Book: Blind owl

Only death does not tell lies.
The presence of death destroys all the fantasies and prejudices. We are the children of death, and it alone saves us from the deceptions of life, and that it lies in the depths of life, is calling and has called us to himself. In an age when we still do not understand human speech, we freeze up sometimes among the games: in these moments we hear the voice of death... And throughout life, the death of us. Didn't happen to all people suddenly and without reason, to reflect and to take in the idea that all notions of time and place disappear, and the person does not know what he was thinking? After such moments, we must make the effort again to get comfortable with this outside world. This is the voice of death, her call.

The range was a dead silence. It seemed to me that all of forsaken me, what have I taken refuge among the dead objects. Between me and a deep darkness enveloped my soul, arose the kind of connection. And in this darkness, in this silence, you hear something we don't understand.

There are people who are twenty years of age begin to painfully part with life, however, many only during the death very calmly and quietly fade away like a lamp which is over fat.

My life is like raw wood, which is lying amongst the wood and lit from the other wood and coal. It itself does not burn, it just smolders and chadit from someone else's flame and smoke.

Your pain is so deep that it stayed deep in the eyes... and if you cry, tears will pour from the very depths of your eyes, or they even do not shed!