Book: The Part Of Improvisation

He believed that when everyone around you is talking, talking, talking about yourself, someone has to listen. Someone. Because each other, they will not hear, the deaf, the lonely birds, huddled flock.

I stand, searching for the words and look at the little sprigs in red mittens the small sun in her eyes. And she talks a blue streak, she laughs, strictly scrunches up her nose, she shakes off the dust, looking for a vase, makes a noise and lives. The house also reluctantly comes to life, begins to breathe. That heart beat. My? I don't know. And she doesn't notice it, put your bouquet in water and is happy. Just. Just because she is. And brought her the branches - buds. February, and kidneys. And then I realize: these thin twigs concluded a promise of the future. Not a faint hope, and endless confidence in him. And this is the gift of this girl, that's what she brought to my house. And I find myself with that same smile. My happiness... I Hear you, you know. Thank you. Just sometimes I stop believing that the winter will end. And she always knows exactly what lies ahead - spring.

Not birds alone in the sky, and the sky lonely birds.

Have you ever kissed poets? Vigibase along the Meridian of the stomach, already pregnant with new poems. Studying the trajectory of the hips, every touch igniting the inner sky, bursting out with a hoarse breath. You kissed poets? They have hot lips and cold eyes. They call at three in the morning to predict a new dawn. They are taught to love roads where easy haphazard happiness is a natural attribute, like a guitar on one shoulder and a careless half-smile songs by a bullet entering the living heart. They stagger from road-words not touching the ground, and are able to see people as birds. They go over the trenches that we dig its own to Fess up to the rhythm - home, work, school, Breakfast, dinner, boredom boundless and far-fetched meaning, not justifying myself. Just they are free even in prison, and we were in prison even free. Undefeated in the dungeons of a private dead-end lives, clumsily drawn on the inside of closed eyelids in a time when outside rages and life is rapidly falling star. They - the writers of the new world, they were the center of the cyclone. And they kiss. Know how? Sweeping away the husk of everyday life, collecting on his lips, the essence of being mad concentrate things, crossing out all unnecessary and exposing the most important thing. And life becomes a single moment, but in this moment all come to pass. So have you ever kissed poets? No? Well... Come on, kiss.

You dancing to the unborn universe. I touch the palm of your chest, I can feel it. You dance Nude extremely violent world. He breathes to the beat of my heartbeat, but... My heart is chaotic pulse, nervous arrhythmia of life, the sick spasms of the aging sky. The world you insane. The world is in you belongs to me. The world is in you trembles and bends under my hand and the line of the horizon breaks. I look into your eyes. Now in you the sun rises. And maybe I am a thousand times wrong, when dragging your hand on the roof, where the massive stars affect meowing belly sticking out here and there antenna. When I you breathe the roads that people walked thousands of years before us. When I bring the speed days to the limit, surpassing the limit that was desperately screaming brakes of the present. When I close my eyes by the hand and lead into the light, breaking the boredom of every step. When you lick your lips with this monotonous crying, stuck in the apathy of silence. When sweeping away from the table, these hateful pots and bowls, the utensils of everyday life, to kiss the throat to turn poslovnost sex into a tool of creation, to lance the boil of fatigue and makes of the body a new form of sensuality and passion. When I steal you from the stuffy office to escape the city and see thousands of birds rise from the ground. Maybe I'm wrong, perhaps, in this regular everyday you warm and cozy, and next to me throws hot, then cold. That might be so. But you dancing, madness, and the universe laughs. I can feel her. This means that the time has come to be her birth. As always, without specifying the price. And tomorrow when you Wake up, the world will be close.

Yes, sometimes people grow out of the former relationship, dump them in a straitjacket with spread his shoulders and go on. But every once in a while to warm love warm breath, fit in time with the heartbeat, to pull above the growth of the mind, to fertilize with understanding and sensitivity... Then it will grow together with us.

We - the people. Living in his own delusion epicenters an unquenchable thirst for all of the new warmth and happiness. We is a continuous movement and growth, which eventually become small any frames, even frames of past relationships. We - shy animals in the quest for personal Paradise, we - mechanics of bodies with variable mass goals and ambitions in the equation of life.

The colder and besprovodnye dark outside, the cozier it seems warm soft light in the apartment. And if the summer is a time to escape from the house towards the Chimera teenage soul, then late autumn is the time to come back.

We drink tea, we listen to the news, we go to work, we flesh today, plow history, and fear of the future.

There is only one way out - a way of understanding another person, subject to the desire to talk about yourself only one question: "what will hear the other one, how will he understand my words?". Primesyami to beliefs in their own right and the right of a different opinion, different from yours. Granting the ability to create your world the ability to hear other people's worlds. There's only one way, but it's way out into the light.

Only indifference would be the only reproach, under the silence which the soul leaves the stage, throwing weak wings on a warm wooden deck, a moment ago belonged to her.

Don't kill the desire for the best, ruthlessly changing yourself, even if your "best" tomorrow will be the same as the thing you left yesterday.

I was trying to understand something... I tried to catch the note on the edge of the broken string, tried to read a poem ten years ago written in the sand before a surf, and therefore perfect. Tried... and Then I asked: what did you find? And I showed a handful of ashes on the palm. This was the time.

Together is when you know that you are always welcome. Loneliness is when you always expect, not knowing anything.