Book: Duhless. The story of a fake man. Page 3

And in my opinion, this is such a meaningful bunch of the St. Petersburg intelligentsia. You know, like drunks in the courtyard of a bunch of "shit". I fucking went to the fucking store, shit there, shit, place, this, nah, well, fucking finally. And you instead of "fucking" substitute "spirituality" that in fact context just the same... in practice it has a parasite. Instead, you can use a Ukrainian "Nezalezhnost". Also in the Russian language, nothing says, but beautiful.

Half of this city simply does not exist. In my opinion, the space inside the Garden ring in the evenings it turns into a kind of computer games, populated by people-dummies. Once they were normal people, they had dreams, "beautiful soul impulses", the problems and vital concerns. But then, at some point, they realized that it is easier to turn into the characters of glossy magazines, the heroes and heroines of the dance floor, faye podium and restaurant of the knights of the knife and plates. To turn your life into the atmosphere of round-the-clock party and be the most advertised in all corners of the "night people." The constant glow of spotlights weaned their eyes to perceive the light of day, the Solarium lamps made it impossible to find on the daily sun, tons of perfumes and cosmetics along with drugs and diets were gradually dried up their bodies, and relevant magazines and entertainment TV did the same thing with their brain. In the end they turned into shadows of people in some semblance of stealth that can get out of the house only at night, when artificial lighting hides what is under the shell of make-up, dresses "Prada" jeans "Cavalli" or suit "Brioni" - hidden void. That is why you will never see their day on the streets of Moscow. The fear that someone will see that under the dark glasses "Chanel" there are no eyes, and their faces are just painted, makes them stay the day at home. Day - time people, while the night - time mummies.

And live. In the morning coach, in the evening to the dealer. Morning wearing yourself out with exercise machines in the evening - drugs. I think that they are so assiduously engaged in their own health in the morning just to have something to ruin the evening.

In the car include new people. It seems to me that they carefully consider me and expect me to tell them some fundamental truth that can change their lives. Well, or just send the ***.

If our generation and will be awarded some inscriptions on the mass grave, it is likely that there will be written the following:
"Generation 1970-1976 year of birth, such promising this and promising. Whose start was so bright and whose life was so stupidly wasted. Yes, rest in peace our dreams of a happy future, where everything had to be otherwise... R. I. P.".

Really, nothing has changed? Or no, not so. Are we so nothing changed?

I cheat, I cheat. Nobody trusts anybody. Nobody tells anybody the truth. We are all hostages of their own lies. And we live by the motto "white Lies" - and our good is really a lie. We try not to hurt anyone with the truth, injuring only himself bottled fragments of our lies. And all this is done to ensure that everyone was comfortable and nice to think that they need someone. And all comforted each other and declarations of love out of a sense of "humanity". And then proudly carry themselves with a sense of "helping the needy".

And I was bursting with tenderness and romance of the situation, and I feel good as a child when my mother would keep me sleeping, with a blanket. And I think that the balance has swung. And that their Cup filled with good pieces, fragments, to float somewhere in the depths of me, went down, shifting all my shit, which seemed until tonight dominants. Or is it all just me?

... I can't afford to in my car on the back seat lay a book with the title "combat attacks" or "special Forces get in touch". We are very different, you see? I don't watch "the Crew", do not like Russian rock, I don't have the CD with Seryoga "Black Boomer". I read Houellebecq, Ellis, watch old movies with Marlene Dietrich and ***Vayu from the Italian designers. And the first money I have spent on a Beemer four-year, as at boys, and on a trip to Paris.

I want to be rich - work for the poor.

A void in economic package for the discounter in Zhulebino little different from the void in a bright gift box for boutique "the Podium". Oh, believe me.

The only difference of the Network from the real world that the crowd here feels much clearer.

Just one of the thousands of human beings are able to resist the vulgarity and ugliness of the world, while remaining a thinking person.

Anonymity liberates obscene. It is the catalyst that allows you to escape all the demons, hiding from time in the darkest corners of your consciousness. Haha, it would be interesting to see your face when reading these lines, will you come on the job to his fat assistant-"blue stocking" and see how quickly it goes through your fingers on the keyboard, otpisyvayas its interactive Prince something like "imagine my feet in fishnet stockings on his shoulders".