Book: Passenger. Page 1

No one in his not blamed, but the General silence was more eloquent than any words.

Watching the leaves of tea, razboaie in boiling water, he had convinced himself that needs to go into action. To refuse unscheduled duty. Force yourself to lead a more healthy lifestyle. Sports. To eat on the clock... However, he knew that such thoughts have already become an integral part in his stupid, monotonous, pointless existence.

Addicts always go on the red line, but the survival instinct does not allow them to consciously cross it.

Even madness has its own idols.

No guilt, no friends.

... Deprived hours, losing sense of time and space.

Should we delve into ourselves, as we immediately get lost among all these fragments...

The suffering comes not from outside, it comes from within.

This is psychiatry. An attempt to scoop water from the sinking boat using a thimble.

He said, "you'll see, is a little Paris". Or: "Live in this city is very prestigious." Or: "This is Olympus wine." He said a lot of things. But he never saw. He had a vague feeling that Bordeaux is a city of bourgeois, arrogant and deadly. Cold and flat. The city, on every corner which exuded a suffocating atmosphere of a provincial mansion.

The human soul is not the animal's skin, from which tanning gets better. The human soul is sensitive, the quivering, fragile membrane. From bumps it will die and covered with scars. And begins to fear the world.

There is a very easy way not to get into shit. Not to touch him.

Focus on the pain of others, to renounce his.

The killer then? Who are we even looking for?
Heartless, cruel manipulator.
- I hope my ex-solid alibi.