Viktor Petrovich Astafyev. At bedtime (№ 253648)

When poured hard, and it becomes obsessive and almost a sick habit, I revive their past vision. Here I go slowly through the forest, keenly listening and peering into the depths of it, noticing things in this movement, take off, scream, nautre forest rookery. Every exit to the forest is weather or not present, holiday, expectation of a miracle forest, good luck, renewal of the soul, which only here, in the depths, away from the modern hustle and bustle, finds a full, deep peace. Go, go and my heart is worn out, sick, too, calms down, thick forest, quiet dal, floods sleep.
On taiga, the eternal Russian forest and all times of the year on Russian soil, what is happening, what can be more beautiful than you? Thank God that speck of dust sowed me on this earth, I thank my lucky stars for what she did to me forest tramp and gave vhave such miracles more beautiful than any tales.