Book: White nights

Today was a sad day, rainy, no Windows, just future old age my.

I'm a dreamer; I have so little real life that I moments like this, as it is now, I think so rarely, that I can not repeat these moments in dreams. I'll PROMACTA about you the whole night, whole week, whole year.

Dreamer - if you want a detailed definition, and not man, and, you know, a creature neuter. He settles for the most part somewhere in the inaccessible corner, as though it is hidden even from the light of day, and if you climb to himself, and grows to his corner like a snail...

I love him, but it will pass, it has to go, this can not pass.

You look around, you looking for somebody, you can guess... But the moment passes, and maybe the next day you will meet again the same pensive and absent-minded gaze, as before, the same pale face, the same meek and timid movements, and even remorse, even traces of some kind of deadening boredom and annoyance for a moment's passion... And sorry to hear you so soon, so irretrievably withered the instant beauty that is so deceptive and vain, and he flashed it in front of you - it's a pity because, even love her you don't have time...

The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one need to ask themselves: can they live on such different skies angry and cranky people?

And what dream will I when I awake beside you was so happy!

And we didn't know what to say, we laughed, we cried, we said a thousand words without thought; we then walked on the sidewalk, then suddenly came back and started to cross the street, then stopped and again moved to the embankment; we were like children...

However, as joy and happiness makes a person beautiful!

After all, do we thank other people though, because they live with us.

And again I ask myself: what did you do with your years? Where have you buried your best time? You lived or not? Look, I say to myself, look how the light becomes cold. Even as the years pass, and after them will come gloomy solitude, will come with a crutch tryasuchev old age, followed by sadness and despondency.

Well, what would have become of me if you with me now?

He is the artist of your life and creates it for himself every hour, arbitrarily.

You know, now that I come to mind? I have both compared. Why is it not you? Why would he not like you? Is it worse than you, even though I love him more than you.