Book: The November fog

But for a long time she lies in the grave, lonely, abandoned, dead, black staring empty eyes in front of him, but once she was a person full of life and heat, as me and you me and you and we, we all; - and now fester and rot...

Red wine, like a fiery ruby, mysterious light in a Matt dusk my room. Don't she look like a temple, where the thick wax candles flicker before the icons and gentle clouds of incense are lost in the dark Gothic arches? Does the sound of rain is heard the gentle deep voice of the organ, and monotonically drops falling on the glass do not display the quiet hymns?.. And a glass of clear wine isn't burning like a red lamp in front of a pale portrait on the wall, as before the icon, so it seems like amethyst eyes glow again, the mouth utters the words timid and pale peach forehead appear through the veins; Chu, do not you heard just sound like the ringing of silver, unless it was not the same laughter that resembled the reflection of the evening sun on the rose Bush?..

What do you dream about, you fool, she's long gone, and drizzling rain oozes, probably through chilly earth and rotting coffin on her yellowing hair. with Shaking hands I poured Burgundy wine into the glass, it is like the blood stains my fingers, and I her eyes staring at him... Maybe I should move the glasses to you and myself, and then throw them and himself to rush somewhere this lead to the silence outside the Windows that extends to me spider legs horror?..

Then awakens in me something that I long thought was dead, past and passed, then rise from the depths of the memory of bright days that I had long forgotten, sounds a ringing voice, shining Golden hair and eyes the color of amethyst; and the sounds circling and dancing, the lovely fragrance envelops me, gravel crunching under fast legs; the ringing wave, light and foaming, sweeping over me, crumbling spray paint and light and effulgence; I turn around...

Oh, my friends, is how dangerous and sweet strong poison that "do you remember?"; as a bitter drink from this "And once...", when all around you are worn old, forgotten voices and ask and caress: "is that You?", and beckon, and gently whisper: "Everything was wrong", and nasmeshnitsa, and crying, "it was... it was..."

Street lights, like a sad tearful eyes in a dull gray mist, the gray mist crushing, this bosom of sadness, mourning veil, which for the past few weeks, as dropped to the ground. Bedspreads wet from drops of rain falling in monotonous silence, that deathly silence around me, getting closer, and so ominous, that I'm going deeper into myself and seemed to diminish and I feel like my face is darkened and wrinkled, he looked like a brown mask that wide open eyes stared into the void... I scream jump up and run out of the house into the meadow and wait for the sun to it with her feet-rays climbed the bars of the fog and scared off the Ghost. But it soars like a pink sail in a pale haze, and hopelessness like a hammer on an anvil, hits the heart, a tormented him, whispering and threatening, pulling frame by frame fierce film of memories from the fog of the past.