Poppy Brite. Lost souls (№ 72962)

They're all so young, thought the Spirit, feeling their pain and elation, their naive stupidity, their beauty and fear. They are so young. They go to their expensive jewelry, slastnykh of the stores, in their torn jeans, his black robes as a sign of belonging to some secret society. The society, which are open to only those who are always intoxicated: cheap alcohol, rainy midnight, sex, or poetry. Those who love obscure bands that make real music; those who goes until four in the morning and is afraid to fall asleep, his chest filling with fear and dreadful dreams.