Book: White river, green banks

Impossible not to cry; probably it would take a whole week to Express my personal ocean.

I had no illusions about him. Most of the time he was in depression, was painfully proud, ambitious, and unreasonably Horny. He predpochel to relax among the crudely drawn landscape, where instead of the sun - pink pill under my feet the green grass and the brown mushrooms, and next to a small river of white powder, and he indicated the conventional figure-a circle, oval, four sticks, the obligatory cigarette in his mouth. The rest of the time, between depression and bad dreams, it was good, timid and very beautiful creature, but false, that was caused by not so much the depravity of nature as laziness.

At this time, he was silent for a long time, too long, and I was scared. He usually felt like shit when the customer again and again did not accept his work. Or another mind-bending marathon was delayed for a week. Or failed casual sex (...). in such cases, he would disappear for a few days or even a week, worked or just was trying to be alone, to regain perfection in the sense of independence. And then, of course, called and waited for me, huddled on the bed, and I came, and unfolded it, as crumpled paper, trying not to damage, but only to smooth, to straighten the folds and creases.