I

Not even barely admiting any values, except of absolutesuccesses, Victoria Borisovna, full of zeal and self-confidence lady, who all her idly moving life was living in unshakably wide manner, more wide than any of most widest, without tiniest of seconds of slightest hesitanceor fright, staying gladly and happily freed from rather popular deadburden 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 notableease and in flawlessly masterful way having got, as the first of world's gifts, most deepand fruitful education, which was assuredly completed by speedy eminent career, with richness stuffed with fhirst 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 restlessdays of hungry now, we have no right for anyclaims, 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 everychoice and everystriving: 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 shortsimple 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 workinginto 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 proudsoul of our wicked and naughty beauty, it was quite trivial and tasteless, as any other usual job.

At street enjoyable Junefreedom – serene and tendersummer 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 nudesurroundings are stuffed with tastyfumes. 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 keepsome easyroad, to look atcity and to rest – in some free abode 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 numbquarters, with straightest readiness to fade, are getting visibly much darker, dissolving colors, tints and views in veil of coldness, murk and soothing, with farinfrequent twinkling lights, calm voice of wanderingnight winds and emptynudity and sternnessof 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 certain choosing of shyly sitting single man in one of opposite hall's corners.

"Hello, don't scratch owneyes 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 sweetmaiden. I'd like to savor her more close." - the stranger has delightedly got up and with obedience built path to slit ofexit.

"I hope you're at least withcar. I don't appreciate feet-walkers." - has sharply snapped Victoria Borisovna.

"Cars' breed is property of losers. And I am owner of truedeity – of perfectMercedes – 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'rebreaking 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 luckilysat in notorious car, the heroes have ridden into distance. In spreaded depthsquarter's gloom – to dreams, alluring and adventures.

"What an incrediblynew model – was it made by the hands ofKarl 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 abode.

"Not bad... For role ofrural 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 bitsurprised."

"Thenfine. Possesswith 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 stunninglystern. 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 andpliable toy, if you are worthless as a fucker."

The hero has quite firm desire to answer something harsh and sharp, but mouth, occupied with flesh, has stayed pathetically silent. Keen temptingprocess of sweet contact has slowly got the peak of speed and gone ahead to depths of pleasures, after few of next tireless seconds having sentfinal 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 softlywhispered 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 toyour boss – to add to paper of resume that you're 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'tmake 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 glossytissue 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 fervidmiracle 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'sjust shy memory fromnow... 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 idlysunk 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 fussinessand 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 tomove 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 itshardships, to drag throughtasks and throughresults, 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'smirror, got lost in peacefulness of walk. By free and empty wastefulsides – 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 observablehorizon.

Having nimbly and rapidly brought languidflesh 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 idlebreath, then got diluted by short lunchand 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 friendly home's abode. Few usual quarters of quick walk, and pleasant clicking of key's body in frankly missing door's keyhole has gentlygreeted 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 regularamusement 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 assurednessis 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 losersto call of winnings and success."

The heroine has vividlygot up and, having luckily adjusted demanded volume of makeup at young and charmingface's circle, sent legs in route to fresh adventures, cheap easy joyfulness and lust.

Atstreet – deepstatic 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 liquidcalmness and pure rest. Wholeworld for personal requests, frank timid hopes and shameless wishes. Whole world for pleasures and regrets, new risks and old, as fate, mistakes.

And again intorestaurant rampage, to drunken bodiesand 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 lovelyevening 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 thought 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 canyou 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 sillydreams."

"What a lost piece of shit have I met. With wholly empty mindless head and so awful excess of ambitions..."

"I'mjust fulfilling my desires. And I will never leave away – no slightest matter how much cruelly you'lldrive 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 suckingwith 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 in 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 madmen. What areyou keeping to demand?"

"I want to know your address. For priceless right tosend 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 assuccess."

"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 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

Newday, new season of heart-hunting. New time for thoughtlessnessand sins. Pleased, lucky heroine is noticeably glad – night's plot is fruitfully completed, hot carnal contact with all passions hascalmly melted far behind, having left sticky sweetness on lips and piquant memories in bottomless mind's abode. 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 mosttempting 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 spreadedheaven'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 flawlessperson – the only peerless into all. Saint right offreedom 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 ownstep, 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 years are still waiting ahead, behind are stopless dashing passion and lengthof 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 ambitionsis 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 offood's plenties, performed by icy sparkling drinks and hot fatsnacks of all dimensions. Free set of muzzles is most motley. From fools till foolersand 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 onemoment later in front of singlyseating 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 strangereasons, 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 tasteor any notable uniqueness. Are you indeed so firmlymindless, that do not recognize in face even recently served part of fuckers!?"

After words 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 scarily desperate horror! What an impossiblenightmare... This is most surely my end. My straightest ticket todeath's abode. Whata 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 equippedher 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 smallpitiful 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 ingrownin faded ghost of lifeless nature, without any slightest traced cleaned up from previous ambitions and clothed in passiveness and fright, so amply blooming in each corner of inlydying bloodless soul. Hot flamingfervor was exhausted. Harshinward rigor was restrained. Stiff tameless temper was extinguished and turned in nothingness and ash. Crashed broken mood was dropped at bottom. No even shade from cutted bliss.

At wholly average today, lust only having woken up, the heroine by newly built tradition, has quicklyfallen in unfixabledepression 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 inlong-term feelings and warming family support, which sadly shown true scales of trouble, each next of tryings coldlyending 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 ofpowerlessness' 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 thinrightness 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. Withhead 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 barrennessand 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 abode of office – with chair, table and work's duties. And again labor's abyss till noon. And then, in time of tiny rest– swift secretact of brisk acquaintance. Whole play of such braveundertaking by will of wavering conditions has taken place in dining room. Demandedhero 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 herconversation.

"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 came with offer of acquaintance, of timid trying of luck's fruit."

"It's rather funny. Youare dauntless, if have intentions of such size. Let's move in mutual exploring. Sometimes thisknowledge 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 ofroad, they both have delved in vivid dialogue, freed of from any formal bonds.

"I'dlike to get moreclose, 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 onwork. I had got used to go to restaurants one time – in patient waiting for brightmeetings, 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 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 you 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 throughavenue's stretched space.

"What an impossibly madshame! 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 deliciousaccounting chamber was replaced onto average paper department– with wholly different conditions and lower salary's amount. Days of life have got 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 by 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 pitand, having waited for right moment, involved in magic of acquaintance. Indinner 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 bloomedlady from behind: "Let's dilute boredom'sflesh withacquaintance!"

"Yes, let's. You're bottomlesslypretty. For role of secret weekendmistress, you are most certainly the best."

"What does it mean?"

"I have a wife – at not she'ssleeping in myhouse. 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 forgot to mark some notes. Too much of work... Have long nice day. Goodbyeat now."

The heroine has lowered her gaze: "True immense tragedy, true horror... No door in victories, no way..."

And new tartsadness of pale evening. Work's day is calmly left behind. Victoria Borisovna in thinking is slowly trudging back tohome. Around - usual boring district. High frequent houses and alleys. Landscapes, faint silhouettes and lights. Soft gentle air and hazed distance. Gray vasthorizon 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 indisrepair, is almost standingin own middle. Shortrange of joys is still the same – work's routine, home and right forhope. 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 colors and all 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 longdozen 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'vefinished 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 deam. I was examining life's sky... And now 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 love 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 much time was spent and burnt. Day by day, day by day. In totalemptiness, 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 havegot used to such a share and clothes of shame has turned in skin. It's rather scary to admit, but am absolutely hopeless – for many many of last years..."

"Each source as sternness, time orfreedom has use exclusively in suitable conditions, which can provide you days with weighness and tangibly firmsense. Fate's laws are obstinate and stubborn and not infrequently quite sad. Some one will calmly freeze in fire, and other one with same full calmness with burn till ash in coldest ice. For decent path and right direction you need much more than two of legs. In fact we all are wholly helpless– in each of tryings, deeds and steps. Life depends not on us – on itself. And every tragedy, as well as every winning are fruits of fortune, of success. We're free to build most tricky prospects, to keep assuredness and toughness, but it's less mighty and resultful than plans to blow against of wind."

"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 lead 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 ingrowing... 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 fulfillingof some life's purposes and goals. We see undying forcefuldirt, see blooming hopelessness and torments, and pearls and jewels, heights and feats arestaying prominentlyhidden. Far distant future, made 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 not 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 withpersistence, can't bend by stubbornness of will, it's too indifferent and immense for to be taken by one zeal or by nude sharpness of own wishes. All our measureless efforts aren't more than tiniest of triflesfor static endlessness of fate. And after falling from sky's cradle, you are 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 get coldness of regrets and putyourself 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. 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 barrenhandful 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 unhurriedlyleaned back and meeklystared at shelves' vastness: "Thickbooks - shy amulets ofthoughts... 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 mistaking in his name. And even theseshort modest sendings have stopped own regular arrival since my attainingof sad 30, having finally left me invoid..."

The heroine has catiously sighed and taken one of envelopesfrom shelf: "I greet you with my shy and timidletter, 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 unchangeablyalive 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 spend... 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 sternfurious 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.

Soonsuddenly, 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 that time. I didn't want such twist of story..."

"You'vetold me truth, and I am glad. You have been right – I've turned in nothing..."

"Let'ssit 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 inalmost twenty. It was the cause, why I havescolded you 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 shakyperson'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 onethieves 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 palewindow's frame is long-awaited blooming summer, swift life in capital at now has got diluted bymodest 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 is meekly meeting. Around –plenties of quirk crowd. In staticair - smell of sleepers with slightesttaste 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 alllaurels of being and are most happy from humanity of world?" - drunkflabby man, one of pastclassmates, 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 areglorious, 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 this 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..." - hassighed 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 theseletters from the shelf and to equip them with good answer. How much ironic hasit turned... All has gone, all has tracelesslyfaded. All immense arrogance and strength..."

The heroine has taken sheet ofpaper and plunged in telling of herstory: "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'vejust got arrogant at once and spent inarrogance 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 stayed 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..."

Weaklady'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: vasttable'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 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."

I

In shy and wholly average small bedroom, amid of grayness andseverity of things, is sitting inimpassive 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 constantwistfulness and daily hurting thoughts of something joyless, wrong and sullen. The time is noticable static, involved in laziness and similar oppression and tightly filled with bottomless forlornness. Window's frame is invariably hazed.

"Onceagain evening's dusk, once again thick and tiresomedarkness... People's breed will unhurriedly go to sleep, and 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 dismalshare. 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, suffwerings 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 scalesof 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 onlyhopelessness 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 emraces, too thin are faint and vague lines, which border realness from fiction. Where to go... What to do..."

Outside of wide colorlesswindow has coyly hung vast blurred veil of perceptibly thickened evening. Hace crept hazed silhouettes of shadows. Whitelanterns, mixed with growing night, have let own sparkling into darkness. In peaceful sleepiness of places has shyly risen grayish moon. The day has joylessly gotended without saying of goodbye, andstrongly tired of thoughts' noise Elena Vasilievna has cautiously moved away of glass: "It's time to sleep, to lay inhollow 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 hunbly landed onto bed and then unhurriedlyleaned 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 ownlife." - has sharply thought in frank surprise rather startled Elena Vasilievna: "How greatly quick is moderntime! 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 andnot without of deepskill made long and nimbly abruptjump from shacky stairs to cracked pavement. And here it'schance 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 huge bunch of fleeting years was irreproachably fulfilling own unremarkable shy role of mostlike-minded sort of person. By this completely clear reason, it'snot a sin to speed gait's pace, with each unnoticable second slowly deepening gradual delving in paledispassionate views' cage. Elena Vasilievna has got perceptibly much swifter and coyly payed pleased vivid look. Calm lonelyoutskirts of town, with dreary scraps of dimlandscapes, are unemotionallymeeting with tart and thick dilapidation of shabby buildings and worn roads. At any side andevery corner – backwater of tranquility and gloom. The last inhabited of quarters. Directly deserted and empty. With facelesshouses and lifeless naked walls, dumb endless sadness and hazedoutlines of heaven, torn of and bottomlesslyweightless. Briefvoyage 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 rulingdrowsiness of will and reigning dominance of boredom. Vast fatal constancy of faintness, deaddusty 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'splace, as before, is pasific, whollyquiet and appallingly hidden - farcoastal abode of small arbor, few times encircled by trees' thickets. Frail twistful route to suchlocation is running up through 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 - bentrusted roof and waiting lady.

"Best greetings to my wandering cute stranger!" - has deftly noticed shy friend's figure inspired and perceptible 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 time 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 theyopened 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, asmain 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, lowfallen souls and rottenminds. 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 dreadfulplace - 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 cheep and most confident ticket to dreary hugs of always hospitable noose. All we do – just gain resultless expectations and keep own sufferings 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 slow embodiment of hopes. What's sadly fair, 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 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 memyself."

"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 absolutelyhonest, I feel more comfortable here, more cozy, blissful and relaxed. In local abode 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 ardorloud music! Come on, let's step in way to me – just for tolisten 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 andcolorless small room of Lydia Andreevna's apartments, is meekly reigning static peace. Directly modest andimpersonal 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. Atwindow – fully wilted flowers. Behind ofsofa, right incorner - encaged by lavishness of dust forworn voluminous torchere. On table - heavytape recorder with pretty heap of various cassettes.

"Come on, proceed to makingdisco."

"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 factoriesof 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 youheart. You 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 showssimulators."

"It’s madly scary to admit, that our rotten filthyworld 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 ofcentury 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: "Whata terrible sort of machine, what a joyless and mournful invention! If it will suddenly stop working, I will be definitely glad."

"Don'tbe 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 meto 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 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 plainmakeup, then carefully gathered small bag, pulled on new branded pantyhose and skirt and, having made fewpirouettes and bends, majestically frozen at hazedmirror: "What a shockingly marvelousbeauty!"

"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 deftlywhirling merry people, nimblyswarming in turbulent dance. Thin floor is suffering fromheels, dense air's mass is eagerly obeying to harshly dominant thick smoke. Just ordinary classicism of swamp. In greatdegree 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 a 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 fruitlessinstitution, was noticedsmall 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'llcalmly cope with this righthere – in lavishplenty of thickbushes. They will reliably guard all secrets."

"Pricelessoffer, 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."

"Fucking 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 hadI to show himand to add? To spice his mockeries with arguments or hatred? For only to amuse him with confusion and to spend last of weakening strengths? Do not mind. Nothing hurting at all. Just ordinary little 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 nastyeach of times. And in accomplishment of happened, as most enjoyable result, I'llreally 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 neatflame of growingmorning. Sadly colorless watery clouds are weakly trudging through of haze into sleepy and passionlessdistance. Lonely doleful views are slowly gettingfilled with rare tints. Unnoticeably freeding with each moment from previously reigned pale grayishfog, cold faceless streets of yearning quarter, reliably hidden in vast dusk, are powerlesslysinking 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 reflectingElena Vasilievna: "How much disgusting, filthy and annoying was that yesterday nastiest case with my dishonestlyoffended, failed in heartfulnessLydia Andreevna... How greatlyharmful, lowand 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 madlyvain, each further trying and attempt is nothing more than source of sorrow, of bitter cryingand 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. Iwant one simple happiness and only, one ordinary tenderness and warmth of innermutual devotion, of saint captivity of trust, of blissfulreciprocity 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 sufferingsand 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, tastes paths and hurry up. And then... Then passively admit, that term of fateis 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 usmost 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 instantthought of further being."

Perplexed and featurelesslandscape has amplystretched faint joyless fullness of pale and tiresomepalette of weak infrequent ashy colors, dissolved in smoothly facelessboredom of vastly frozen meekpacification. Enclosed instatic hopelessness and fogs thin liquid spaces of shy nature are slowly getting lost in thick forlornness, encaged in breathless strictness of nude season. Cold meagerwinds, exhausted and unfriendly, are wearily and wistfully proceeding 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 alienatedfrom even tiniest of hopes. Such ones at here are dangerous and stupid, short-living, hesitantand false. In modern swarm of empty living they serve as irreproachableexample 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 andevents 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 inoutskirts' embraces. In some new hospitable bar. It's still quitebetter than my loneliness and languor. Of course, much more disgusting, sick and loathsome, but undeniablymore 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, twoyoung 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 neverrich on faces, in all of periods and times it stably shows one flockof masks, of amply blooming hollowdummies. The ship of fate is madeof holes, of cruelboiling 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 gainsone rubbish, each next committing brings regrets. Withheadless 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 before offooling, 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 eachflame of mind's shining and progress, so unbearably faint, far and blurred are all high and magnificentgoals, 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, invast indifference and coldness, in stopless storm ofstubborn 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 imposinglyhuge, 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 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 extinguishedlights and flamesof 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 truespringboard 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 andthink. When you've 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 ownlosers 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 abode can come exclusively with grave, with last weak breath and final trip to hugs of heaven. But don'tgive up, don't sink in sorrow, climb up and always keep resistance, keep firmness, willfulness and confidence of views, maintain heart'scalmness 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, completelyjoyless painful look of involved in extinctionlandscape, overfilled with thick flocks of long shadows, was weakly staring with unlimited cold longing at 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 frompicturesque 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, weremeekly standing clumsy weary facades, engaged in yearning and thin silence.

Looking up at oppressed ashy morning, initially totally distressed and firmly rooted into hopelessness and sadness, directly tired frompernicious 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 ofthought and understanding, of 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... 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 plain and faceless way. At empty stop of daily buses, neatly plunged into vast shadows' flock, is staying perfectly purepeace. Not 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 grayhorizon has givenbirth to loaf of bus. Sleepy looks have unhurriedly swum into windows, with regularity of pace humbly vanishing far in oblivion's thickness. Palelandscape has unwittingly and fully disappeared in 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 offriend'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 in 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, aimlessnessand 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 frailty's curse. True despair is deathless, we've learned 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 immaculateirony's fruits, the heroines have gathered own bags and proceeded to measuredjourney, having tricklessly wandered up.

And again boring bus and long ride and again peaceful finish ofvoyage.

In the midst of perplexed city's square are meekly yearning in festivity and noise vast gray pavilionsof swarming exhibition. Above of low andnarrow entrance is shyly hanging motley poster: "The newest Porcelain and Glass." Well, chosen target is already overtaken.

Inside, in ordinary boredom with decentadmixture of crowd, are neatly standing wooden shelves, thickly crammed into different plates and decorated cups and bowls, diluted by few rare installations of timid painting, depicting short and skimpy plots of accomplishedhistorical times. Among of flock of faceless muzzles, sticking out from general herd, it's madly difficult to notice and distinguish so much annoyingly infrequent indisputablysuitable 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'sgarbage, 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 occupyyour 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 marriedfor not less thanthan 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 intohands. 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 dramaticrefusal?"

"Most straight and doubtless, than any. All meets and choices in this case were inexorably 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 stateis 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 strayingsouls."

"I'm still appalinglyamazed with your mad limitless persistence, with unbeatable bottomless thirst for new adventures and relations."

"I'vejust 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 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 morbidstubbornness and matchlessly brisk ardor, so deftly seasoned with returned immortal craving for tempting dreams of cherished love, has easily forgotten of all doubtsand, 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 dumbfoundedlady, 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 elementarilysick, 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. Paleboring 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, for 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 carry.

VI

And again coy and silent apartment with wistful pair of two friends and drowsy measured discussion. Arseny Dmitrievich issitting 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 worstgriefs: "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 dailydeeds, events and matters, which form main volume of existence and serve as freely opened source of unrestrainable soon fading of anyprospects, plans and goals."

"So it is, such affairs are timeless. Do not be fooled by expectations, thislife 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 getreturned 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 andbelievable 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 in unpredictable crooked now, both shaky, valuelessand 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 evenminimal 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 keep far from pit of living, from chains of grayness, dirt and hatred, shy away and maintainlongest 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 is fixed by nails of independence. Cheap mindless unity withbottom 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, essence and meaning. 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 strength of zeal and widthof plans. That's why be stubborn and stay calm, preserve tranquility and prudencealways 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."

"Butwhere to get at least aparticle of chances, where to buy this saint marvelous ticket to further blossoming, prosperity and bliss..."

"Enychance gets own roots from life's thickets, from rave and chaos of events and from diverse and motley heapof rambling occurrences, meetings andoccasions, by random gathered in fate. But mind sometimes is also rather helpful – in role of catcher of sweet luck. Whole task is absolutelysimple and unambiguous in primitive insides: all you have – to bestraight 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. Goodsense 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 morbidtrembling and hysterical attacks, what's more it's madly lavish and prolific on painfulconsequences, 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 trashyinstrument, I'll say. And only troubles are sincere, are pure and honest in own acts – much more than any one of virtues."

"I know, here tragedies and griefs are not just spices of this being, but its most main and heavydish."

"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 ofexpectations 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 mutedtissue of time's curtain, so deftly stretched on long infinity's horizons. Without lenient and hospitable share, profusely seasoned with great measure of thickluck, you'll never reach the best of treasures of fleetingcradle 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 bigstone – 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 smallcage. If you will guess of all of secrets, you'll rid 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 try to be most fully ready to any sorrows, injuries and losses,but life is outstandinglyneat 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 averagerubbish. All things are cunninglytwo-faced. All steps are dangerous and vain. Each truth is doubtful and foggy. For poor citizens driedriver is a grief, and for geologists– a present..."

"But it's so tempting - tobelieve, to wait and hope with whole soul's force..."

"Each hope is quiteexperienced seducer. It works as magnet intoabyss, in tart and crazy pool of rave, which's always watery and barren. And then oneemptiness... 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 onedeath."

"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 moment is terrifyingly important and full of influence on fate. It's so unbearable and painful to hold this burden of everlasting timeless duty, of sick necessityto act, to move through river of new hardships and breathe with morbid bloody spirit of constant readiness for struggle."

"This hellish presence ofimportance is fruit of inwardly formedfaith. 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 freehelp 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 arrangedwar'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 mistakenlytaken for true. All you have – only bunch of convictions, only vague and breakable ghost of shortly actual assurance, which's always indistinguishably hazed andamply 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 owngrave. 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 from 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 wideningrequests, 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 alllatitudes in pain of unforgivably burned season. Downcastly and indifferently yearning in bleak coydungeons of smallroom, right inmidst of habitualemptiness, was gently melting in oblivion and thoughts lostElena 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 vastfidelity 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, 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 lonelysigh and finally dissolved in inward languor. Nothing morbid at all, just free thoughts.

VIII

Apartment. Dialogue. Gloomy speech. Arseny Dmitrievich is full of shybroadcasting: "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 fatalvainness' 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 topay 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-destructionand regretting, by route of sorrows, pains and griefs and row of torments, dirt and losses. Do not rely on nude persistence, do not rush, if it hurts, act by head, faith in mind and deny 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, get 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 warmthof 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 anyproblems 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, all can crumble. 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 of bait in 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 abode 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 come 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 orplans, in thinking's manner, in relations, in range of aims, demands and needs, in hopes' erecting andin 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 carry 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 ones keep obedient endurance."

"This world is definitely mad."

"It was the same from first of moments. And believe to my grievous words, its main ofbasics will stay steady. Here lie and cynicism are firstly meeting fillers of any sort and type ofmoral. 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 ofsoil, 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 abode and root of biggest of regrets and of most sizableof 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 tosuitable 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 dailyfollowing 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 not with 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 from frames of this sinned being."

"It's rather difficult to guess– what's aimedto rescue you and save and what – to kill and to make useless..."

"Eachdevil has mostangelic 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 frighteninglyshort. All you have – only vagueness, fog. And any sufferings and tears are fruits of inappropriate wrong laught, of empty thoughtlessness and 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 tohang yourself."

"But this is horribly not easy to cope with hurricanelife, to find somebridle 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 tameable 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 straighttreasure."

"It doesn't help to climb to truths..."

"At here you need in positive example. Eacheye, which has beenpierced 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 thispractice, 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 immense, 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 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 stronger than 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 brings 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 at 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 abode 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 reason. 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, rightbehind of pale bottomlesswhiteness of faintly grayish endless sky, so amply filled with reigning sadness, thick faceless heaps of pensive fogare 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 mood, or warmth or prospects... And once again I've dragged in wilderness' embraces..."

The heroine has lowered her gaze and smoothlystepped away across ofpuddles. And at small tiny point of now, few of bleak and unfriendlyblocks later, she has approached calm vacant doors offirst appropriatesalvatory location – not roomy and not glorious cafe, with unremarkable shypair of two pacifictasteless 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 morbidyellow 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, nudeapathy 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, refreshingfacts 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 warmthand 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 triflingframes 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 orstopped or cleaned fromhorrors. 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 notby 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 shrunkand sadly looked in window's abyss. Behind of thin and tremblingcurtains 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 certainshyness in own tone: "I don'tbelieve 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 thenresponded: "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."

"Eachsoul is madly greedymagnet, 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 blamelessharmony of hearts, but all of times I get mistaken..."

"Mistakesare leaders intoorder, in nextcompleteness 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'malso pleasurably shocked and even notably dumbfounded."

"In fact true magic is quite near, the only task to pay a glance..."

"All heavy take 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 bottomlesslyright. 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 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'' add..."

"Shall we try?"

"Yes, at ease."

"Take me all and 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 pleasure, they've meeklyfallen 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 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 mainesttalisman."

"It's rather tempting, that I'm main. But do you have some secondary others?" - has asked the lady with surprising.

"The main and one for all next living. Without copies or replacements and with full dominance in all."

"Then love and cuddle, pet and cherish."

Arseny Dmitrievich has happilyembrace her and pulled himself to glad girl's face: "How madlysweet in your saint abode."

"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 dolefulLydia 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 thiscentury ago and keeping now not own light, but one nude symbolism of last one. Cold, promptlythickening wind's waves are briefly sending pensive greetings to sluggish watery landscape, so smoothly mixed with inner languor.

All day is slowly spreading 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 hospitabledoor of always waiting friend's apartment.

"Most warm of greetings to my dear. Now you'rerare 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 madstart, so let's continue from beginning."

"I'lltry, if Iwill 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, prescribedexclusively at once and for few ones of flock of humans. As soon as I have spread my sadwings and got surrendered to depression, some force has broken my upsetness and thrown in paradise's hugs. From lavish bonds of nowhere has unknown gently youth and paid me delicateattention, without special efforts having fully enslaved all my depths of seeking heart and thirsty nature, 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 times' starting and not less. So all of nooks of my souls 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 cheerlessbasics, 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 beenmade 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 hottestpoint 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 myheaven, my saint angel."

"You too. Your love is sacredtreasure, you are my bounty, mygift – 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 anyquestions." - 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 hasboundlessly melted in lavishreigning of shamed craving for something delicate and keen, without any hesitation and with full willfulness and zeal removing 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 rakishpiquant hugs of promptly growing feelings' flurry.

"How madly good." - has breathed the lady at denouement: "You are pureparadise. 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 dismalfirmament'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 ofvanished 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 coyly dragging by dark streets in trickless traveling ahead in hazy abode of horizon. Through views of featureless landscape is humbly walking coy and wistful, delved in thinkingElena 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 one... Not all get kissed by lips of God. But stop... I'm having an idea. My dear sugaryArseny has been saying to me one bigfact – 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 youngfreshness of new returning back to life, and daily things with zeal and quickness have stepped in outcomes and fruits. Small cheerful company of people is calmly sitting in large room indeep and passionate involvement in swift and active conversation of last political events. In farestcorner, on armchair, right next to square window's space– the first of two relative 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, andcouple opposite 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 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 definitelystressful – 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 barelyachieve some real things. But your mood brings meoptimism's seeds."

"You're right, I'm not talking not of prospects. I simply cannot sit in waiting, when my thin salary getscut. I cannot sit and realize, that at one day I'll be unable to pay at least for water drop. I can't accept thisfact 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 straightroad to soon end. We'llgo and show them all world's shit. And no one will ever stop us. We go to struggle to 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 withyou. 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 haveother way. Without strike we'll see noprogress." - 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 moveand feed the ladies with amusement."

"Let's, let's, we're thirsty for good joys." - the ladies have decisivelyresponded.

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. Theprogram currently is simple, with one small comedy inside- "Hand in Tit", if to trust to the title. In whitish abyssesmirrors are humbly hiding heaps of haze - impassive, tiresome and lifeless, enclothed in covering of dust, enshrouding space of each cracked surface. Oldheavy furniture is worn, pale facelesswalls 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 ofmovies." - has shared Lidia Andreevna with others: "And which opinion have you?"

"Completelybearable impudence. And not without few of jokes." - pleased Viktor Anatolyevich has noticed: "At least somewhere we are laughing. Great pricelessprogress for today."

"With lack of irony we'rehopeless." - Arseny Dmitrievich hasnodded: "So, let's trudgehome? 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."

Ownedhappy company has clothed and walked ahead in growingdarkness. 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 people, no cars, no noise or at least mutedsounds. Only perfectly emptifiedwasteland, most deeply motionless and dead with tired steps from gloom to home.

XV

On freshly risenbarricade, in smoke, isstanding 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 hungry faces and strong fists.

"I fuck 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 sadViktor Anatolyevich with sorrow: "We had to organize this swarm. It can't bepossible, I'm guessing."

"We have a pamphlet. Have own claims, have truerequirements 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 andfloor. 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. Fuck off, you're poisoning my show."

"Get down. You're absolutelydrunk. We have thickpamphlet, 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 suddenlydecided to kill the strike, so let's kill him."

Drunk masses flurry has rushed up, unused revolver was knocked out, small scraps of pamphlet have flown down, rough dashing heels have knocked inface. One man has found weighty 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 triesto make a Strike": "On Nikodimovskayaartel, last day, most close to time of lunch, time near, has flamed anincident of protest - twelve lawless dozens of the workers have stopped thework and come forstrike with desire of salary's rising. The organizerwas 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 ofvictims, 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 damage. The act has passed without police - local squad has effortlessly coped with own force. Administration shows deepsympathy for rulers of aforementioned enterprise and calls allcitizens to meet them with compassion. Shocked worried clergy say the same."

"For what? For what? Explain me, tell... I've named myself completely happy, succumbedto 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 livingeach 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. For what? Just tell, at least, for what... "

Elena Vasilievna has trembled and burst in ampliest of tears. Past paradise has mercilessly melted.

AFTERWORD:

In cozy room, amidst ofcarpet, small funny baby spends free time, in yellow pantaloons with long and motley ribbon. At him sits company ofthree – 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."

Bothparents slowly have left. The woman has unhurriedly payed look and gently tried to straighten thick child's hair.

"Aunt Lena, can I betrustful? 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 – perceiveme as a miracle, I'm begging." - hasresponded Elena Vasilievna and, having turned ownhead to wall, uncontrollably bitterly sobbed: "Even if not athere and not now, but my kindness will find futureway. Who knows, why world is made just so... With joys and sorrows, bliss and pain. I believe, that I live notfor 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."

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, neccesity 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 immense, 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 a 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 candles, no 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, life 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 to the 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 have 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 accept and endure, to walk and wait and then to cry. "

"And so much meager is existence, so deadly gloomy, vain and lost. Incorrigible lost and distorted. With no of chances to be fixed."

"What for to fix its hopeless abode? 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, the 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 to better living, to luck, bliss' plenty and success? All other looks as sure rubbish."

"Just go 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 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 a 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, has brightly blossomed views of day.

"The 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 frost... 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 clothed in greedy nooses." - has smiled with tiredness from sadness shy and sleepy Tatyana Sergeevna: "All your talks show one sadness, the very one, I also feel. But soul is seeking for new feelings, for better hopes and brighter days. With inevitable soon winter we will get sated and not once, as well as with hazed and 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 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 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 turn to be needful for decent part of such dark matters. The main of things – to stay just happy."

"You'll be eagerly fucked 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 show 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 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 going to the 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 immense, 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."

"This petty 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 both of them."

"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 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 once."

"Sometimes you 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 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 of 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 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 the knife, the more desirable are cuts. Weak soul is ticket to an 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 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 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 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 also 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 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 was 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 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, was 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. It 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, at 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 love 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 waste, 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 feel heart's gap with love or care, can't get frank mutual response. This world is abode 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 the only 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're 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 still 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 for few 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 cold, 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 in absolute longing, are standing clumsy, as life's burden, exhausted tables and low stools, steadfastly plunged with askew legs in worn and doleful floor surface. Completely moderate shy holes of narrow windows' expanses, with productivity of cripples, are showing silent somber light, appended 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 proceeded to examine disgusting muzzles of few visitors of chambers. Imputed choice is surely not great: fat ugly faces and graceless grotty bodies and faceless shadow of waiter as pure ghost.

"What a desolate deserted desert, best abode 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 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 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 this 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 human, 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 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 an abode 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 over this very fate. In school of life the time of death is nothing more than end of lesson."

"Eh, 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. The 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 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 nice 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 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 marketing 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 feeling, 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 take roots from understanding. And now report me of yourself."

"I'm rather modest as all others - I study 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 fucking eaten fish. Lost bitchy idiot, real monster."

"Madam, a young man was with you." - has unexpectedly turned waiter.

"He 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 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. Fuck 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 want be needful, want be 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 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 picture 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 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 am pleased with acquaintance and that I certainly want more."

"Good deed. The closer is your soul, the much it's better."

"Not only soul... My body also wants be wanted."

"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 other, then - yes."

"We are unique. Remember this as firmest statement and be entirely relax. I have finished my wine. The dial shows me time if midnight. It seems, that someone will be scolded."

"They will not scold me, I'm assured, - just 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, the clothes is shabby, the 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 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 vase 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 fulfill own tasks so neatly."

"For me it's certain source of joy. I really live 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 comport 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 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 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 brightest type 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 andtake my throat by force. And do it roughly, I am begging."

"Without even a 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 am immensely 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 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 vague look. And even dearest and joyful university, which was 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 slowly replaced by pain's presence, by dreary thoughts and changeless gloom. Yes, pain... First time completely real.

"How 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 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 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 beings 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 my 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 spread all 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 my holiday was going. They didn't let me, scary creatures."

"It's hard for, 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, wanting as true drug. I hope, your soul can understand this..." - shy shaky voice has broken into cry.

"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 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 of losing your saint 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

It so happens at here that after autumn goes winter. Or spring. Or even blooming summer. In our case one frowning autumn has changed on 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 half year. 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 you 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 terms of only two years and with no changing 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 do not reproach, just pay compassion. What's new 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 repeat 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 eternal misfortune: each one can study something own. One-sidedness is similar to poison."

"I agree. It can kill."

"I ran away – goodbye, till morning!"

"Don't 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 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 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, 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 looked in dusk and slowly 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 unlearned it, then a lot. Can you find 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 calmly found the second one of his two wives, who have 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 been 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's 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 to 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 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...

I have pure nothing to be warmed with

To get my drop of inner spring

Lost fate is filled with greedy dying

Gray days - with dummy empty things

Vain weeks are flying with no purpose

In window someone shows pale sights

Without strengths to leave bed's surface

My corpse is looking by the sides

At foggy canvas of sky’s grayness

Among of clouds and pale views

Is shyly blooming timid sadness

Above of swarming town’s fuss

Calm time is meekly going further

Faint dawn is crawling step by step

Cold vastness, colorless and tired

Is getting filled by growing day

Yellow stars at dusk’s veil in the evening

Lonely silence of somnolent views

Dreary thoughts of flawed purposeless being

And life’s route, which is made of pure fuss

Blurred lanterns in far empty distance

Vague shadows at nude shameless walls

And oppressive and featureless pictures

Of dissolved into apathy world

Tired sadness in thickening air

Rare cars with untangible noise

And so sharp and persistent despair

Into mind, isolated from joys

Which way to be, if life is aimless

If all you have is wrong and low

I'll also die, I am not deathless

I'm also purposeless, you know

Which way to step, if road is absent

If goals are blurred, faint and far

If you are sated with own present

With faces, muzzles, fleshes, farce

If all is dead, insipid, dreary

If days are rid of any taste

And even thought of being happy

Is just an entrance to pain

If light and rightness are not given

If mind is rotten, dirt and weak

And to be honest is forbidden

To be sincere is a sin

If you are inwardly a stone

For others greedy cruel legs

If all existence is pure torment

From first of moments till the end

If all is so, we are quite common

Are parts of single poor game

Where each tomorrow shows bottom

The only place, which truly waits

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 and bottomlessly 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. 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 sinner as kind of lightning conductor for flesh's strivings. 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?"

"Do not 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 doubtlessly nodded.

"Then I will go... But... Wait a minute, do you still have you soup? Rest 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 time for obsessions. I have to call to my Anton – he truly loves, 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 abode – 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 neatly discover, 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, for further paths and all of their 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 immensely 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 place and no reason to 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. And today has begun own shy route in identical mood. Anastasia Valerievna has routinely woken up and, having watched 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 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 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 flash 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, has thrown 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 was looking into gloom of autumn withering and slush, cold rare rain and bitterly cold 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 obscurit, 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, to curb wide canvas of world's random, to overcome all dangers and gain freedom... To ascend to pure sky and not 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 and 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 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 wilt. 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 by very course of times. Useless period, harmful. For which unknown game we live... I want to be, 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 house with no walls, 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. No to get rescued from own presence. Be patient, wait, then simply die. And then no haste, no worries, no idols, no known hardships, no frames. No shade of perishable 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 throw an old pale jacket and having luckily exchanged not long gray block, the hero has gone up by shabby steps and proceeded to helpful discussions.

"My best of greetings to your person." - has unlocked cheerful friend: "And I've been thinking, you've get lost."

"It is unnecessary fear, without dialogue thoughts are dead."

"Then sit and sprinkle with your thinking."

"With pleasure, passion and great ardor. With no rest and no 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 prospects. Only darkness and gloom."

"So it is, so is hopelessly moves. Ruins have maximum degree of immortality. You cannot kill what has already died itself."

"You even do not know 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 rescue will grow, no 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 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 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 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. Nor human can be saved by current world, nor world can 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 easier are 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 slits 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 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 plans, no strength and no requests. The poor fellow was gazing at gray ceiling, remembering past times and current doings. Melancholy was tart, and mood was scrabbling right by bottom. The pace of minutes was unhurried, and lost capacity of heart was getting filled by only one anguish. Soon sadness has haphazardly got stopped – a long-familiar good friend, Stepan Igorevich, has gladly visited the home and stepped in.

"I have sailed to your abode." - 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'm 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 brigh 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 chance for straight logic, no 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 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, to 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 of smallest 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 with the 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 do not turn on for spacious time – apparently, for not to burn them 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 be 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 don't know such expressions, they aren't given 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 gap. With 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 curse of road depends here not on legs, but on head, on it's taken decisions."

"And no end of torments and omissions."

"Life is free opened process. The one, which finishes with your 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 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 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, nose 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 bastards. There is plenty of them everywhere. But here, I'm 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... How to say and 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 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. With very 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 am 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, maybe. 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 held them ahead and stopped at puzzled lover's mouth: "Lick them. Grasp with 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 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 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 this, 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 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 pair with 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 abode 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 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 every further day."

"All gaining use, all past experience are 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, such one will never 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 the swamp, you will 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 made of 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 feeling with one mind. Thought is weak for such deals. And even all attempts to think of good are the way to soon thinking of 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 - fun, 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 it’s hard 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 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 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 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 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 cynicism and endless 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 cheep, 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 of 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 the 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. Sometimes 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 the casino too soon. And life in fact is nothing more 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 doubts in my head, we will remain just idiots and only."

"You can hardly predict, recognize or rely on 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. Cynicism is sun of human world. In all and everything it blooms. Even fire at here is not more than a tool of dividing: in ones, who've warmed, and ones, who've frozen. The fact of happiness itself is already strict cause of division in ones, 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 hopelessly engaged."

"Quite successful damnation. 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 holiness, no God."

"From God till devil less than step."

"And no heights without troubles, without bitterness and pain, harsh endless sacrifice and anguish."

"Sorrow - measure of weight. The 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 for 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 heaven into hell."

"Life is surely rich on success, but last one usually 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 human, 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, with no 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 is the filling, the more pretty and neat is false cover. All horror lives 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 are 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're 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 one is 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 miracles are promised, 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 known of deep breathing, then suffocating looks quite pretty, it doesn't seems as tragedy or grief."

"Most sad, no basics will 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 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 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 unhurriedly stretched over city. Stingy passionless features has got 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. Great. I am standing right here and just blushing. So tender words..."

"I feel so comfortable, so 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 abode."

And then the very reached apartment and cozy sofa, occupied together.

"So tightly crowded at here. So many books!"

"And this is wholly understandable and clear - after all, at my work, I'm librarian. But sometimes I am ashamed to admit it. Not so much popular profession – no prestige, no rivers of money."

"Come on! Ceer 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 prompt?"

"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 mouth with tasty!" - having spread 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 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 cute. So nice it's with you. Do not let me away anywhere. And do not let your mouth from the sweetest. Give me kiss 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 am wholly yours - completely, totally, forever. Are you happy with me?"

"Till firm shiver inside."

"Well, it's nice. I'm 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 has shyly filled with brightening faint colors. Pale landscape has submissively filled with dense bottomless haze. Slanting carefree winds 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, at fog of 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 mate 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 meeting 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 no for long, but even these unsuitable conditions were serving as the biggest of delights. And now spacious foreign, brightly car painted in red, 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 you as a sheep, I'm rather tired of my wife and your 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 changes you, my 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 to 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 forehead: "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 will 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 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 move ahead. 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 very top. We live exclusively for nothing, that's why achievements are just temporary, pointless. All is wrong, all is dead. And fear – source of 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 drowners they hide."

"Soul's passivity breaks, leads to murk and omissions. Be aware of it, shy away."

"The longer is the term of imprisonment, the more soft seem the shackles. Don't get used to fate's frames, don't addict. This is surely worse than the poison."

"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, 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 fall 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 abode. 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're 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 mind is far from being helpful, if no of things depends 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 heed and 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 dangerous is any bright 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 the 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 one other 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, 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 presence. Shy away and keep distance. Such contacts never can have use. They are hopelessly vain and entirely empty. Be away of lost 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 killer 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're 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 emptied 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 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."

"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 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 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 burst with such a 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 united. They're keeping lovely conversation and slowly enjoying with each other.

"Well, my sweet dear boy, one more time I am sick with you only. 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, just 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 I 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. My hopes 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 nice for me to hear this all. 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 inevitable 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 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 the 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 even 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 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 found, 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 - of all, that kills, destroys and tortures. All wrong, appalling and improper has roots in emptiness' replacement... All bad takes path from void's abode."

"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 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 prospect."

"But you cannot 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."

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 will continue 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 abode - 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 ineptly 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 cheep empty fake, this unforgivable obsession, destroy is 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 tart intercourse, tart madness, amazing closeness of hearts and sweet delicious juices in 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 poison of doubts, fears 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 and never known of far 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 collapse, 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 inevitably 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 killing time, with no shade of expectations and no 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 immensely 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've 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 know her 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 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 bastard, to greatest enemy and monster. And now I am the same myself. He truly loves her, truly trust, truly faith into mutual frankness, truly hope 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 steal 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 leader 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 go 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 a 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 message has been 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 has thrown 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 named 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 abode. 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 immensely 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 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 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 hugging and attention. What's quite remarkable, neither Vasily Yegorovich nor Anatoly Viktorovich were at least slightly guessing of 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."

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 answers and directions, for pure fidelity and mutual relations. I'm even wondered and puzzled – where did my fate today 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 fruitful lucky plot. You need to hope, but in fact you so frequently cannot."

The lady has got gradually up and, having louringly cringed from painstakingly tearing feelings, has approached the mirror's surface: "It seems as 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. After all, earthly presence is worthless, dark and vain, sadly shallow 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 was 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 are blowing in room lovely fresh 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 are not a 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 sometime 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 crumb."

"Don't think of them. Each compassion for saddest of losers is always balanced by great hatred for the best 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 live 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 loosers, 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 will no longer be a liquid, you'll vapor. Or ice."

"It's completely oppressive."

"As a fact, no matter at all, how bright are you mixed fervent thoughts, the city gets remarkable from station, and life by presence of pure values. The world, which's rid of ideals and chances, is a hell."

"Ours one?"

"Whose one else? Or you've been dragged in some of others? This poor world is just a hell, at least in frames of sober understanding. If yours is different, it's trouble."

"No anguish – no life..."

"It concerns not one fate. Please note, that people joint together not by one presence of umbrella itself, but by its lucky combination with hard rain, which builds umbrella's relevance and prudence. Any meaning and probable sense depends, at first, on universe's laws, of thin features of being around. Our share is role of a mirror, which one according to world's picture, looks more crooked and uneven or more flat and more 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, it quite seems to be true, 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 and frames. Choose most stable of truths, catch not branches, but trunk: people aren't a shepherd, they are 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 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 cann'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 truth and lies is step, and between of true world and of thought – sure abyss."

"What for to be? What to search and 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 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 doubtful strivings and always rush from place to place? We also permanently ask for constant help. It's out of some healthy explanation."

"It's so much 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 forceful 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 drinks – you have a mouth, for bitter ones – a garbage bucket, all is scarily simple. And remember one thing, sky doesn't send short roads 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 route? 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 frankly do my possible and 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 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 such ones are already 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 smashes him with its bottom."

"Scary thing. Where to run 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, have equally happened, only one hasn’t reached you at now, and other one already has 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 incredible before – before of first appearance of matter, before of space and starting of the time. 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 go to local stop of trams under gray, rain-filled sky or white sun, slowly delving in average waiting and not paying some extra attention. But even long before of creation of dinosaurs, it was clearly planned, which of routes should appear, what a place you should get, which ones of passengers with countless motley fates should be there with you, and even how many scratches should shyly shine at one or other window. And each of them had to live from the very first far ancestor exactly with the fate he really lived, had to go through all wars, epidemics and etc, had to have just exactly those terms and acquaintances, just those 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 now to my words? And right now, at this moment in my life. Every breath, every yours inhalation, every sound and moment are programmed, are predestined in accurate way. It's predetermined by the very world's essence, by invisible body of reason, which substantiates the properties of matter, the principles of feelings, mind and thought, and the results of any 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 sole."

"There are two of glasses: in one is life, into other one – worst slops, the glasses are quite different, but essence is the same."

"Well said, no 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 smashes all inwardness of heart."

"Such position is average foolishness. Just total foolishness and sin. Don't succumb to life's troubles. Remember one – when you're surrendering, you weapon lies down among with honor. Be more strong, more resistant."

"No resist, only sadness. All is distant and constantly blurred. 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's, 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 hardly depend on each other opinions, that we indeed rely on someone's telling – on tellings of identically vain, vain and surely hollow people, hotly looking for lavish approval and greatly shying of each negative recall. It's so boundlessly mindless 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 single position and follow 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 conclusions.

"One new morning again. And again so 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 and holy. So much bright, so distinct are these recollections. Till most small of details."

Here it has sure sense to report, that depicted above flawless case had shyly taken own place into far early childhood - at summer rest in native parents' village. In very one, where had been timidly and calmly situated the very 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 memory of Margarita Yegorovna, this greatly close strong 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 devoted 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 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, a bright and briskly vivid lady, initiative and naturally insistent.

Margarita Yegorovna has quietly 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 at 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 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 romance. 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 promptly and properly 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 one 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 gain your silly 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'm a fruit of my will..."

"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're 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 the 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 the world truly is... It seems to be so huge and complex, but at the same deceptive time so hardly primitive and useless. And no 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. Comfort is given only for body. For soul and spirit only worries and pains."

"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 a 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 person 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."

"At here be 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 by 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 makes 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 one who'll simply hate them not so hard than all 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 pay you 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 a kind of my daily tradition, the one, which's 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 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 a soul in pair, they need a doll, a pretty hollow ghost. And green bills in 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."

The lady has got up and obediently frozen at window, tightly filled with pale thickening fog. Behind familiar old frame stay faceless sleepy town's expanses. Above of grayness of terrain, are humbly huddling in forlornness slow disconnected static clouds, calmly scattered by boundless heaven, neatly wrapped in a veil of shy haze. Into distance are waiting for better weightless contours of vague landscapes, smoothed and seasoned by river of silence, of languid bottomless oblivion. 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 I am only one at all the planet. I have no one, no one single soul, for to share my world and affection... All is vain, no weight , no usefulness. World is seemingly bottomless, immense, but I'm alone, I'm totally forgotten. I ask for happiness, but hear one endless silence. As if they all themselves don't have that cherished key. They say that I am waiting here for miracle, but what else me to wait 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. With no hope – one longing, death. Not nice without 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, disappearing in 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 wait. What will come from the future, pain and horror, I guess. And in now one absolute vacuum, darkness, sad constancy of static killing emptiness. 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 immense disaster. Grief and pain. And impossible bottomless longing. "

Margarita Yegorovna has quite indifferently stepped aside and sadly looked around bedroom: "Just me and walls. No prospect 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 slowly 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 only for few."

"What's the role of the world? If it's rubbish and waste in all spheres."

"To decompose oneself on tiny parts and get transformed in dust and vain sad memories. It's the only evident version."

"Where is happiness here, where it hides? Is it utopia, dead fiction?"

"In fact, we all are moving to its abode, to purest happiness and only, but some of us by leading forward lane, and some by sad oncoming one."

"This is strictly unbearable, awful. It's a hell, a scary kind of creepy prison."

"But so it's only for you, for other ones it's paradise and pleasure. They are not worried, that ship of life is sinking, they much more concerned, that at this 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 a madness to say, that black in fact is white, a madness is to heed to these weird words and to be eager to agree."

"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 night at whole planet. Humanity today is simply rid - of any right on possible normality, all universe been built in total horror, in marshy swamp, that's truly killing."

"And it gets pleasure from such state. Till endless shivering and bliss. Crooked mirror is salvation for all freaks. Each rotten poor world gives a chance to own worthless lost members 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 and unfair and low enrichment. Wet floor is fried for slipy shoes. Go and try and you'll surely perish."

"It's too easy to dead, 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 been important."

"What will save us from murk, from thick boundless wrongness and loses. 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 you yourself and only. 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 sinks 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 canvas seems a myth. We have no of encouraging tools in whole present. Being living like others, you'll die, you'll simply rot and mixed 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 exit, no 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. Move stubbornly and stoplessly to goals appreciate pointed prospects. Be more sharp in new wishings and strivings. Spirit's volume is bottomless, immense, 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 all world, all 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 a thought was invented for person. 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 first 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 are abruptly 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 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 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 tribe. Just remember and add to beliefs, a lot of sages are considered as idiots, a lot, but not each one of them, but almost every noticeable moron is assuredly mentioned as sage."

"And what's more terrible and tragic, that smart people are food for oblivion, for oppression and slow 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 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 and 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 sometimes we're mistaken 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 to 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 made of shit and void. Each teacher has to be ahead of taming students, he's just obliged to keep such state. And what'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 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, the meaning is your modest right to go ahead through being's forest, not counting its trees with your sick forehead. "

"Is way to lose own path at all..."

"It shows whole trap of social swamp. It's not a grief or dead offense to fall down at smooth beautiful floor. You can easily go ahead, you can luckily move with most flawless success, but it's quite 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 emptied 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 soul 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 their 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 human role here actually is? Forlorn, tormented by reality, dishonored and hammered by past – a doll, a dummy, faceless phantom, dead mortal freak, ill shadow, not 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's hoop for skinny person, is just a ring for amply plump. The thing, which's an infinity for fool, is just a moment for a 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."

"But 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 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 is all. And if to say of suitable ideas, among such ones stays 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 if 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 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 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 a 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 cell, but by length of imputed imprisonment. In fact, it's absolutely vain and unimportant, how hard is your life, how sad and piteous conditions does it have, indeed significant is only one thing - your chance of getting rid of living problems, of finding decent exit and salvation."

"It's greatly difficult at now to survive, no 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 – if 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 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 die, you will mourn not for weeds, but for best of the roses."

"No matter, how 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's 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 it's not truth. 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 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 begins to prepare for your burring. 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 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 met 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 tune will turn, you will play with that 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 is a 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 creators, primordial and main organizers are, 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 thing 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 the ocean of wishes. While fools save 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 agreemen 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, most far-sighted wait only for death... Any greatness is myth..."

"With greatness, main is not to lose connection: if you're climbing at rock you can equally fall or get filled with tart glory. And reality goes ahead. Burning circus, as all we're informed, is not not a course for stopping cheerful play."

"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 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 road, and not of efforts of walker's feet."

"We have lots of pedestrians here... Lost and useless."

"And lots of routes, do not forget. And all unsuitable and worthless. World's maker wasn't jeweler."

"How 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 was 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 fall in atheism's division, having lost faith in God. But even if you are most stubborn skeptic, you anyway believe in world itself. In fact that, it has myriads of peopl, 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 have 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 day has really been real and no moment of your fate has been implanted in your mind and has been surely existing. You believe into naked 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 the world – no single scheme will show you truth, all of atoms will helplessly crumble and whole space will just collapse in 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 get joy."

"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 filled with permanent alert – do not wait something good from adventures. Time also flows with no 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 much times have fed you with advices – you need to have more fun inside, more smile at 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 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 do not even heard of such a place. I've never been in there for all my life."

"Then it's time for first visit. In love newcomers have a 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 it 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-fated fate?"

"I care of your share so 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 suddenly fall silent, slowly looked at each other - first one bewilderedly, shyly and forlornly, and second one - appraisingly and sternly, and with no big participation both of then 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 finish point 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 briskly 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 sedulously caressing 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 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 borders. Atmosphere is mildly welcoming. Even close in some way to sky's abode. 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. But 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 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 bathe 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 offer..."

"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, we 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 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 one? There are enough of trifles even now, but what significant will happen into future?"

"In the present, I'll say, I haven't fucked 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 mumble some wisdoms, as if you really are smart. If you don't need in fuck – 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 is no need in 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 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 – abode 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 and 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? For a what? 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 the world, how much full of unbearable recklessness. Local people are ready for all – for any mindlessness, atrocity and fuss, if last ones are both horrible and dumb. 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: after killing all weeds, you cannot get a rose from nowhere."

"It's sure ragedy, nightmare. No happiness here, no 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 heart 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 be 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 can't 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 surely stronger, it so certainly 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 matter how petty is your partner, how disgusting and low, you will adore your companion with hunger. It's quite clear with stars: it doesn't matter how weak is light of star, important is exclusively the distance, nearby feeble star will look more 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 lose smell and 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 not source of protection, their helpless flock can only is 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... Maintain own unity with death."

"And never go to storm without boat. Be prepared for grief. After all, night is scary for 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 the living hell is our local universal and is still 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 of life gets destroyed first of all by mind's presence. Among of buffoonery, aimlessness, you can be nothing more than a pawn. You are controlled by threads 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 spite of timeliness is only a 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 plan's 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 transformed in dreary circus."

"With no 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 a temporary trouble, a 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. are important. 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 have 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 playing – you cannot go with straight direction by sharply winding twisty 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 abode. 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 betrayed 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 the 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 abode. But bright experience is always undeniable. Each one, who've felt the height of sky, will never 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 has been chasing. Extremely much depends 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. Main 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 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. And each splinter 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, the misty expanse of the sky is timidly and wearily melting. In gloomy depths of faceless corners are idly creeping shapeless hadows. Time from time, with sufficiently ample tenacity, is faintly shining smoothly tinted floor. At spacious and sweetly cozy 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 abode, 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 tragic and sick is broad extinction of the world - of very principles of being, of very meanings and foundations, of very essence of each human, of any fate with whole its daily presence, of every particle of good. There are no 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 shame, with dumb confusion and omissions. This can't be healed, diluted or improved. Gilded sand of all their pure and sinless promises – in next development is average deceit, useless dust and vain valueless rubbish. But we mindlessly trust 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 ways, no rights for breathless soul. If you have no 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 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 lose. Even God has dissolved last of hopes. No light here, no aim, no miracle, no chances, no faith, no 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 andindifferent typically 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 luck 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 spread her thirsty legs and, having dexterously gone down with deft finger 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 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 the speed 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. Console exclusively myself. 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 repeatinf 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 darkness, but you are secretly devoted to the light. Heed in mind, you have sins before 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 interest to read. But still I have to occupy myself. Aleksey Borisovich will come here only by noon." - Saveliy Semyonovich has pensively concluded and continued painstaking plot's going. In such a ways 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 died?"

"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 alone. I will go to your bar with my sadness, will support your past duty. But honestly I am 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 abode."

"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 keep quite happy. They have 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 back, 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 immensely 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 warmth. 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 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 finding, 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 luck 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 chances, no 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 place, no corner for happiness. Many facts, many deed, 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. The 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 in all best and in happiness. On 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 tear, 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 page... 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 propertydepends 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 back home.

"What a filthy and marvelous weather... Exactly marvelous and filthy at one time – as well as policy, for accurate example. So cold in inside, so 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. 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 and 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 thought. "How wrong have I been, believing that captivity of loneliness will never be too torturing and painful, how much I've been greatly 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, hopelessly, deadly... With no finish and no 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 ishelplessly 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? How 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 your 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 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 can I do in current time - to finish fate and close wet eyes... Now doors are opened for oblivion and only. It has got ended – my vain life. Has just passed. No one will help, no force will return into youth. Expensive price for hollow dreams. And no light, as well as no chances. You can't be late to own grave. My next future is short – rather good: all torments and omissions not 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.

"And this is truly entertaining. What to do? Maybe, dare and call... Just right now. Mistaken lifes should also have some purpose."

The lady has got up and rushed to phone, but then stopped and despairingly waved with her hands: "Ugh, the phone does not work! Once again I've forgotten. All is 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.

What is the devil in your mind? What does he mean? What a role does he play? Can you imagine him, pretend or surely descibe? Have you looked at his face? I 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 tired things, unhappily encircled by inconspicuous and shameless naked walls, rather shabby and plain and completely detached from all splendor. In narrow window is weakly flaming with soft coyness silver-nacreous moonlight. In sleepy, idly melting air is offhandedly thickening evening depression. In the midst of such deserted chambers is quietly sitting Stepan Denisovich, a young poet and simultaneously a student at local aviation institute, a person absolutely lost, rid of luck and of future of prospects. His discouraged and doleful mind was 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 has senselessly finished, provided coming of next night... For which of aims? For what of prospects? What has it brought to my existance? Or not to my, okay, let's change. To whole humanity snd 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 senseless and hurtingly vain – just from and to and here and there. Life does bring us something new. What is more, all past hopes are melting – even faster than snow: the snow needs at first to fall and to lie for some moments or days, and human hope starts to die at the very creation. No one of great number of people will answer clearly why he lives. Having even ascended from now – as high as only can be – to the frames of thw global world's history, you'll never find with any of efforts even shadow of firm sober reason. Time is passing away, day are steadily turning is nights, night 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 life? Does it have any kind of observer or author? Do all its passions have some single sourse? The world, of course, so loves to be just random, but anyway it's not an argument of total global absence of the meaning. Any justice is fruit of pure utopianism, but is at here, at least, small modest 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 real fact, so evidently proven by past practice."

The hero has sighed and stared back in window's darkness: "One void, vacuum, as well as all my fate, in every day and any sphere, with sure absence of exceptions. There is nobody at here I would like to devote my heart, such ones are out of existing. Both richly dressed and fully, smart and stupid, exalted and low – all they are idiots: each face and every person. Motley canvas of new ideology is rid of any principles of greatness, of any grace. There 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 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 immensely 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 serene. 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 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 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 unlucky, all I have to believe and rely at 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 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 thought take own end, start to fade and get shallow, 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 apart of sheet of paper, turned off the light and then silently frozen at window.

And far of outside is so so dark, so gloomy and sad. Just total boredom and only. The omnipresent one and omnipotent.

"It would be hopeful to fall... Through of ground or deep into abyss. But much better, as usual – into bed and night dreamings – the sweetest shelter from the 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 cloudiness, and for long dark 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 haze with rare tattered and formless flocks of fog. On somber faceless 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 own chilling abyss, are lying framed by mist landscapes. In courtyards are straying random shadows. Into distance are timidly waiting so much ineptly knitted long lines of unbounded vastness, richly flooded with utterly meager and almost indistinguishable views, submissively subordinate to predominant broad disappointment. The walk 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 was deliberately in no kind of hurry, atmosphere was patiently calm, filled with peaceful detachment, thoughts were free and oppressed, rid of any insights ans just static. So much natural deep alienation is gradually involving in own nets of swiftly selfless meditation, liquid kindness and silent weak somnolence. The hero was unhurried and idle and now and then was 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 stopless wheel. Be rapid, human, hurry, rush... As if next grave can run from you away. And the last one is all that is 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 the sake of which we pay with all own 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..."

An old and lonely brick house has unexpectedly got drawn at the neighboring side of the street. Destination is finally found. Now the stairs and the 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 window is a hanger nailed by nail and mummified herbarium tulip at shabby frame.

"Once again mindless fiction of days has 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, don not stand."

"Then drag the stools, where have 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 furniture satiety, was sleeping onto overcoat, and from objects of luxury was possessing the very same stools, that were traditionally serve for to meet rare guests and to spend endless moments of sad joyless thinking.

"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 at such process." - the interlocutor has smiled measuredly and sighed: "But time is really a 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 at very essence time by time."

"Such quality as superficiality, believe me, is very very nasty thing. As well as windiness or pettiness."

"The basic features of each townee."

"Exactly so. As I'm writing essay of new 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 reason to start. Fate's platform - road to futility and only."

"And where would you 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 all volume of heart. Most of people are stumps. Some - simple, and some burnt."

"Wait some more, and you'll also be burned."

"I'm afraid not to meet waiting's finish." "They will do, do not doubt."

"But for some reason world has been created... Why do they live? What for? Explain."

"For farce and making show. In logical and mindful motivation is important the 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 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."

"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 smelling bad. It will not grow anyway, that's fully clear."

"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 truth. 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."

"And all pain is that world can't be changed."

"And cannot be destroyed! What is even more painful."

"I also am about that..."

"We've coincided in thoughts."

"Like damned ones."

"Just like that."

"Why we live, if this world can't be changed?"

"The purpose of each life is not to change this world or days, but to be changed oneself. That's why you have to heed the haters."

"How could we find oneself in world..."

"So 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 all."

"Just as truth. All we have – only lie."

"Lie is more than a gift. But there’s one immense 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 thing not to choke with the 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 motley crowd?"

"No matter how strange it 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. 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 love to, but 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 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 was 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 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 things: first - fire, second – weapons, third – shamans. Three things, that were completely able to deprive them from home, from life and from mind... Build conclusions yourself." "Each one of us who knows how to go will never stay without own deadlock."

"Our life is like sea: it unites both the sailors and drowners. Keep own being afloat, do not look at the members of bottom, those ones who're in abyss are no longer helpers for your fate."

"Where else to take strong will and due efforts..."

"Into tryings to eat with excess, the first thing that you risk is to die in sharp hunger. So, do not overdo."

"I have no forces in inside..."

"Believe, you will. Both for bad and for tricky of deeds."

"I'm wholly sure, with me it will not work. I feel no gravitation to achievements in world, which looks like mockery or curse. I will prefer to contemplate and only. And then I’ll stop myself as clocks. I do not want to show initiative or care, don't want to gain participation in such life."

"The dinner was both nice and lucky, but, by some terrible mistake, the world has suddenly gone crazy and added food to our usual poison."

"So much alike with my opinion. As if you've taken this from my own 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, one day we should 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. The point of view is source for line of fate."

"My fate will never move from such a start."

"You're just believing in such statement. Follow mind, do not hesitate. Build some meaning and goal. Such things will lead you to all true. The broad between of thought and thinker is more than virtual and vague."

"Cutely said. But anyway my 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 person only a handful, and some – much more than immense ton."

"Mistakes have differences too, some of us will take prize with no risking, and some will even die without 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 how all this can be prevented..."

"You are right. No way, no methods or tools. No matter, how much talented is hammer, nail clipper will still do own cunning job. Fate all time will be stronger than human. But, of course, if it will truly want."

"No changes will come, no spreaded ways out..."

"This is vain, this is kind of frail look. Any systems exist and develop till first appearance of powerful 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 sense, no pleasure, no praise..."

"In last you're clearly insincere. We like to praise – almost each slightly noticed far person, especially person now is dead: what a good priceless person he was, so nice, so opened and honest, it's so fine, that his fate has got end – just as we always have been wishing him all life."

"All it’s funny, but sad 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 now. Say what you like, but feeling of the sea begins from first acquaintance with true storm."

"It's nothing else than pearl of purest madness."

"And you still can’t get used to its broad path. So it is: spoiled hatred gets most often perceived as quite suitable love."

"Mindless paradox, illness!" "It’s a paradox, yes. Just one of many many others. The same feeling of guilt right as love to the motherland, which overtakes at first most distant immigrants, also falls in main turn on fully uninvolved and wholly sinless."

"Without reason we adore, with even shadow 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 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 close it's to nowaday humans. We love to be participants of justice. And this is a consistent valid thesis, not just an observational light fact. But if for you it’s not enough, I’ll add, that global essence of new changes comes down to the next ill logic — we have some house, so let's burn it, then we will have to build new one, so maybe it will really be much better. Such ideas hold minds. At least, for 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, yours role is only to 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 the 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, 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 the presence of 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 to find some meaning and some aim... Both for luck and for hardships."

"What a for do you need such a trifle? The presence of the best guide-man 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 all 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 of madness. Kettle-bell onto neck more often gets perceived as a 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 as to try 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 all future."

"I will nod and agree. But any abyss has no hands, that's why we reache it ourselves. It's 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 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 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 the bag."

"Even hopelessness got 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 the third one."

"There's nothing to wait for at all."

"No expectations can be fruitful. Such thing is barren, wrong and vain. It's 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 from having head, but just at here is 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 at 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 life's love, of faith in own reality and future, in all unknown, new and strange."

"What is this world inside of frames - nothing high, sins and stupidity, swamp, no feelings, no meanings, no 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 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 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 got old, old ones have died, fool ones have surely remained unchanging 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 thing not to find those ones who're 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 reaches to bottom ourselves. It turns out, we've lost once again, at this time just without of forest." "All is really so, we ourselves are roots of own troubles. We indeed build own problems one-selves – as well as we believe people... And we can't stop to support and continue such rave."

"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 a 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 deftly cool and chill all your similar 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 are shown in many dozens. And never get 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 magic will be promptly dissolved, all puffed faked globalism will scatter. With problems all is just the same – as well as with soul's ideals and values. All that you can believe, all you really cherish and save – all of these vague pointless matters can easily and fully disappear, burn out, die and sadly transform into dust, any greatness can get resultless, miserable and empty, murk can turn into light, sinless goodness in bottomless evil. All 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 easiest deal for your 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 keeps on the surface, being met every day and so regularly catching our eyes, but reliably remaining unnoticed. That's why all waitings and experiences are vain and pointless in 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 - to 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 is distinguished from the loser by one degree of love to war."

"It's too sad. You spend yourself, you burn inside, but in the end you clearly see, that your comrades and friends and your enemies are entirely equal and close."

"Any aimlessness differs from others. Each purposeless material is fixable, any purposeless work is a kind of nightmare, every purposeless feeling is tragic, and purposeless life's time is really fatal. The most expensive ever thing is your chance on a step."

"There is nobody 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 only 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 correct, more deep and absorbing, each fate's collapse is rather specific and surely not equal to all others: 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 single 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 on a 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 blurred heaven."

"How to put all of things onto right and appropriate shelves..."

"Don’t even try. It could have sense, but not today already, our current lost lawlessness has begun so much strong, that every poison tastes like food, and any lie and mean deception get impeccably deftly adapted in proclaimed inner content to that helpful and precious form of accepted for 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 harder than your mind."

"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 freely transform 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 of one of ideas or meanings and not of one of deep, flawless suggestions. But it's not even partly a problem, not one of ideas and spheres has 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 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, all such things don't depend on your person, on 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, but no one of 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 cherish and so richly worshiped!"

"It's kind of collective disease – the, 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 mask living concepts and veil their perishness and flaws, but also hurriedly untie your rampant hands – believe to me, all this is always tempting. Legalized imbecility is called as comedy and humor, legalized and 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 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 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 shy point on its surface. And life experience is sort of cunning capital, that will be spent till 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 in a 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 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 the 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 adding unreal advantages, you'll never take existing flaws away - no matter at all, how nice you are praising own life, it will not come by such aimless word mass neither better nor 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 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 soon and hospitable grave, for most likely and frequent example."

"It's enormously sad. You stick to some abstraction, to one's kindness or to 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 correctly 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 sharply illusory states into head. As if your brain was fully amputated."

"Not brain itself, but right and sober glance. But this is temporary only. At these dark moments, the main thing is to keep stable calmness. Don't be afraid - your inner mental eyes have not fallen away from own abode as well as have not got turned off or spoiled: some fog has come – and that is all what 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 paints: 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 prompt and exactly 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 hands 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 zeal and no 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 in this context was clearly known, none other else than Stepan Denisovich, humbly going through everyday grayness into local poetic alliance, outrageously aimless and vain, ideologically alien, but serving as the only accessible free place for an opened speeches' platform. The mood was giving one despair, the head was empty – right as thoughts, and mind was 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 in 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 hollow tribune is dusting little clumsy lamp with long yellowed porcelain shade. Deep longing straightly into all.

The meeting has begun.

"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, appearing one by one. Weak performance has moved in ahead, Arbuzov has ascended the last.

"Defecate." - has quite contemptuously pointed the presenter, dissolving into endless jesting smile, voluptuously intoxicated by self-power.

Stepan Denisovich has slowly 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 existance 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 on fences is in bulk." - the entertainer has disturbed the hero: "Every time all the same. We are tired already. You have to have be concise, we have not so much free time for to waste it on such tasteless rubbish."

Denis Stepanovich has folded all his papers, not received 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 anything own, but has always been utterly interesting with any works of others: "You push you 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 that things, which I consider right and needful, which seem to me important, actual and aimful." - has muttered dumbfounded Denis Stepanovich and then tried 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 the 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 the life, as well as never have got normal beatings. But I will break your childish peace."

"I act 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 fucked and constantly deceived. And you live in a kind of pink fairy tale and inspire yourself with these snots, exposing your own weaknesses for high feelings. Give up all poetry, don't spoil tons of paper, be normal, go here 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 slug, you're not a man. I've warned you - you'll regret a lot."

"Fuck you..."

"You'll be fucked 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 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 all 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 keeping 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. Gently tender pernicious mist, united skillfully in flakes, is cautiously melting in disorder, staying totally pensive and rueful. Opaque emptied horizon is fragilely 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 mistakes, so I think. In any case, if your, at least, at once have really tried to understand the essence of reality, you'll be of similar ideas. I 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 penny in pocket, no 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 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 hard with you to be. Madly hard." - 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 a 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. I have to do it confidently, bravely. 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 the world, have its hollow and mindless humanity, so simply packed in vain civilization. What do we have in current time? Only huge populated earth-ball, aimless point in absolute abyss, short moment at eternity of days. We have just immense endless bunch of small particularities and trifles. And no kind of globalism or greatness."

"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 of their matter. 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. To chilly for to talk at ease."

"Let's go..." - the hero has got up and trudged with his companion in distance: "Has your daughter still visited 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 been a widow for more than dozen 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, 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 heights, slowly creeping 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, successfully replacing in free way onto paths of the local inhabitants. First flakes of wet and liquid snow, mixed with merciless rain, are flying down from sky's abyss.

Denis Stepanovich, habitually motionless and usually depressed, is standing silently at window, unluckily beholding daily agony.

"Deep emptiness... Deep emptiness in all. Not only outside, if outside it's okay, but in inside all content is the same. Whole heart is dead – no hopes, no joy, only darkness. And fate is getting stricter, prompter - more and more with each day, and more minor, 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 or shadow of perfection. Even if whole civilization will just perish, no one will cry or will be sad. All known productivity and all historically given creativity comes down only to wars, to endless violence and sins, to stubbornly supporting endless 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 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 of winners and of 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 hugely painful. We have fate and its laws. Have determinism. Where is life in its frames? One existence and only. Under leading of nits, any peace is a 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. 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 reason 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 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 fruitless, 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 world 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 world, 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, 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 omnipresent 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 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 - 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 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 awful collapse of life's line and any 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 talk 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..."

"You 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 being stopped. Thick neck makes glad each kind 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 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 happened 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 what's 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, it is. 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 aren't worried of lack of their 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 and everyone 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 no 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 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 the 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 its path gets filled with earlier unknown and eagerly evolving in own route."

"Let's criticize the 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 the path of painstaking extended improvement, are inevitably and sorrowfully doomed just to die at last day in the ending, to touch sweet limits and tart frames of better opportunities of being and then completely disappear. 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 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 way to extinction, extinction in the most offensive way - through going through highest of maximums and further fading and fast wilting. And even personal development is so. The more smart you become, the more beautiful look you obtain and the more tender you can sing - the more shy and annoying you'll die. Evolution is work of the devil. And we are also in its cage. And you too."

"To run from death ahead to its main abode 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 the lantern of buried reason. And what's of the returning to reality, I'll say, that, contemplating modern world, 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 are a soil for smartness and wisdom, and won ones are a source of delusion."

"After all, in this 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 today is even more offensive, than at least in some measure effective. Any dullness is absence of plate in simultaneous excess of dainty food, and mind is lack of any food in presence of whole section of free plates." "Our prospects are short - only keep getting ruined by own mental remainders and to get slowly worse and weaker."

"True in all. Be clearly sure in fact, that human, just as river in sea can't fall in madness right at once – from the very beginning of life, although starts to research such direction concretely from the moment of creation."

"And after all, in no one of all scales, you can find any pointed vector, any truly straightforward free route. And even whole eternity is meager."

"No globalism can act as human mentor, the world was ripened not by God, but by the hand of pure scholasticism. There are no 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 weaknesses."

"I agree with each word."

"After all, all of tricks, all attempts go in vain. Having smashed all own past, you'll never build good type of future."

"If you dream of a race, buy a horse first of all. We are of those ones, who have never proceeded to life."

"All this is certainly for better."

"Undeniably so."

"Why demand of the nowadays crowd so purposeless and petty? Why their exactingness is so much perverted?"

"Demand and offer 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 essential. And the higher is any of feelings, the more defamed it is in frames of world, the more deep and more cruel cynicism and betrayal are implied inside of its sphere. Any unity, friendship or care are dead. What to say of saint 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 has a gap, then all your gifted warmth and all affection, all tenderness are going into abyss."

"We do not differ true from false."

"We don't look at the essence. Among of fruits and rustling leaves, remember only of roots – no serious matter at all, which hand provides you with some help, important 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 a perverted you'll be called."

"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 making him murderer, but he 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'll find yourself at side."

"So it is. The more long you connect here with people, the more explicitly you risk to stop being 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 of trusting – in which of world's manifestations, of its countless views and immeasurable feelings?"

"In no one from such a list. Human feelings are far from some nobleness, they have exclusively one point of application. And light with darkness also are the same. Shy away of their greedy deception. Life's path is sadly narrow and slippy, and sides are bordered with death. One sudden step, and you're a corpse. And defeat comes your abode. 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 way's leader is sure evidence of headlessness and blindness."

"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 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 great plenty of such ones, their presence works as circuses' migration: if one nomadic circus leaves the 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 by last ones and only by them – for holy priceless sake of their growth and of rich and awaited 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 can 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. The way of world is clearly deplorable. We've grown from wars and epidemics, it's a 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 the abode 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 nature. 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 abode, no matter how bright 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 destiny, 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 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, by this is surely 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 rest of 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's 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 useful, 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 mo 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 that makes you a person – your soul sublimity, mind's wishes and directions, not by rare bright gift of right holding of mallet or of straight skillful cutting some 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 with 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 will come luckily true. I am in deep and endless doubts. So stupid you are, so 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 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 in a 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 suffered, 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 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 meamings, 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 in magic of concept, believe with all my poor soul. I believe and 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 eventsis not a tool of 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 cloudless. 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, were 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 of 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 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 echoes, faint and seasoned with tiresome drowsiness, with daily bustle and oppression and indistinguishable images of life, calmly framed into weakly formed apathy, hardly fettered 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 at least 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, great utopian's depth at one moment gets instantly, that's why, according to this statement, Denis Stepanovich's lost mood, which have not found caressing encouragement, 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. Again one sadness into 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 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. The world is simply hopeless at today. And each 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 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 abode. 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 afraid to be 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 was ended, 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 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 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 to reach you, my dear To catch glance and to touch you with lips I stil 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're 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 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 united 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 of 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 exchange dreams on routine is similar to replacing heart on stone. Do not do it at least voluntarily."

"All is globally so. A 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 above of every head. There is no idol 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 some 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 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 risk or to waste. 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 coming." "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 all 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 not to be eaten in response. The main thing, after all, 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 frequently exposed as some development. All around at all is mainly only a fiction, a kind of huge and cunning matrix, where all you meet is just a 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 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 last one you don't have to think, at least about aimless others. As well as you don't need at all to use or to admit blurred fruits of an alien thought. In loneliness you're acting as pedestrian, and in togetherness – as passenger and watcher: events are flying much more fast, but you have less control. So, be alone. And be afraid of doubtful startings. 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."

"The world is huge, pure meaning stays to be exception. Each giant is 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 turned into hell. 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. 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 others."

"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 to 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 does not go on in your head, it boils 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 a 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 sinless thoughts, with riot of bold and lustful dreams and with storm of immodest 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 rubbish. 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 think of you so 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 talk with 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 and entrusted..."

"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 was 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 - timid 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 useful than cozy

Don't think than 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 admith 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 reached street's surface, 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 ruched 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, were 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 missing.

"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 new 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 sink inside of soul and gets identically sticked, stick, 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 this, you have need in this one tiny flake, not in others, it can't be faked, replaced or compensated..."

The hero has wearily sighed, and then silently stretched: "For whose 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's not so 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 scary 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 Denis Stepanovich just once, having suddenly met him by will of unpredictable stray fate and at the same haphazard time has fallen into bed to her 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 with inner weakness. That's why no things were going on. Only 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're 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 let away all lighting It's so painful with no goal And minutes are so slow in lasting

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

Deep sorrow turned 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 the only life point My cage, capturing from all low

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

And at 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, enfeeble 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 tendency and feature to gravitate to something hiding higher – to creator, to tight close alliance with neighbor, to involvement 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 don't believe 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 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 a 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 wandering view, completely deserted landscapes are 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 air is notably thick, deadly lifelessly 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, in century of wholly mighty weakness. Most strange of variants of moral revolution. No really fervent and bright revolutionists, and, what's more no 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 the 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 strongly want to this tart 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 abode. 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 makes 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 got 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 upset."

"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 all life."

"Console yourself... No one will 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 all they 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 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 abode 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 heal, it's just making you older There 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 with - 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 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, 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 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 has given in addition one more joy, 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 kind of life's bottom! Earth floats in abyss from my feet, all past hope has 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. Well, now I'll show true innocence of soul."

Denis Stepanovich has promptly moved to kitchen and started rummaging in size-able 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 reflection.

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 slowly 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 will find me quite soon. 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 sharply waved 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 surely descibe? Have you looked at his face? I 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 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 show some endurance. There are such 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. It 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 keeping vanity and fuss. Lively boiling crowd, quite densely surrounded the corner of 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 has 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 have. 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've known. I do not want to leave like that. You are the dearest and 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...

_________________________07.02.2019г__