Alexander Makarov. It's too early to bury us (№ 426776)

This disheveled soul desperately wanted to stuff its pockets with flower seeds, so that it would spill out with every step. Leave traces of daisies, not lacerations from hairpins piercing the ground. Only this would mean to doom the snow-white creatures of nature to certain death from the embers of which it consisted, like people accidentally hit by the shoulder.