Book: The book of Beatitudes

Time is our prison. In moments alcohol of illumination it is especially clearly seen term limits in which he is confined. Here is birth, there is death, and everything in between is a path from wall to wall, and when you find out how many steps in the length of your jail cell, you're gone.

Life is a "Book of Blessings" Some people read it deeply and thoughtfully, others quickly and eagerly, others diagonally, and someone does understands nothing. We don't know who wrote it for us, who dedicates it to us, faceless, asleep in a cocoon of nothingness, who prepares us to magical, incomprehensible gift.

Possession is impossible by anyone or anything. No matter what a person sought, whatever's gained, whatever wanted with passion, this passion is always the same. To own. We want to have knowledge, power, authority, talent, money, each other, want to have a family, love, companionship. Anyway, do we get desired from birth, make some hard work, wait'll tearfully, hold on and grab it, catch up and take away, - we will not be able to own it for a long time. Life will keep us from loss to loss, poking in every nose: possession is impossible. Here, in this world, nothing can be ours, but ourselves. Our children grow up and leave us, our deeds will be forgotten, our love story will end. There's only one way to tolerate this state of Affairs once and for all to accustom themselves to the idea that everything given to us - in our possession, and enjoy it does today.

Just her love became a little more bitter, like her flushed sea water.

Too strong was the inertia of that first night, as if never-ending blast wave continued to roll through the years. It was a perpetual motion machine: Matilda could not forget Kai and therefore was given to Julius; Matilda over and over again given to Julia and therefore had no chance to forget Kai.

He's as blue as a may sky.