Book: The city

Science! Is null, empty, bloated zero! Thousands of years it is growing, is growing and can not teach people how to live.

"Well, people! he thought. - And what do they want? There would have to live simply, and they all have quirks".
He thought, a gift that he is some kind of quirk himself was desperately looking for, after all, live just people completely incapable.

Musinka never about anything real talk, never bothered his soul, and he should be very grateful for this privilege, because to know someone else's soul too heavy burden for his own soul.

You think if I don't do what hurts, you'll live longer. And you think: I will do something that hurts, maybe life will be nicer.

Everything hurts! To breathe, too bad, because you're shooting blood. Don't breathe, maybe you'll live longer!

Madness - the undivided privilege of the person. An indicator of the way in which it goes. Bringing him to the future.

Literature is, in the end, the book, not the diction, and to do it publicly as weird as reading piano music.

In the soul of him lived and undying hope to their own fate, because everyone tend to consider myself quite an exceptional phenomenon in the sun and the moon.

I say, "goodbye", because we can no longer see. Don't forget that to perish in this world is as easy as appear.

- Don't be sad, comrade, ' said the poet, when a stranger with astonishment they looked. - It could happen to anyone.
- It is true that with everyone, ' said the other, pulled a face.
- I'll write something...- said Stepan.
- An officer find themselves... the poet said.
- Yes I have... their job... - through the power of the said he. - on Vasylkivska... Oh!
And again, frowning bowed his head in his hands.
- So what are you sad?! cried Stepan.
- 'll be sad when so belly took! Cursed pate... Fresh called!
On the street the poet said Stepan:
Error is always possible, and it is only strange that the stomach pain is so reminiscent of peace.

You have a soul - slate: it is enough to hold your finger to erase written.