Book: Masha

Warm community of the Motherland...

Thundering black of the train, shaking the Windows of the house; filled with mountains of smoke, the ghostly movement of the shoulders, dropping the burden, rising with a flourish, hiding the night sky salinensee; sleek metal fire burned the roof under the moonlight; and resonant the black shadow was awakened under the iron bridge, when it thundered black train, longitudinally squoze paling light. Rumbling drone, wide smoke passed, it seemed, through the house, trembling between the abyss, where gleamed conducted moon nails, rails, and the city street, which crossed a low flat bridge, waiting again another thunder cars. The house was like a Ghost, through which you can stick your hand to wiggle my fingers.

She fearfully refused the invitation of the dancers and was now dozing sensitive, old-womanish dream, through which huge scales, trembling full of dishes, took the rumble of the trains.

... on the pink-thrilled the sky, where glittered like transparent fingernail, toenail, young month, and next to it, near the lower horn, shook a bright drop - first star.

- ... You love Russia?
Very.
- Just the same. Russia should be loved. Without our immigrant love Russia - cover. There is no one loves her.

He walked and thought, now his shadow will wander from city to city, from screen to screen, what he'll never know what kind of people will see it and how long it will roam around the world. And then when he went to bed and listened to trains through through this sad House, where lived seven Russian lost shades, the whole life he had the same shot, during which indifferent statistician does not know in what pattern it is involved.

How many times had he swore to himself that tomorrow with her tear, up easily the right expression, but I couldn't imagine that last minute when you shake her hand and quietly leaves the room. Here is the movement, to turn, to leave was unthinkable.

And strength was not because he did not have a particular desire, and the torment was that he searched in vain for the desire. He couldn't force himself to reach out to the lamp to turn on the light. It seemed to him inconceivable miracle this simple transition from intention to implementation. Nothing graced his colorless melancholy, thoughts crept without communication, heart beating quietly, linen pesky stuck to the body.

Returning home, he tried to read, but what was in the book, seemed to him so strange and inappropriate that he abandoned her in the middle of the subordinate clause. He was found what he called "the scattering will." He sat motionless in front of the Desk and
couldn't decide what to do: to change the position of the body, whether to stand up to go wash my hands, open the box, which was a cloudy day had passed into twilight...

All those small, something cute items that eyes and fingers are so accustomed, and which only required that a person forever doomed to a housewarming party, feel at least a little at home, laying the hundredth time out of a suitcase is light, gentle, humane dust.

Wallpaper - white, bluish roses. In the semi-delirium, sometimes of these roses mold profile for a profile or eyes wander up and down, careful not to touch the path of no flower, no leaf, find loopholes in the pattern, slip back in reverse, hitting a dead end, and begin again to wander through the bright maze.

He was of the breed of people who are able to achieve, to reach, to overtake, but quite incapable of renunciation or flight - that in the end is the same.

Who shaves, he looks younger every morning for the day.

"What is it, right, strange," thought Clara, with the aching feeling of loneliness which always takes hold of us when people who we care about, indulges in dreams in which we have no place.