Dmitry Glukhovsky. Text (№ 300770)

Neither of which is facilitated by. No one was talking. No one one question Illya could not answer. The regret was not. There was no fear. Satisfaction was not. Outside was a vacuum, and the inside was a vacuum, too. Airless and soulless. Went home, only because I had to go somewhere. To come and go to bed. To sleep it off and open a vein. Nothing in this complex was not in the area taught. Nothing in life is difficult was not to die easily and kill easily. But no one does not become easier, nor from the other.