Book: At dusk

He was one of those, for whom there is no love, no women. He who has endured, in a single moment of life to love and to be loved, he, who so fully knew the depth of feelings, experienced more desire to look for something that it itself has fallen into the immature, pliable, timid hand. He has traveled to many countries - one of those unflappable, proper Britons, whom the rumor often called unfeeling because they are so silent and their gaze calmly slides past women's faces and women's smiles. And no one realizes that, perhaps, they are in the shower pictures, forever chained to their internal sight that the memory of past burns in their blood, as the inextinguishable lamp before the image of Madonna...

An hour left until night. Magic hour, for there is nothing more wonderful than to observe, how slowly fade and covered with shadows the colours of the sunset as it rises from the floor in the darkness, while black noiseless streams it does not overwhelm the wall and not entice us into the darkness.

But those are the stories that are told in the twilight inevitably wander into the path of quiet sadness.