Yuri Markeev. Spider Zhigulev (№ 354344)

A blanket of iron, move it like a funeral slab. The bed is grave, because the stash is not. If I knew what was in the fridge waiting for me two dice, I jumped on the bed like a circus acrobat and, the world would have turned from head to foot, and then immediately again on the head several times, to the seventh heaven. Dream. Now is the time to begin to kanitelis, to mock me, to show teeth instead of smiling, and the hour hand will stand still, as if tied to the pood kettlebell. The hardest time is in the morning without a stash. The burden of all the ills together.

Gaze long into a black jumper, which went to sleep last night. Here they are – two Cuba of recklessness. On his chest is exactly the charred circle of the fallen from the hands of the cigarette. If you count the holes on the jumper, they will be as useful as I had a hell of revivals. Because after two cubes flying tablet of diphenhydramine, and this is, admittedly, already quite shameless. Because foolhardy. And cigarette always in bed about to fall down at exactly the moment when you cross the boundary between the seventh heaven and unconsciousness. The body is relaxed, sleeping brain, take me out, demons, angels, I will not utter a word of objection.