Book: Duhless. The story of a fake man. Page 2

Indeed, the road of cocaine in the morning - step into the unknown...

- Do you have that in hand, in the parcel?
- Money, Vadim, money.
- Ah... And I thought drugs.
- It has a brain beats any drug, brother...

Indeed, time is hell, it is, of course, there have to be demons? Such a very modernized demons. Without horns and hooves, but with his ID and handcuffs.

Angels don't belong in the mud. Flap your wings and fly away.

We all drink together the mixture of passion, lust, tenderness, jealousy, blood and deception.

- Where are we going?
- Towards the dream. Most importantly, don't forget to buckle up. Soon we're airborne.

He is the one person you certainly want to have friends, even better in the close.

I'm trying to build a London around him, brother.

All shy and hardworking colleagues at once threw off the mask and become who they want to be. Bastards, perverts, the ladies ' man. Unavailable beautiful, fatal women, and slutty whores.

... all of us - young and aggressive members of the Moscow society - like rats, devouring each other. Because we have long been poisoned by the poisons of cynicism, vulgarity and misanthropy that has accumulated in our body for such a short life, devouring each other, we will all die in the end. And God forbid, to replace the us came more than healthy people.

I'm dying here. You will die from your indifference and emptiness. Hey, somebody talk to me! Can you hear me?

The output is not quite fresh fish, probably from the kitchen. But I want to believe that it started to rot Vadim. And I think that he sits and cries. And it boosts my self-esteem. Probably, I'm still not quite done for.

I've been left on the battlefield all his health, all the nerves, feelings and dreams. There they are, look, lie between chairs and tables, empty plates and upturned glasses. Even the battle fields were already overgrown with grass. How many of them left during this time? Jazz café, circus, Giusto, could not even old Zeppelin. This Napoleon took four years to go from Marengo, via the Pyramids and Moscow to Waterloo. People here have enough years for the eyes of any of the above places don't need to visit one of Moscow, it all depends on whether you have a good dealer.
Don't you feel? I'm a loser. Fucking twat poses of a provincial actor. I'm just a buffoon, ready jiving all over, including on myself. I grew quickly tired of the toys, I have something new to submit. I and squander this daily pursuit of entertainment. I'm running myself, with myself bored, sick and disgusting. Even in the rare moments of fun I can't wait to finally come back to me my only love - DEPRESSION. I am very nervous when it delayed, and gladly fall into her arms when she returns to immediately start to fight it. I myself ever rocking on the swing to death. The head already around goes, soon there will Unscrew to hell. I already know how to understand when I'm happy and when sad. Not life, but some haze.

Meanwhile, we beat blood with each other, defending their own views on the reconstruction of the country. Many of us fall down, choking on blood and his own bile, and then our unhappy parents in the us to help to rise. And we otpaivaem them and spit them in the face with the words: "damn you! The stupidest thing you could do is to give birth to us! Now I do not hold it against me!" Generation of Frankensteins, devouring its creators.