Yuri Markeev. Spider Zhigulev (№ 354341)

And accurately. So every time it happens. In Paradise you're losing the practical properties of the brain. Bliss that's not quite bliss, but only pain from the inside out, melting the remains of small prudence. How many times this has been! And is still the same time. People of prayer and they asked for bread for the day ahead, knowing that the day is long, dark, and empty, and fraught with dangers. And then – being very much dressed in rags, to split the rotten spirit, the half-dead body and a dull brain, she forgets about most important – the stash.

Time of year for hell does not matter. Behind the window October – cold, wet, dark. Low depressive clouds float over the city, sit on domes of churches, spread out in tearful no end of trouble, is filled with streets, apartments, houses, skull. But if you think that hell is pushing for something nasty, you are mistaken. Hell nothing pushes. Stupidly I want to lie under a blanket and feel sorry for the whole world – Yes, I always hit on pity towards all living things, when the soul of darkness. It is a pity to tears, funny man so constituted that he must necessarily pour in the blood at least a couple of cubes of medication that he is alive, risen, began to live and work. It's funny and sad. A couple of cubes of the solution, and I will come back to life. In my soul the angels will sing and the clouds suddenly turn into goofy children that playing with a man hide and seek.