The lady of deception.

I

In permanent and gradual twilight of amply clouded with passion curtained room, in narratively shameless tight embraces, was spending last remains of ending day young 19 years old Anastasia Valerievna, engaged in nets of sinful joys and rid of useless moral burden, excessively 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."