Konstantin Georgiyevich Paustovsky. (№ 464828)

You start to believe in fate. She is. And, perhaps, you cannot exchange all this nagging anxiety, bitterness, inexplicable sadness and love (equally inexplicable) that tormented your heart for any happiness. It’s as if the breath of something huge, something stronger than death, enters life. There is some kind of exorbitant purity and clarity in this. And some kind of internal trembling, which only happens on a cold, clear, very early morning, when the whole earth is still sleeping. Purity.