Book: Envy

My shoes got tangled in the noodles and green grass.

Millennium are a cesspool. In the pit, lying machines, pieces of iron, tin, screws, springs... Dark, gloomy pit. And glow in the pit of the rotten, phosphorescent fungi - mold. It is our feelings! This is all that remains of our senses, from the flowering of our souls. A new person comes to the hole, fumbles, reaches into it, selects what he needs - any part of the machine handy gadget, and rotten he trampled dimmed. I wanted to find a woman who would have flourished in this pit unprecedented feeling. Wonderful flowering fern. To the new man, come to steal our iron, scared withdrew his hand, closed his eyes, blinded by the light of the fact that he felt rotten.

Do you think the drum performs his part? No, it is the God of music is knocking at you with his fist.

Human life is insignificant. Menacingly, the movement of worlds. When I settled here, the sun hare in two hours of the day sitting on the door jamb. It took thirty-six days. The hare jumped into the other room. The land was once part of the path. Sunny Bunny, children's toy, reminds us of eternity.

Sometimes I run for someone else's smile, skipping like a butterfly runs naturalist! I want to shout: "Stop! What blooms the Bush, where he flew fragile and reckless moth of your smile? A sense that Bush? Pink rose sadness or currants small vanity? Stop! I need you...

In our country, glory road fencing barrier... Gifted person either needs to fade or to decide on what to with a big scandal to raise the barrier.

She is forty-five, and in the courtyard it is called "Anya". She cooks Lunches for the farm hairdressers. The kitchen she made in the hallway. In a dark trench - plate. She feeds the cats. Quiet a lean cat off her hands electroplated movement. She's flinging them some guts. Therefore, the floor is decorated with mother of pearl like spitting. Once I slipped, stepping on someone's heart - a small and tightly decorated as chestnut. She walks entangled cats and tendons of animals. In her hand shining knife. It tears the guts of the elbows, like a Princess wide web.

Women! We will blow you smoke, clean your nostrils of smoke, your ears - from the hubbub, we'll make a potato magically, in an instant, to drop off shoes; we will return to you hours stolen from you kitchen, half life will get you back. You, young woman, cook for her husband soup. And the puddle of soup give you half of your day! We will turn your puddle into a sparkling sea, soup pour the ocean, porridge mound mounds, glaciers crawling jelly! Look, hostess, wait! We promise you: tile floor will be filled with sun, will burn the copper vats, the Lily of purity will be of the plates, the milk will be heavy as mercury, and this will float the fragrance from the soup that will be jealous of the flowers on the tables.

I'm not a charlatan German,
And not a liar I people.
I have a modest magician Soviet
I'm a modern magician.

I'm twenty-seven years.
Changing the shirt, I saw myself in the mirror and suddenly like got a striking resemblance to his father. In fact, such similarities are not. I remembered: the parental bedroom, and I, boy, look at changing a shirt father. I felt sorry for him. He can not be handsome, famous, he is ready, finished, more nothing else, except that he is, he can't be. So I thought, pitying him, and quietly proud of their superiority. And now I found out a father. It was the similarity of the forms, no, something else: I'd say sexual similarity: how would the seed of father I suddenly felt in himself, in its substance. And as someone said to me, you're ready. Finished. Nothing else will. To give birth to a son.
I will neither beautiful nor famous. I come from a small town to the capital. I'm not a commander or a Commissar, or a scientist, nor a runner, nor an adventurer. I dreamed all my life about the extraordinary love.

We talked a lot about feelings... And most importantly, my friend, we forgot About... indifference... isn't it? In fact. I think indifference is the best state of the human mind.

Have you made noise past me, like a branch full of flowers and leaves.

Time - the iron logic of history.

If you paid attention to the fact that salt falls from the tip of a knife, leaving no trace, the knife shines like untouched...