Yuri Markeev. Spider Zhigulev (№ 354346)

Five years have passed, and sometimes I clearly hear their voices from that room with poppies on the stained glass. Hear when you Wake up in hell with no nest egg. And wander around the apartment talking to himself.

But with the morning medication, everything changes. All rooms I light the light, turn on the TV on any program, fill the void with some music. In heaven I need the noise. Useless, poisonous, ruthless. Because in heaven I miss hell. Must be some kind of harmony, and I'm making up for the tired-out underground soul foreign holiday. We will dance the forest and mountains. We will dance the Church outside the window, grey pregnant clouds to Dodge white horses and will be on my team to Foxtrot on a slippery sloping tiled roofs. Hell, I want peace and pity in Paradise missing the holiday noise and dictatorship. I already admitted that the creature dressed in rags is hard to combine the spirit of a sick, wounded body and impregnated with poisons the soul. To connect to feel the real happiness, not fake, temporary. Understand, accept, do not blame anyone. I have one problem, the neighbor's "house" is different. Who will turn the language to refute the idea that we are all in this life as patients planetary madhouse? Look at yourself, look in joy and in sorrow, in the intoxication and hangover – you'll know I'm right.