Pavlovna has sighed and, trudging up through muddy puddles, slowly melted.


AFTERWORD:
In small old courtyard reigns spirit of tart fuss: vast people's crowd wait for act of someone's burying, not of an ordinary person, which's quite indifferent, of cource, but at this time of wholly lonely, what gladly means, that there is most heavy chance to snatch some things – which ones can simply be expensive, for poor breed such lot looks great. Among of local flock of beggars stands one broad-shouldered, skinny silhouette of man, with some strange doll and with small copper flask of wine.
"They’re carrying her, time to move forward!" - has bravely shouted to others one of homeless and group has swiftly rushed in dwelling. Each one has instanly proceeded of to rummage – ones into chests, ones into wardrobes, with ardor grabbing needful items into armfuls and then protecting stolen goods from others' hands. Tall skinny barefoot with doll has come the last, walked through of wilderness of room and stopped in corner at piano, having suddenly got deeply stunned – next to the folder with songs' notes, was shyly standing small worn doll - exactly same as our hero had himself - in weirdly looking reddish hat and with ski stick in tiny palm of one of hands, what with no notable of reasons has thrown in strongest wave of feelings, mixed up with utter acute grief and tameless bitterness and sorrow, enslaving heart by shrinking ring of endless pain and plunging soul in storm of bottomless frustration and inexcusable regret.
The hero has got stiffly frozen and deeply delved in unexplainable confusion and then, unmanageably getting wholly numb, embraced both dolls, pressed them to chest and amply sobbed.






It can be so, that I'm the happiest of all.

I
In midst of tiresome room's wasteland, in bonds of idleness and thoughts, is meekly spending term of day - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, completely lonely and unneeded, torn off from any sort of luck, full of mind's blooming ships' inventor. Day's going, being wholly flaccid, is deadly passive, weak and frail, rid of resultfulness and numb.
"Already midday – breaking point, conjunction's place of past and next, and I'm still wasting my noon's timing and bathing self in mash of thoughts of something vague and unknown - of distant past, of ended chances, of hopeless fate and sticky constancy of doom. I would be glad to calm myself with each most windy consolation, but it’s not easy to get purified from doubts and to attain state of forgottenness and piece. I once again remain in apathy and anguish and once again resist to grief and to desire to to surrender and to dissolve zeal's flame in fuss."
Here it makes sense to give brief dose of prompt reporting of nature's aspects of the hero, who, being frighteningly shy and always lonely and rejected, to worst of sorrows and regrets for whole vain term of former share was unfamiliar at all with any case of love or care, at least, most fleeting, dim and frail. This fact, destroying and upsetting, was sadly acting both as burden and as reducer of downtrodden self-esteem till most offensive, sick and pitiful degrees. So at frustrated empty now, with pain complaining to oneself of living failures, he was involving more and more in pit of dreariness and fright, ruining rests of past calm's presence and turning confidence in dust.
"I need to leave, to go out. At least, for trifling hour's half. If I'll stay here, I'll start to howl."
Path's plot was free to lead legs' pair in any latitudes and routes, just for to save from bonds of void. From nets of pain and from lost self. So, having crossed both door and porch and with forlornness looked around, Philip Evgenievich has fallen in harsh stupor and delved in thinking - where to go.
"To people's masses – to main square! In storm of rumors, news and mugs. Not best of shelters, but still workable for hiding from inner fading and regrets. What is already a salvation. At least for few of minutes' dozens."
So, not too swiftly having put own tired flesh to place of meetings, feasts and drunkenness, exhausted hero has proceeded to behold and to research gray swarm of people, submerging self in last ones' fuss. In all observable directions – same all-consuming static chaos of beggars, sellers, goods and carts, exchangers, loaders, cripplers, gamblers, performers, vagabonds and sluts. All ones with something deeply own - some with sharp craving for adventures, some with stern urgency to fight or to cheer soul with dirty plays, some with necessity in quarrel or into cause to prove themselves. Without smallest deviations, completely ordinary state. Next to old lonely shabby booth with latest tickets to the cinema and theater, keeps peaceful loafing idle figure – one of troupe’s actors Timofey, agile brave youth, pure women's idle and former classmate of Philip.
"Good lavish afternoon, love's catcher! What is with art in our days and with your personal existence?"
"All is quite standard – drink and play, right as before, swim into sinfulness and lust, sink into orgies, small and large, and never sadden or regret – at least, for single shortest minute. This is, my brother, how I live. And, what's of art, it's also fine."
"Not faint. Approach is pretty graceful, but still quite empty, like dry cup..."
"But what is full, my dear friend – love, thinking, family or work... Such ones are burdens, freedom's killers, which only puzzle, rid of self."
"You are unchangeable, my comrade."
"I'm stable idiot, it's fact. And I am proud to admit it. What else we need for to be happy, except of dashingness of zeal."
"If I'll become one day a sculptor, you'll see your monument the first."
"Please, from one gold and not more modest. All other ones aren't of my weight."
At here was time to say goodbye and to get parted till new meetings – till new well-known tasteless jokes and new indifferent vain talkings.
And once again back to damned cargo of inner emptiness and thoughts. Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, not expecting to turn able to calm down, trudged route's direction in past prison of flat's walls – in swamp of painfulness and silence and into burning mind in ashes bonds of oppression and distress, erasing last remaining traces of former bloom of hopes and soul, which as a rule here is not reachable at all, if you had grief of to arrive in world alive.

II
Among of walls of lonely doleful lighthouse – meek dreary company of two - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov and Igor Karlovich Rechnoy, his only friend and thinkings' sharer, in same scale gloomy and unhappy, already old and firmly rid of any hope. The theme of dialogue is not rich – again of dreariness and sorrows, of living's wrongness and life's flaws.
"This damned world - huge, gigantic and great, vast and crazy. Which way to learn it, to accept – where to get logic, weight and meaning in its abyss? If such ones really exist." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and stretched with weariness and fright.
"Yes, worst world's curse is its complexity, you're right. No slightest matter, how it's bitter, but life is morbid and insane. But, due to vastness of its abyss, it still has endless scope of spaces for prudence, usefulness and sense. We still are able to find million of reasons for to rely on sort of hidden higher plan, not understandable by mind and so much infinitely long, that no one ever will detect it. Such precious chance is still alive – chance, that not everything is aimless. Do not forget, the less harmonious are steps, the more harmonious is voyage. The more disturbingly and wrongly snow was falling, the more appealingly it'll melt. There are no arguments to doubt. The more loud is time, the more silent are clocks. So, do not shy of given risks. The more inhuman here are howls of fallen ones, the more assured, strong and firm are grips of ones, who're keeping climbing. The more thin are the hands, the more intensive, tart and loud is squall of notes, the last ones play. The more hard, troublesome and twisted is act of envelope's delivery to reader, the more heartwarming are text's words."
"But do not judge about thunder by either lightning or by rain. It's rather sad, but full stones' absence is not a sign of heads' excess. The thinner claws belong to luck, the thicker claws belong to problems. You cannot argue with such wrongness. Life is more painful, than we think. It's tough, but ones, who've stolen boots, can also steal both gait and walker. You can't predict, what will console and what will sadden and leave crippled. Just heed, the longer you are drowning, the more it seems, that you still float. Stage of reality and fate is always out of observing. No weakest matter, from which angle do you look. You'll either lose last taken nail, or will forget, how to hold hummer, or will find absence of the wall. Don't throw from mind, that one nude mix of stars and darkness is not enough for being turned in proper sky."
"I know, each truly daring miss is much more dangerous than aptest ones of bullets. It's rather hard to be alive. If you have fallen into love with heights of sky, your wings will likely never grow. It's life – the silenter is product, the more unstopable in talking is its price. And not to change it, not to break. The more thin here are threads, the more thick, powerful and stern are pulling hands. And too much easy to give up. It's madly weird, but fact of longest problems' presence is always simpler in acceptance, than shortest givenness of absence of solutions. The more deep and more dark is pit's cave, the more inviting, smooth and cozy is its bottom. And not to cut all of world's corners, not to build circles from its forms. The more wide is each space for success, the more predictably it'll stay completely empty."
"It's deadly sad, but vain blind-minded faith in carrot from time to time is even scarier than stick. You want to try, when you are young and unaware, but then you start to understand and once give up. It hurts, but cost and shape of spoon have no of influence on quality of food. The more strong is your thirst, the less appropriate is water. The more perceptible are losses, the more intangible are finds. The more wrong is mistake, the more unbeatable is zeal of to repeat it. And the more meaningless is game, the more indifferent are prizes. Without map your path is doomed; without path your map is aimless."
"It's sad and dark, but so we live - the more high are the stakes, the more low is the play. The size of fishing rod or net is not a law for fish's amount. And the more amply was done watering of seeds, the less essential and lavish will be harvest. Don't lose from mind – world's flaws are frighteningly stubborn. The more flamboyantly creaks guillotine, when works, the more intensively pours laugh of executor. And not to blossom, not to soar. Just to wait and to fade, that is all. But people like it – with whole heart. The more futile and vain is labor, the more demanded is such work. It's not a paradox, it’s fate. And the more colorful and long is tail of luck, the more indistinct, pale and short is it itself."
"The more unique and rich is ticket, the more rejecting and disgusting are fellow travelers and route. This fact is also quite not new. And if you die, you turn in nothing. And the more hot and brigh is fire, the more insipid, faint and faceless are its ashes. The more loud and strong is the sound, the more lifeless and numb is its echo. This is more workable than law. And not to fall in hugs of better, not to rewrite imputed rules. It's sad, but skillfulness of wings is not a key from sky's perfection. And not to outplay fate's pace. Not to discover – what to hope for. The more you look in depths of meaning, the more illogical it seems. Do not forget, the more it's easy for the hammer, the less it's bearable for nails."
"Here must be also something same, but only working vice versa - the thicker nonsense you're observing, the deeper aimfulness it hides. But not to catch it, not to verify and grab. Sick worlds are not for healthy brains. This is main principle of learning. Wrong locks are free from proper keys. And pain is always slightly stronger. The lower density have buildings, the higher density has mash of last ones' wreckage. And not to part with bonds of pessimism and doom. Such ones are always somewhere near - stretch only out any hand. But the more stern is bullets' flight, the more uncertain, frail and weak is faith forehead. And too much easy to surrender or to refuse to wait and try. The more indefinite and long is act of struggle, the lower meaning stays in gathering of trophies. And life is mercilessly bad – if you're acquainted with the corners, you have no interest in circles and their search."
"Yes, you are tragically right. The more pure is the author of fire, the more of dirt hide ones, who come for to get warmed. If we'll forget, which way to mount graves for losers, we'll hardly manage to remember of what it is to rise up cups for ones, who've won. And the more loud you are calling for rain's drops, the more emotionless, indifferent and quiet will be arrival of drought's starting. And not to stay alive for long, not to get saved from all of horrors. The later fire's flame burns out, the sooner ash gets washed away."
"The more pretty if torch, the more ugly are scalds. But sometimes fools are guilty themselves. Ones, who're not satisfied with food, try to get satisfied with poison. And too much stupid it's to wait or to keep hope. The more strong are coast's stones, the more swift are waves' flows. But still stay obstinate and nimble. The more deft are the legs, the more vain are the traps. Do not forget – delayed sunrise turns in sunset. And not to win, not to get out. And the more elegant are talismans and idols, the more rejecting are the ones, who carry faith. The more bright is the face, the more dim are the mirrors. This fact explains whole current life – each right on dish includes in self same right on poison. World is sick, broken, mad. And the more sternly we hate cake, the more wholeheartedly and hotly we praise crumbs. The more we're learning of the peel, the less we're knowing of the orange."
"Yes, I agree, here are all we. Ones, who aren't able be boastful with their heads, try to be boastful with their headsmen."
At here, they've hopelessly gone silent and, after pause, said brief goodbyes and slowly parted.

III
In midst of tiresome street's noise – faint shaky silhouette of walker - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, again escaping from own thoughts. From bulky abyss of lights, cars, shops' boards and faces, with sternness teeming with tart vanity of fuss, blows with meek usual mix of rush and routine. All is emotionless and boring. Nothing new, only grayness and doom.
In narrow arch, next to the bakery – three persons: pale, skinny, trembling lifeless drunkards, with passion waiting for some alms. So, having sneaked between of last ones and with shy languor slipped inside, the hero has climbed up by stairs and slowly entered vast hall, full of sweet smelling of fresh bread. At rack in center, right as always, full of heart's energy and smile plump cheerful owner, Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, endless tireless lover of life, stopless twaddler and restless zestfully persistent, friend, teacher, helper and supporter for every single sudden stranger, met minute earlier or less and also father of five children.
"Good joyful day! From which of roads?"
"As usual – path from home to food." - Philip Evgenievich has yawned and briefly smiled.
"And we were going to the opera – for foreign one, what's by itself is sort of feast. We were so glad, so full of ardor and excitement, that even, not exaggerating, were in straight readiness to squeal and to get lost in storms of shiver."
"Yes, art is mightiest of matters, here I confirmingly agree." - Philip Evgenievich has mumbled with dose of hesitance in voice and, having taken plate with order, sat at first window and dissolved in gloom of thoughts: "Again all ones are wholly fine – with all life's pleasures and attainments: both leisure, family and mood. Each joy and dainty in one pack. And I'm alone – unneeded, useless. No hopes, no fruitfulness, no aim. All my life I just wait and regret. With only emptiness and pain in role of company for being. As if from earliest of days am wrong and cursed by will of heaven. Who I am – pawn and slave of all griefs. From any thinkable of states I have one permanent stagnation. So inappropriate, so lost. Why do I live - if all is useless, if no relations, heights or gains. There is no difference – alive I am or not. If I will die right here and now – world will not notice it at all. No one will suddenly get stunned or fall in slightest shortest sadness. What are my reasons for to be... What do I gather and acquire... Without love, without purpose, without any drop of weight. Not to imagine someone less involved in prudence. Not to create by any tools."
Philip Evgenievich has yawned and, having gazed inside of window for few minutes, got up and trampled back to home. Among of streets – same mix of fuss: same cars and houses, same faces. Doom, routine, vanity and fog.
"How much trifling is all. How much silly." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, adding pace, led path ahead,  in former void and new pains.

IV
It's not too frequent, when you walkingly meet runners. But being's pier is full of any of strange facts. As soon as only legs have parted with the house, Philip Evgenievich has met swift fleeting figure, with speed of bullet rushing up - Anton Denisovich, an athlete and also one of hero's friends, who, having noticed last one's presence, has dropped past fastness and, at time of getting closer, with zeal stretched out in strong voice: "Sport's blessing! How are yor doings?"
"Quite smooth... And yours?"
"Me great – on run."
"Then all the best."
"Thanks and same wishings to your plots."
At here ways' voyagings have gradually parted.
"He runs, burns, blossoms, lives and dreams. And I am rotting, fading, grieving. Drink doom and wait for better days. Lose hope and waste entrusted share. Without pleasure or, at least, right to get calmed. For what exactly do I live? Who'll ever answer... And will such answer be enough... Where is my meaning, weight or joy? Will be some sense - at least at end of living term... Term, which no moment has been happy. Term with no chances and no aim. And with one single constant torments and changeless role of empty place. Not to beat frames of fate, not to break, not to equip path's course with grace. Not to get hidden from prescription, not to rewrite cracked share's plots. He runs and rushes, tries to stay prudent. And where to run from lost myself... Not best of questions, if to ask it. Such one, which's answers try to kill..." - Philip Evgenievich has faded and, deeply sighing, crawled ahead.

V
At stably empty faceless tower of lighthouse, as usual – two of people's shadows. And once again with thoughts and talk.
"How deadly foggy, dim and twisted is every single of fate's paths, how madly tricky, strange and hazy..." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and plunged his gaze in grave of floor.
"Here, I suppose, must be some logic. In fact of hiddenness of paths. Without darkness into roots, there is no lightness into leafage. And this is maybe just for better – for higher fruitfulness of plots. The more elusive are your tools, the more exclusive is you purpose."
"Yes, having stopped to be afraid of fallen problems, the most important one of things is not to start to be afraid of their solutions. This is main twistedness and trick. It's mad, but fighting for the stick is always bloodier than fighting for the carrot. And not to fall to proper soil, not get out of days' pit. It's timeless curse, but any arsonist, as rule, is much less notable than fire. It tells whole truth of living's game. The less prolonged is temporality of places, the more immortal is their timelessness in art."
"The more harmonious is lie, the less convenient is truth. The more flameboyantly burns heat of entertainments, the higher coldness hides in tears. And not fix this, not to shake. Wrong ships don't sink in proper manner. But the more tragic are the tools, the more beloved are fruits of labor..."
"You're right, the harsher is wind's howl, the more pathetic is leaves' rustling. But not to satisfy heads' breed – they always see some sort of problems – either hat is too tight, or pace of headsman is too slow. And all results, right by the way as well as any ones of causes, are always hidden, put aside. The more indistinct is the arsonist at deal, the more remarkable is fire. And the more piercing here is frost, the more heart-burning is heat's coming."
"The more convincing are the notes, the more infirm is last ones' playing. This is well-known – till worst of pains. The smaller aim here is in fire, the higher aim is in extinguisher, it's fact. The more dim is the sun, the more thick, tart and dark are the clouds. And not to open something different from this. The more easy is choice, the more hard outcomes it carries. And the harder you try, the less good you achieve. You'll never fix wrong seeds by adding of right soil. If you have spoiled something full, it will keep emptiness forever. And the more tasty is the food, the more disgusting are leftovers. And not to break this, not to tame."
"Yes, sadness, bitterness and horror. You can't rise beautiness of buds by adding thorns. It's not a greatness, if whole world was made for you, true greatness is if you deserve it to destroy. But this is ticket to annoyance. The more intensive is your memory of thorns, the more indifferent is memory of roses."
"Yes, the more merciless is hatred to cup's hull, the more tender is softness for splinters. But each of us has come for own. The more common are paths, the less identical are walkers. And not to help to fall in love with waves of seas to ones, who've chosen drops and droplets. The more tough is the stick, the less fresh is the carrot. The less you sob from loss of buds, the more you smile from gain of thorns."
"The more loud is chain, the more docile is shackled neck. Here it's the basis of the basics. The less appropriate are words, the more appropriate is silence. The more it's easy not to notice fact of match, the less it's easy to forget about fire."
"The more fragile is cause for happiness and gladness, the more unbreakable is cause for grief and pain. The higher mercy hides in natures of controllers, the more tyrannical is doing of control. But just ignore – all brakes and rules. You'll never cope to be of elephant's importance, if you'll decide to learn from flies. But this is not much more than foam. The more wasteful is pier, the more modest are ships. The more intensively gets older hall of circus, the more assertively its clowns do all their best for to look young. So we live..."
"Or extinct, how to know..."

VI
In midst of flowering park's abyss, full of warm bliss of weekend day, not showing any signs of zeal and drinking tartness of dispassion, was coyly sitting pensive figure - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, who, having left from walls of house, has come to look at life of world, which, as before, was wholly rid of ardor's spirit and lost in steadiness and rest, with frozen constancy of boredom and all-consuming hugs of numbness, sleep, haze, oblivion and fright. No of fuss, no of noise, no of wind. And even sullen disk of sun is pale and tiresomely muted. Quite soon, to ending of past peace, has shown oneself drunk calm's destroyer Timofey with two same actresses in set – glad, cheerful, frisky, brisk and crazy.
"Well, friends in outrage, let's start. I’d like to make you even worse. Sit here. You too. Well, landing is completed. Why you're as stone on ancient grave - it’s not for me to teach you, dears, spread your legs and expose all, what's lovely. And grab each other. Skirts also have to be pulled up. And take off all, what's under skirts. I've come exactly not for boredom. You, as I was formerly learnt, too." - so, having properly arranged both sinful ladies, he has self-confidently yawned and, having made long sip of wine, dissolved in depths of carnal leisure, detached from shame or moral brakes.
"Oh, how much nice it's to be yours. Like in dreams' lands or into paradise, not less." - has squealed with trembling first of ladies, in fury grasping with her fingers pale skin of wrists of other girl.
"Oh yes, how wonderful, how blissful. As into fairy tale, turned true." - the second one, without thinking, has with keen eagerness picked up, performing wave of growing rapture and bursting out with strained groan.
"You, our sweetie, is most perfect, most great and plentiful of all. So madly good it's to have glory of belonging - to priceless abyss of your bonds. I've never been so full of fervor for whole entire former life. Oh, how much lustful I am now!"
"Yes, right till trembling into soul."
"Why you're just sitting and beholding? I am already worstly wet."
"Me too – in ampliest of measures."
"For such impudent lewd confessions, you have to punish us with shame, to check yourself all what is humid – in any manner you'll prefer: with both of lips of just by finger. All will be anyway you want. For sinful us each one of choices is a gift. So, act, as brazenly as given: take, taste, examine and obtain. Don't keep your fantasies in self. Catch, tease and tempt. And we will greedily approve."
"Yes, all most sweet is in forbidden. Yes, do it, our playful owner, like at last evening in Pompeii."
"Yes, curb us, heal us - from this thirst, which always pesteringly reigns between of legs."
"And me, and me! I also suffer from same thirst!"
"Oh, shameless creatures, I will show you!" - having swiftly stood up and then, with wildly boiling frenzy, cracked dried up bottle by first noticed pillar's pole, excited hero has put off his long tailcoat and, having done few somersaults, without falling in delays, delved under callingly raised skirts, provoking storm of thrilling moaning and gladly gathering young heat.
"He lives, reaps joys and sharpens soul. Full of attention and of love. Blooms, wins and melts in seas of bliss. All of heights and of fruits at one plate. And me.... Resultless, broken, aimless. Unneeded, worthless, useless, vain. No hope, no future, no success. No single chance on any prospects. I just await and bath in pain. Without pair, mutuality or warmth. From disgustingly barren green youth and till same pointless today I am alone. Days and nights. No new acquaintances, no partners. No drop of unity or heat. No timid shamefulness, no tender sleepy whispers. No flight, no fire, no relief. Only emptiness, darkness, despair. Anguish, dreariness, doom. Murk, futility. Pain. Like there is no role for me, no place. One role of wanderer and seeker. Pure piece of nothingness, not more. And then I'll die and all will end. How much painful life is, how much lost. And how much small in it is me. How inconsolable, how hopeless - from every thinking of all this." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, having glanced at fallen trio, got up and silently trudged home.

VII
And once again lighthouse's tower and two unknown with joy guests. And once again frail hopeless dialogue.
"There are no people for to trust to. No ones, who will not leave with harm. Each, who has ever broken light bulb, will have no fright to break whole sun. And he will break it, if such whim will be allowed."
"They even mock. With opened smile and boiling pleasure from making somebody deceived. Ones, who've formerly stolen your hammer, will gift you first of all a nail. Each single second we must choose – whom to be with, what to consume and where to go. If you're not careful, you're dead. And, having once agreed on friendship with an ax, you'll never cope to stay in friendship with wood's logs. And no big matter, how much sturdily you try, scale of results will be the same. Bad fish, as rule, do not get fixed by proper rod. Not all depends on ourselves. Good seeds not always mean good harvest. All is too risky, too unknown. And no of us have keys to truth or any rights on having value, at least, most trifling, short and blurred, as dying spark at burning's end."
"This is main curse of all imprisoned in life's play. The more it's easy here for tree without leaves, the less it's difficult for leaves without branches. If world and fate don't rush to cling for your existence, don't cling yourself for being's frames. But pit of living is indeed not best accessible of places. The more sweet, smooth and rid of flaws is similarity of objects, the more stiff, terrible and painful is last ones' differences scope. And, the more sinless are the dishes, the more exceptionally sinful is every gram of spices' curbs. But still don't crush remains of zeal. Do not forget of simplest law: without knowledge of the letters, there is no knowledge of the words."
"Yes, all is spoiled - whole world's cradle. And not to fix it, not to save. The less you're pitiful to buds, the more supportive you're to thorns. And the more difficult it is to turn mistaken, the more it's easy to refuse from turning right."
"But life itself is not of rightness. It's more of horrors and regrets. All it can offer you - pain, stupidness and griefs. And not to guess, what here is stick and what is carrot. You cannot tell what is your chance, and what is burden and damnation, what is inviting into trembling, and what is door in calm and peace. You can't predict, what will be helpful, and what will serve as path to end, what will bring wisdom off conclusions, and what will pass with no of use. Of course, mind's presence can be priceless, but only after you will pay for every outcome, determined by mind's absence. Not so expensive are the lessons, if you're aware how expensive is each ignorance of to learn."
"We don't remember light of lanterns, but gladly memorize the ones, who've crashed or stolen last ones' light-bulbs. We have whole planet of full idiots, it's scary, where each of us is not just broken, but also merciless and sick. And not to stop this storm of horror – each one, who've managed to kill writer, will never try to save his scribes. And not to know – what to shy of. Each one who threatens you with gun can calmly kill you using poison. And the more pretty is the liar, the more destructive is his lie."
"The less significant is culprit, the more impressive is his guilt. And life is bottomless and dashing. And each its bright and flashy carrot is nothing more than twisted method to sweeten facelessness of stick. And even death here, in such frames, is not so dreary. At least more honest and more pure. One truly firm and weighty point is much more priceless, nice and aimful than any tons of empty words."
"Yes, not to gather fruits of sense, not to get out from doom's fetters. Not having memories of cup, you'll have no painfulness from splinters. World's pit is hopeless and offensive, where any horror looks as norm. As tool for sharpening of passions. For fire, scalds are sort of routine, for ones, who've got them – lifelong curse. And the more dense is haze of madness, the more exalted are mind's rays."
"The only goal is to survive, to save oneself and to find rescue. Not to get suddenly transformed in shit or victim and not to lose own link with sense. So, don't have worries of the others – of their damned fates and daily lifes. You can't observe more aimless trifles than deaths or pains of trifling fates. But greatness also isn't rich. And the more smooth are sides of road, the more uneven such a road is itself."
"Yes, rain is poor roofs' repairer. As well as pain is wrong creator of joy's taste. And not to fall in bonds of balance. When keys are different, locks too cannot be same. This is result of rules of world: you're either target here or bullet. And life itself is one, who're shooting. And not too aptly, by the way."
"You're right, we're feeling smell of burning, just when whole house is just burnt. And the more easy it's to stuck in something stupid, the less it's easy to turn able to forget of this miss-happening, when you've already gladly managed to climb out. This is main source of most of curses. Fools are afraid of having dreams, smart ones – of fruits of dreams' fulfillment."
At this shy point act of thoughtfulness was stopped.

VIII
In walls of spacious working room, full of thick books and yellowed drawings - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, this time devoted to the labor and strained by cargo of its tasks.
"Well, what I'll do with insufficient displacement... I guess, I'm having to increase. There is some chance, that ship will manage not sink. Or even somehow will be floating. What is already more than luck - with so unthinkably huge loading." - the hero, searching for solution, with eating feeling of concern has once again, preserving faith in feasibility of progress, got slowly bent above of model and started out with attempts of finding safely looking ways of further rising of its sizing with simultaneous maintaining of former talent to sail forward and to resist to will of waves.
"Task is not obvious, let's take it, that's why not simple and not clear. But this is burden of creator: to embody in life all, what's mad." - the hero, keeping zestful seeking, has longly yawned in disappointment's upcoming and then delved back in glue of thoughts, still sharing optimism to cope to add capacity to vessel.
"It's even strange – to have no outlet at all, not too much frequent situation for even trickiest of goals. I guess, not always smooth and flawless, but some, at least, most odd decision without doubts should exist. The only thing is just to see it and then to dare to imply."
Philip Evgenievich has sat in front of table and, sorting papers at its surface, returned in depths of mental storms, with sternness spinning all accessible approaches, when rather soon got swiftly brightened in sudden feeling of relief: "No drop of twistedness or magic – damned anchor has to go to hell, ship can slow down with its engine, I'll also lighten both of desks – they shouldn't lose too much of previous endurance, at final stage I'll deepen hull due to enlargening of bilge. Still how incredibly successful all of these changings have come up. Like pure breakthrough and innovation – and not less brilliant and brave."
So, having tested each improvement and twicely checked work of first prototype at pull, he has relaxedly stretched out, submerging mind in soothing calmness of meek tranquility and peace, with instant promptness caged attention in tart serenity and joy. The last left need was to get rid of formal trifles, completely solvable and simple, but still combined in one dimensionless tight abyss, free to determine almost all.
"Well, as I guess, new ship is ready. Time to report to chief of dock for to rebuild it into sake of my great plans." - Philip Evgenievich has sat in pit of chair and, having stuck in bonds of drawings for extra several of hours, put own belongings into bag and meekly walked to walls of home.
In midst of hopeless faded streets – thick faded abyss of fog's masses. Pale blurred guarding sadness lanterns are deeply full of piercing distance dim cold light. In all around reigns tart presence of despair, firm static gloominess and anguish. No joy, no vividness, no life. One doom and silence – vast and stern. Like into coffin, not more pretty.
"Why do I live here and what for... For which of targets, plans and missions... All I have – just to wait and to suffer, to bath in emptiness and pain and to lose confidence and faith. To look at life and not to live. What a path, what a fate – rubbish, dust. No rights, no chances, no achievements. No warmth, no hopefulness, no bliss. Just one eternal endless void and tons of causes to get lost. In grief, in needlessness and vainness. In storm of hastening and fuss. In heaps of torments and in heaviness of sorrows. How much disturbingly upsetting is to admit, that all your being is much less meaningful than crumb. It's madly doleful and tragic not to find purpose and life's aim. There is no hope on lavish finish with wholly empty barren start. Why do my days still keep to go, for what of outcomes and fruits. All I'm capable of in my living – to cut it off and get erased. As I can mournfully conclude, I'm not appropriate for better – as broken lantern for establishing of light. And all what's given in such state is one meek tragical acceptance. Destructive, bitter, sick and sad."
Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, fraily quickening his pace, dissolved in fog. This time without any meetings – in frames of company with self.

IX
How sharply bright can be day light, when you are leaving hall of cinema performing, where your forgetful timid presence has calmly eaten few of thrilling fleeting hours. Right so, returning from seat's cradle, Philip Evgenievich was doing shaky steps with numb from steady staying legs. In foyer's space, as usual, teems and boils crowd – all sorts of faces, suits and shoes. Each one is fussy and delighted and full of chattering and laugh. At vacant spot in front of mirror – small motley platform for receiving of autographs. On its pedestal – Timofey, who into film was in a role of ardent lover, by sides from him – two brisk young actresses in fashionable dresses and at some distance silent stuntman in bloody bandages and cast. Among of group of these diversive slaves of art – glad joyful company of viewers, already perfectly well-learnt - Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, his wife and ample flock of children, who're making photographs and pestering with questions.
"Which way you've coped to be so perfect? So bright and brilliant – as sun!" - has asked excited shining woman, directing sight at Timofey.
"I’m just an ideal, an idol..."
"Oh, yes, oh, yes - he’s pure Apollo! " - one of the actresses has speedily caught up with overwhelming zestful vigor.
"You has been playing till straight breaking, till highest point of flame's peak!"
"I’m not an angel, I am better."
"He's not an angel, I'm confirming, he is not less than our God!"
"May I take pictures of my kids in hugs of you?"
"No doubts, certainly. Of course."
"Even here they have coped to appear, what an unbearable annoyance, more indestructible, than hell. No place, no outlet, no rescue. No single chance to rest in calm." - Philip Evgenievich has dropped remains of mood to state of final devastation and, drily quickening own pace, in harshest anguish walked away.

X
In midst of tartly loud pier of wasteful stadium's expanses, among of shouts, screams and squeals, hangs strongest reigning of disorder. Both snatching, pushing, jumps and running. At sea of sits – vast raging plenty of spectators. In eyes – wild boiling of excitement. In mouths – glittering of smiles. In some, most skillfully prepared, even whistles. So, gun has shot in flesh of sky, and start of contest was proclaimed. Mixed squall of roar has increased. Few groups of athletes have unstoppably rushed up. Palms have proceeded to stern clapping. Cups of beer have begun to turn over and splash themselves in depths of throats. Flags have upraised to heaven's dome. Ones, who had cameras, right here, not losing any single second, have into hurry swiftly pointed hazed lenses and, keeping steadiness of pose, delved into process of recording. Ones, who had only set of eyes, were by plot's lot forced to get limited with watching. All is within of usual standards. But still with presence of some spark and not without of flame's storming. And now already prizes' giving. On plate of podium, as always - Anton Denisovich Broskov, this time successful glad obtainer of three assured freshly taken shiny golds.
"I'd like to thank all of supporters. Both each of you and coach, and mayor. For our city and its glory I am ready to bet even life." - has said cheered up exalted athlete and, having thrown his hat in air, stomped back to celebrate new medals and to smack aftertaste of win.
"Well, once again he is a winner. Again in prizes and on top. What an abnormally excessive fortune's care." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, having suddenly heard growing wave of noise, with slight bemusement turned around.
"You, brainless imbecile, have failed to understand? Whom are you counting to meet with? I have no interest in morons. I'm not so mentally unhealthy for to waste time on freaks like you. Why you're still staring, piece of garbage? Why does your ugly filthy muzzle remain to stay in front of me? Without minimal shame's trace, as if you're even are enjoying." - one not too ravishing or bright, but full of furiousness lady, placed few of sitting rows behind, has bursted out with harsh screaming at frail and bashful fellow youth.
"Well, someone has been driven off. And I was hoping for acquaintance... What a great idiot indeed. No, not at here for such of plannings to come true. I guess, it's better just to stand and to drag self to walls of home."

XI
In midst of lonely liquid gloom of lifeless doleful lighthouse – same silent company of two - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov and Igor Karlovich Rechnoy, again grouped up by will of fate for further timid conversations of being's flaws and living's plots.
"I, as before, am incorrigibly alone – for all my time, since birth till now, I stay unneeded and torn off. As if I'm wholly dead at all. As if rejected and forbidden just by the very inner logic of this world. As if most mercilessly cursed not less than straightly right by heaven. I'm just alone – for days and years. Just alone and alone - like I’m dead. As if driven away from fate's rightness. As ill dark blot at flesh of world. Once again and again just alone and alone - how can it be, who'll cope to tell..." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and begun to await for an answer.
"Do you perceive such state as strange? Or are you really believing, that you had rights on something else? Whole never ending row of humans, combined in countless society, if you'll provide more close acquaintance with common principles and laws of their habitual arrangement, will have most firm and certain look of set of synchronized machines, well-trained for talking, heeding, quarreling and teasing and neatly tuned for unmistakable reflecting of global statements and ideas, prescribed in uniform in style and essence manner for every single one of speakers and freed from any drop of individual intentions or independently born thoughts. No one of them for all entrusted term of life ever had even slightest concern of utter meagerness and vainness of own existing at this earth, of total vagueness and darkness of most far past of human breed and of destructive screaming wrongness of each of laws of given days. No one of them obtains with question – does it have sense to be at all, is it useful and right to keep maintaining of life's going or to feel pleasures and regrets. And what is even more perplexing – no of them, even ones, who're most brave, will ever manage to agree to play away of rules of game. Each one you meet here is not more than just an actor – apt skillful sower of unconfidence and doubts, who makes you honestly believing, that you get fallen in relations, become rejected or ignored, that you are hated or desired, equipped with care and support. You truly faith, that you are able of to be either better or worse than others, and that somebody else in his turn can be better or worse than you. But how it's possible to check, that you are not the only person in whole world? That girl, who're hugging you at night, is something more than just a gramophone's example, with decent talent decorated by artful covering in skin and taught to accurate repeating of some amount of plain phrases for to preserve you in illusion, that she is really alive. Which way to prove, that each pronouncing of words indeed depicts true thoughts and feelings, that tears' leaking is more meaningful and deep than just a part of other technical details, assigned for better imitating of emotions. What if it'll suddenly turn out, that each of times you've been deceived, mocked and abused not by chaotic random persons, but straight by universe itself or by so-called all-mighty God, who had omission to invent it. Which ones of qualities and features determine differences' gap between of human and machine – if to rely on view from side, than wholly nothing. So, how many of your witnesses you have? How many people here obtain with mind like yours? Does someone else, except of you, indeed behold your flights and fallings? Your tryings, sufferings and joys, your laughings, cryings, pleas and groans. If life is simply just a game, then with whom are you constantly playing? We always separate such things as God and devil. We say - all good here is from God, and all improper, false and baneful – from devil. But, into world without people, where you're alone for its whole width, what ones of doings can distinguish God from devil? Or maybe all is much more plain and God himself performs duplicity of actions – just into order of to tame you in thinnest possible of ways and to remain eternal chance of to attach your fearful spirit even harder to what you're having grief to have. If he will give you drop of something frankly sacred, will give you feeling of close presence fate's steps, will impute bunch of countless risks and always pressing right of choosing, you'll almost instantly get turned in god yourself. If he'll endow you with attention from stray beauty, just at least from an average slut, and you'll read poetry to her, you'll quite immediately find oneself in love, achieving highest forms of bliss and hotly blooming with each corner of your forlorn worn out soul. But main of aims is not to give - to hold your route on daily leash and to engage in what is settled without tiniest resistance and with coy thankfulness in eyes. At one of moments, perhaps, all will turn more bright – and you will find both girl and her attention and cause to write and read best poetry in world. But after listening to previous of words, I have reported in your ears, will such scenario stay able of to soothe you and of to satisfy your needs? It can be so, that all past term you've been in fiction and, maybe, even poor me is nothing more than just a talkatively crafted script of program, which's first and last of aims and senses is coming down to one plausible maintaining of strange and stupid boring show, where you're the only who're involved."
"You had to say all this in Latin, then it would certainly be doomed to sound, out of mistakes, as something endlessly prophetic. I'm also mainly of same views – that all around is a game, but how much painful at some moments it is to force oneself to play. I would wholeheartedly prefer, instead of all, just to get lost, to turn forgotten and erased – without any of remainings from former presence in this world, to fall asleep just here and now and to refuse from hateful prospect to awake. Then I could really be able to be happy..."
"Or maybe couldn't – who will tell..."

XII
In sadly lifeless light of tavern, in midst of vices, drinks and smoke – sweet graceful silhouette of woman. In front of her - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, beholding ampliness of beauty and sipping spiciness of rum. Madame is casually twirling, gifting cuddles and sending flirting signs and jokes. They're simultaneously rising and, having taken route to closet, getting locked in its limited space. The lady, keeping playful teasing, is taking off all parts of needless straining clothes and, having turned completely naked, with passion lowering at floor and, widely spreading piquant hips, replacing couple of her fingers to most forbidden and alluring of locations for to run up along of honey mellow folds, without shaming amply teeming with tempting humidness and bloom. The hero, shaken by excitement, is into trembling bending down, but all around starts to melt and to get blurred and remote. Philip Evgenievich gets up. Right as before, it's nothing else than new night dream, so madly different and far from vain reality of days, imperfect, lonely and resultless, as something born by great mistake.
"Once again, every night I am in grasp of fables' nets. And every day in bonds of void. What kind of givenness it is? I have to try to fall in thoughtlessness, in pause, to take a walk and to let poor legs to scrap earth's surface."
The hero not without pain has forced oneself to leave home's walls and, having crossed door, porch and stairs, thrown flesh in endlessness of streets. At each of steps one constant steadiness of boredom. Fog, silence, lifelessness and gloom. No zeal, no colors, no pedestrians, no cars.
So, having finally approached first noticed bench, Philip Evgenievich has sat and, having yawned, directed gaze in haze of sky, but rather soon switched his attention at two figures, with swiftness stomping by free path.
"I need in salary's uprising! For contribution into youths. I've been recently training one kid, so he has coped to caught all prizes. You can check, it was son of Smychkov. I am his coach in this season. He has golds in gymnastics ans running. So, please reward me for such work." - deft, full of vividness Broskov was promptly telling to some person.
"Even here damned Smychkov in luck's claws. And I'm, as always - I'm at bottom. As before, nothing new at life's stage." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, getting out, left park's thickets.

XIII
Among of gloominess of silent lifeless pier – torn off, forlornly straying figure - Philip Evgenievich, who is indifferently walking, devoting rare bitter sights to empty tower of lighthouse. Already five long dreary years have passed from death of Igor Karlovich Rechnoy.
"There is no one for to have talk with – since Igor's passing I am purposeless at all. No of friends, no of news, no of dialogues. Just mix of vacuum and pain. And even no single person to dilute it. I am myself already dead. And even barely has ever been alive. I have no place, no aim, no meaning. No of prospects at all. All I have just to trample earth's dust and to remain away of outlets and rescues in pit of sufferings and thoughts. And then at end I'll simply die." - Philip Evgenievich has sighed and, weakly falling in despair, clenched teeth and powerlessly cried.

XIV
In midst of tightly crumpled hall is taking place vast solemn process – constructing company is parting with its worker, not by dark outcome as death of loss of health, but by significance of age and turn to ask to get retired. In role of culprit of whole fuss - Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, keen faithful builder of ships' bodies.
"We remember your work and achievements, your scientific contribution and constant flaming zeal for new. You have accomplished almost thousand of projects, given birth to most bold of inventions and helped to industry to reach most main of heights. We'd also want to mention famous spacious ship, in spite of risks enlarged in sizes till few norms. This have transformed the very way of understanding of how much prudent sea delivery can be. For almost thirty of long years this model has no single sinking and no stucking. What is impressive by itself. We thank your brilliantest person and with heart's aching let you go. And wait for equally bright youngsters."
The speech has ended. The participants have left.

XV
In midst of lonely sleepy room - old helpless figure: Philip Evgenievich Arshinov, who is reading fresh daily newspaper and harshly shivering from words: Sport as a plague – running straightly in abyss, Anton Denisovich Broskov, at end of finishing career, has got addicted to strong alcohol consuming and being drunk was killed by tram two days ago. In frames of voyaging in past - today is straightly one full year since Timofey, well-known actor and performer, had stepped away of opened window because of awkwardness in love. About shocking and emergent - main local bakery was burned at week by sudden fire, Demyan Antipovich Smychkov, it's only owner has been harmed and died in hospital day later.
Philip Evgenievich has tremblingly pulled back and, deeply shaking, laid at bed: "I have been thinking, I'm most useless and unlucky. Most trifling, aimless, vain and cracked. Rid of all, what brings value or joy. But, as it currently turns out, it can be so, that I'm the happiest of all..."
The hero has made languid sigh and fraily reached floor lamp with vastly spreaded huge green lampshade and two small buttons of old amber. One click - and light is halfly darker, next click and no of light at all.

AFTERWORD:
In silent deserted apartment calm steady company of three: first two – fresh couple of young students, and third one sleepy old realtor, bent into heavy papers' swarm.
"Yes, yes, not bad, and even graceful. Both bright and roomy at one time." - has claimed the lady and removed to one of walls.
"And floor lamp is quite great - so tartly green and even buttons are of amber." - with fair ardor has responded her cheered companion in love.
"Are you aware, who was living here before?"
Confused realtor has removed his hazy glasses and, rising eyes away from papers, without vain attempts of guessing with dose of boredom drily stretched: "It's one of lots from public selling. I wasn't learning, whose exactly. But if you'll look with proper aptness, as I am able to conclude, it has been occupied by someone truly happy..."







The plot, that had to be prolonged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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






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 - 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? Will at least some of last ones 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 be hearing. Not a 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 obervable of inly 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 of 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. So, 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 in 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. The more it's difficult to burn, the less it's difficult to smolder. There is 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 of abruptness have cliffs."
"The weaker proudness brings plague, the stronger shamefulness brings feast. We have to live with this, it's law. The 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 of 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, and how to come in time - it's secret. And all is obstinately dead. And the more hard it's 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 seems 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 dark 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 one 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 damned 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, of most uncertain vague 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 tired 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, has bursted out swarm of children and rushed in distance of sidewalk, like purest whirlwind and not weaker, having hastily got quickly lost at street's end 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 for 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 consume..."
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 sides, at massive bowl with cottage cheese and some odd slurry - plump red-faced boy with hunchbacked granny. He's 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 inexpressive, faint 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 of glances rather gloomy, but still quite perfectly alive.
"What's wrong with our sinful world, is it indeed completely broken..." - 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. As the more primitive and vain is dish of door, the more 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 of 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 for 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. No 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 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 admittable is picking, the less admittable are keys."
"The less corruptible are headsmen, the more impartial are guillotines as well. But all inconfident ones tremble, and all convinced ones just rejoice. This is unbreakably eternal. 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. The 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 more 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 weightlessness 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 of 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 frailed 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 and with not weaker torn apart slit of worn out putrid mouth."
"And I've 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 to regrets have 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'm 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 to 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 till highest blisses, not to turn able to come true."
She has pathetically sighed and, having fraily looked with hopelessness 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 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 passivity and fright, completely standard set of feelings, stiff and unchangeable 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 to passions' 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, exhaustment, noise and taste of soot, is rushing forward in immovable encircling of samely sharing voyage others frail and prostrated 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 worst ardor, 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 has turned notably 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, unknown with tears, fright and wounds. All of so mellow, fresh and bright, richly teeming with blossoming flowers have just simply dried up and not more and sadly managed to turn left as one torn off from any use vain and oppressive, wholly barren and purposeless set of faded shreds of empty memories of past, which at today to worst of pains is almost ended. I am already far not young. And what I'm having for 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 stay 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 oneself inside of 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 of 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 had sort of magic of bringing luck or fate's protection. Now it's indifferent already. But still offensive to admit, that 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 has 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 be 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 it's 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 unchangeable 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 one's 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 expose you 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 artist, 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 one day has turned too 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 drops 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 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..."







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, yawned, 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 bliss. 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 was unnoticeably living one of his timelessly old friends - 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 soothened is frustrating. The more it's easy to pick 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. As 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 has 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 more 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 more 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 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 it's 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 looks 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 are 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 self from abyss this eternal crippling doom. The more of ardor has excitement, the more cold-blooded, stiff and rough will be containing of adventures. But the more pointless is feast, the more essential and weighty is next plague. Right in such hopelessness is main of fallen pains. In this no thimbleful of tiniest of doubts, no slightest matter how intensively you'll seek them - 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 has 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 constancy of risks 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 rightness' 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 are amusements, the more of stickiness has pain. And the more sad it's to build towers, the more it's funny to attempt to break them off. And not to part with grief and anguish, not to depart from sorrow's bonds. The less of sharpness here 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 this we'll live till death of world. The more forgotten get your scalds, the less 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 to 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 gone 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' length. 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. And to keep furtherly to suffer as all others and to prepare 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, if to hopelessness such one was sadly never taking place, will it ever be made into future - at least huge 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? Not each of them, but maybe some most aimful ones... What's real value of all promises and meetings. Of never ending separations and daily teeming swarms of fates. Does any sense indeed exist? It would be stunningly surprising, if this 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 uncertain 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 is quite 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 vastest scope of guests. Each one is zestfully assertive, insistent, brazen, deft and brisk. Among of flock of dashing others, like spring of water into barrenness of desert - meek and laconic wistful figure: Marina Pavlovna Propaschikh, who, shyly passing through 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 bonds of box, time after time, girl's 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 better and to remind 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 would 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 crown 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 soothe. 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 rigor 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 in fact is given 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 in 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 intensively you're faithing 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 of 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 collapse. And the more sown are seeds of buds, the more reaped out are thorns' fruits. It's less declinable 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 decent is that nail, which was extracted, the more disgusting is that 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 less predictable are jumps, the more exciting is their greatness. So, 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 removal. Without knowledge of this truth, there is mad risk to waste entire life on falsehood. Do not forget of simplest 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 pupils, 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've 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, has inconsolably concluded and unemotionally sighed: "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 vainly sighed again, glanced once more at gone on 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, gets risen swollen hull of tram. All are beginning to rush forward. Next to back doors, two ones of figures at some unfortunate of points are 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 climbs inside of carriage: "Come on, get up! I need my seat! Quicker, quicker, damned 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 rubbish 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 - aside 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, has with no hesitance, as bullet, rushed with tart fullness through of spectrum of all pleasures, having speedily gone fully limp at play's ending and nextly gradually 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 window.
"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 tiredness and 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 your 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. Each 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 routes last, 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 of gracefulness has playing. And the less needable is fire, the more demandable is flood."
"With lower passion you are burning, with higher passion you're 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. As 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 is plague. And not to blossom, not to soar. The more habitual are keys, the more indistinct is doors' looking. As 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 more 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 sharp in time of 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 beginning, the more of plainness and simplicity has way it gets resultingly 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
At start of lonely lovely day, in bonds of wasteful empty park, is blooming restlessness of calmness. No usual walkers, no vain fuss. One 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. 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 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, nor 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 space of 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. 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, if 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 figure: Lev Aleksandrovich Bezvestny, who, sadly breathlessly returning from recent funeral, where, to immeasurable pain, Kirill Arkhipovich Predsmertny has passed away from bonds of world, has looked in sleepiness of park and unexpectedly got frozen: on not remarkable shy bench, as if in cinema or dreaming, is calmly laying small strange box. On spot 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. Just for, at least, to leave unopened. And when I'll die, it'll maybe come to other hands and maybe 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.







After millions years.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XI
In rambling waves from tiny radio at table, is reigning pleasantly sweet choir of gentle melodies of love - nothing odd or remarkably weighty, nothing close to be named as unique, just usual ordinary voices and circled dance of banal lines, flying up into houses' calmness as rid of meaning, peaceful rubbish and nothing seriously more. But soon, at suddenly come moment, to program's listeners was skimpily announced, that now it's time for reading hour and languid reader has begun to pour smooth phrases of something deathless, deep and great:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all joys, all amusements and heights
World will calmly take back - right as sent
Was you sculpting sun's circle from flame
Was you measuring water in waves..."

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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






Epilogue:

Who're free to know - where exactly and in which certain look and form is hidden genuine life's meaning, assigning vector of days' going and writing chapters of time's plots, controlling every single sphere and setting frames and laws of world. No one alive will ever dare to give answer, no slightest matter, how much mindful and insightful, he in his personal view is. No one will ever even risk to try to guess. Yes, world around, as not difficult to notice, is, of course, not the finest of places. But we still have to live and strive, to keep believings and attempts and to maintain imputed path from murk of past to fog of future. And all-consuming total wrongness, in spite of any norms of logic, not each of times is cause to fade. The more frustratingly looks threatener's appearance, the more of beautiness and grace has state of horror. The more cold-bloodedly shines light, the more wholeheartedly cling shadows. This is more stiff and undeclinable than law. And, the more evenly and smoothly turns closed circle, the more disturbingly and sharply will in response get taken angle. You cannot break it or erase. Resultless measures, to worst sadness, as not too tricky to predict, aren't trained to lead to fruitful endings. The more of colorfulness has bars' net of cage, the more insipid, gray and vain is life of birds. From this it's right to burst with tears. The better quality have doors, the more disgusting are keys' holders. The greater compliments gets smoke, the harsher scoldings gathers fire. And too much easy it's to die or to get nullified and lost. The more significantly late you come on feast, the more surprisingly in time you come on plague. And the more blissful and enjoyable is poison, the more indifferent and tasteless starts at some point to be food. The lower measure of capacity has bag, the more unbearable is pain from last one's awl. The more unreachable and far are crumbs of feast, the more untamable is need for cake of plague. But this is, perhaps, even good, if to devote more sturdy looking. The more of thinness has your ice, the more of hotness has your flaming. No one can cancel such a fact. And the more random and chaotic is bees' swarming, the more harmonious and neat are last ones' hives. This is more confident than law. The longer term you wait for fire, the shorter burning you receive. Each one who has a fishing rod is quite straightforwardly aware - the greater level of diversity have hooks, the lower level of diversity have fishes. The harder scale of disbelief you have to head, the firmer trust you have to guillotine, it's deathless. This is an axiom, not less. And the more careless and thoughtless is plane's pilot, the stiffer tension have its parachutes and crew. With sterner boldness we spend night, with deeper timidness we look in face of morning. And the more passionless is term of leafage's blooming, the more of vividness and ardor has leaves' fall. With stronger loudness and zeal you are proceeding to deny fact of flame's presence, with quieter silence you're admitting fact of ash. Not each of minds will ever actually cope to realize how much immeasurably true is this regrettable short statement. The more exalted is play's purpose, the more distorted and unsteady are its roles. And the more heartful, kind and merciful is owner, the more insulting, tough and violent is leash. And the more easy it's at here to find appropriate right fabric, the more it's difficult to meet with gifted tailor. This is reality of world. Static, obstinate, sticky and fatal. The more serene are notes of evening's lullaby, the more frustrating and disturbing are further sounds of alarming morning clock. The more transparent and explicit is every tiny handful-sized simplification, the more invisible and hidden at same time are overwhelmingly huge heaps of complications. And the more friendly and profuse is rain of goods, the more appalling, wild and rough is price's thunder. But, having failed to come on sowing, you have no reasons to be hastening on harvest. This is main hopelessness, main pain. And not to find such of ideas, that can't be tracellessly erased and turned in absolutest nothing, as if they never were at all. But it's quite possible, who actually knows, that if life has not been oppressing you at start - at distant stage of young weak sprout, you'd maybe never cope to turn in trea you are - equipped with ample graceful crown, free to be easiestly shading all of others and calmly sending each of previous ill-wishers, who were repeatingly resultlessly attempting to cut your barely begun existence off, in hardest agony and terriblest vexation. Of course, cup's maker and creator of the cause of its transforming into splinters are wholly different and rid of likeness persons, but both of them, right as whole world, have been appointed, admitted, born and grown by will and plans of common author. This is main principle at once of doom and hope: if you've refused from eating cheese, no ones of mousetraps will ever cope to catch you.. But this is not what can bring faithing and console. The more insistently you try to push your life, the more inactively it's going. And the more favorable, loved and praised is penny, the more rejectable is million, it's fact. But if you haven't learned to step, you'll never manage to get used to ladder's stairs. The more dispassionate and cold is headsman's mind, the more hot heart have blade of guillotine, it's constant. But even presence of all sources and full excess of strengths and zeal does not have influence away of link with purpose. If you gain money for a suit, you jump and sing, and if for patches - howl and sadden. And the more brisk is route of voyage, the more defenseless, frail and short is life of soles. The more of benefits brings star, the more of panic, grief and harm bring its eclipses. But ones, who've drowned, believe in storm, and ones, who've coped to stay afloat - in strength of boat. Each is produced for something personal, for own. And the more scatterably wide is swarm of bullets, just flown past, the more precise and tight is drop of ones, which into ending still have found way to hit. The more resultless, vain and strange is faith in doors, the more unbeatable is craving for their handles. But, having finally got rid of hateful stick, you, to worst sorrow, either can't preserve past right on so much hotly needful carrot. And the more tragical is brightness of the light, the less of painfulness brings ringing of its shadows. The more of fleetingness has rain, the more of steadiness have puddles. And not too much for to be done. The more exhausted, frail and powerless is whistler, the more of voicelessness has whistle, which he gets. The lower joy you find in fire, the lighter grief you feel from ash. But what you cannot sow in fly will never cope to grow in elephant, it's law. The more of modesty have rules, the more of splendidness has playing. No slightest matter, how much mindless it may seem. The quicker lasting has life's road, the more long presence has its dust. The more of hiddenness and shyness has gait's pace, the more of loudness and sharpness has floor's creaking. But this is maybe not so dreary. The more chaotic is traps' swarm, the more majestically smooth are flocks of beasts. The more of randomness has placing of route's potholes, the more of harmony and grace has noise of wheels. But the more bottomlessly deep here is tar's barrel, the more indifferent is chance on honey's spoon. And the more merciless is sawdust, the more essential compassion you start to feel to fate of axe. And so much stupid it's, not having coped to find a ticket, to be expecting, that you'll easily be able to cling for edging of footplate. But from top and to abyss - it's sad, while from abyss to abyss - just normal. And the more vacant here are guillotine's embraces, the more of weightlessness have heads. But you still have to live, persist and curb, what's given. The more of clumsiness and noise have hooks of hangers, the more of coziness have wardrobes, do not miss. This ill flawed fact is as undying, as perplexing. But over-ripeness of boredom, to worst regrettings, doesn't serve as key from newness. And the more joyful are inhabitants of murk without knowledge of light's nature, the more of helplessness, bemusement, fright and shock falls on their poor puzzled heads, when at one day it still gets suddenly revealed. The more of weightlessness and ease has grip of fortune, the more heaviness and strength has yoke of game. And the more doubtful are earnings, the more undoubted are debts. The more of mutedness has praise, the more of loudness have scoldings. You can't dismiss it, rearrange or throw away. And the more nice is poison's taste, the more downtrodden, vain and shrunk is role of food. The more of motleyness have ants, the more of facelessness has anthill. The shorter lasting has laugh's sound, the more long echoing have notes of tears' storm. You can quite tricklessly submit all sorts of minds, but can't curb mindlessness and madness, can't tame insanity and rave. And not to hide, not to escape, not to attain salvating calmness. With smoother rows flotilla sails, with more chaotical disorder it gets drowned. The more approvable is orbit, the more forbidden are attempts to fall in flight. And the more frankly you love honey, the more expectably and promptly life's plots will try to give you tar. But wrongly casted clay cup's hull is still more practical than elegantly painted. You can't find components, which gathering in joy, weren't with same aptness calmly able to get assembled into pain. This is life's givenness, not something odd or stunning. The more indifferent is drinking, the more enjoyable is smashing of dried glass. And the more innocent is bait and shape of hook, the more unprincipled and cruel are plans of fisherman, at here it's just days' fact. The more straightforward and unshakable is aim, the more uncertain and usteady is attaining. The more of tears brings fly's pain, the less of tears and regrettings has death of elephant, it's rule. And not to bridle inner sorrows, not to restrain soul's grief and doom. No slightest matter, how much colorful are shoes, with even most exotic palette, they'll never manage to protect from dreary gait. And the more needable is carrot, the less escapable is stick. The more indistinct was your burning, the more amazingly you'll fade. This is in everything, in all. The more of cheerfulness have glasses, the more of lifelessness has wine. The more observable are problems, the more hazed manners they require for to be practically solved. The more impeccable are heights, the more unbearable are foothills. Not too huge difference at all between of costs of head and bullet. But one, who has initially been making these aforementioned our heads was not aware of next guillotine's invention. It's not a tragedy, just fate. And the more uniform is murk, the more unique is gleam of lanterns. But the more strong is world from side, the more fragile and frail it's inly. The more short term has link with hook, the more long term has link with pot of next fish soup. But maybe this is not so sad. The more forgetfully acts prompter, the more enchantingly moves play. The more unprincipled is voyage, the more thin clattering have wheels. The less remarkable was flying, the more breathtaking will be fall. And the more primitive is food, the more exalted is spoon's ringing. With harder heartlessness and hatred you break cup, with hotter fervidness and zeal you dream to cope to drink from splinters. And the more pointless are colors, the more profoundly looks grayness, this is law. And it's so meaningless to try to rush and hurry. The earlier is sowing, the farer are first fruits. And the less passionate this being is to food, the more of interest it shows to plate and table. The meeker temper has nail's soul, the rougher mood has nails' extractor. The more controllable are borders, the less controllable are lands. The more irregular are seeds, the more habitual is sowing. And the more lovely are invitings, the more indifferent and harsh is driving off. The more compassionate is court, the less employable are headsmen. The more excessively lasts sound, with more short echo it gets stopped. The more of murkiness have roads, the more of light have their dead-ends. But, having eaten main top's cherry, you'll hardly rush to eat rest cake. It'll be already wholly needless. But the more mutual are rules, the lower scale of reciprocity has playing. The more meek whispering have risks, the more stiff shouting have threats. The more of will you have to wave, the more indifferent is tragedy of falling. The better forest gets cut down, the less appropriate gets rescued. The more precisely you know fire, the less informed you are of cold. And the more aptly you remember dishes' taste, the less you're able to recall - with whom exactly you was eating. The more free setting has your goal, the more of forcefulness has search of tools and helpers. And the more lost are any keys, the more assured is door's closeness, it's changeless. The more habitual are goods, the less of interest have coins. And the more hateful is shop's cheese, the more desirable and needful is cheese from mousetrap, it's fact. Not having firstly crafted matches, you'll never manage to turn able to invent how to extinguish fire's spreading. The more approvable are threats, the more condemnable is fear. No single drop of smallest doubts in timeless deathlessness of this. The less of joy has life of camel, the more of boastfulness have humps. The more of mindlessness has essence of performance, the more of timidness and faithfulness show actors. The more of shortness have attempts, the more of longness have mistakings. And the more worn is stick of rules, the more fresh carrot offers playing. As the more hotly you're indeed beloved by fortune, the more indifferent are swindlers to your declarings of own luck. The more inglorious are weeds, the more high passion you express to roses' breed. The more full-flowing is tar's pouring, the more of tastiness and sweetness honey has. The more of commonness have causes for to breath, the more personified are acts of suffocation. But the more silent is the artist, the more self-speaking is his art. It's rather difficult to faith in higher logic, but, after all, just try to let yourself to dare to imagine, that someone had been clearly knowing just before of creation of world, before of forming of first models of star systems, that onto one of last ones' planets in one of moments will appear roots of life, that evolution will develop it in humans and slightly later they'll invent first ways to write, that at one day I will be born among of others and will compose these twisted lines, and you will find them and then read. Right here, right now, right at this second of your life and neither earlier nor later. If even any one most short and tiny link of former chain of days' events would be extracted, it would be simply just impossible to happen. One other meeting, other going of acquaintance at any stage of our countlessly endless ancestors, and all around would be different - just all. If plots of world had just one single extra birth or one inoccurred betrayal, murder or deceit, whole current portrait of reality would change. It would be simply just another - without us, without these strange shaky lines and with no consequences' heap from timid heeding to their essence. What else to choose as source of faith, if not most abysmal all-powerful prescription - in its most utter and indisputable form. Space itself, course of time, state of matter were predetermined and appointed just such way for at some certain distant point someone could throw fleeting look at his small watches and understand, that he's not late. Each one of lives, defeats and winnings, each of achievements and remarks were known and planned long long before of our universe's starting. We have no single opportunity, no hope to live another, than being's basics had appointed and planned. We even can't make extra breath or additional waving with finger. Any presence of will is a myth. It's maybe greatest of illusions, we can be in. World works according to its script. Script is unchangeable and static. Precise in aptness of foregoing execution and independent from all thinkable of facts. And, as you easily can notice, quite often bottomlessly ruthless and full of violence and pain. But there is something much more sad in this straightforwardly developing plots' progress, in time's improvement and appearing of new - no slightest matter what a form world will acquire at own ending and what degree of bloom, perfection and prosperity it'll get, no best one of potentially possible states of full idealism will ever compensate past bitterness of losses, of endless sacrifices, falsehoods, dirts and lyings, of pains, omissions, falls and griefs. Life itself, no weakest difference how wonderful it'll come, will never worth that unimaginably heavy tragic price, that has already been devoted by past eras. World is not field you'll ever want to gather fruits from - so greatly knowing of unjustifiably numerless blood's volume, these ugly fruits are soaked with. I reject life as way of existing. This crippled sick and dead obsession with mix of motleyness and fog, with its unending hellish abyss of temptations, of deceptions, traps, sorrows and risks is with no doubts worst of possible inventions. And that is why from all of afterlife's prolongings I prefer to choose trivial death. Simple tracelessly full disappearing, erasing - out and forever. With no potential next heaven and no of rights on own return. No ones of paradises ever will replace plain priceless charm of banal absence. Without need to wait and try and with no freezing in best moment. The very fact of any presence is huge burden, dark hopeless curse - sized of whole galaxy, we live in, or maybe even slightly more. And even if prescription's shackles will go out and I will suddenly acquire pure opportunity to live with any life, just only choose and then rejoice, I would without shortest thinking and with full firmness in each corner of my soul be so much bottomlessly happy not to get born and not to have to choose at all.