Book: Horses of St. Mark

The only escape from evil is death. But thence, if to judge on here, scares me.

We no longer need each other. Even when we are close in love, you watch where I can't go, unless you go backwards and I go where you can't see unless you look back.

Sitting at the canvas, he, unwittingly, watched as his thoughts, one after another committing suicide.

Feelings, they said, only passing through the body, but it does not end there.

Happiness is a job you love, and the woman who loves.

The hierarchy of death is the one thing that makes a system of contact between different levels of reality into one, the invisible space in which death is like a black mirror, repeat ad infinitum...

He lacked the imagination to penetrate into the minds of others, he never ceased to amaze those around him, flawed people, who could from everybody I knew immediately recognize and remember the weaknesses and shortcomings, and then to use them as levers.

If you want to quickly forget something or get rid of emotional turmoil, in the blink of an eye to get drunk to unconsciousness.

And stopped clocks sometimes show the exact time.

From the same disease will not cure one drug someone hair salty, someone who is fresh, and he who has a beard bitter.

Then he stopped reading and began to read from the save written.

As sometimes scare us in the deep rain puddle, which is that the slightly wet shoes, as dangerous and unprecedented heights in the us, they can fall into such an abyss, compared to which the cliff on the Danube - nothing.

Maybe we're all transparent, and nothing is hidden, nothing is obscured, as we think, actually we are mutually available to the most secret corners, and everyone can be someone else. Each may contain the other and sees each other all.

But still, the bodies on the ground more than a shower...