Book: Autumn in novels

Probably because in it something broke. The mind prevailed over his illusions, and illusions in exchange for some time dissolved.

We live on the same planet, and that means that we have to meet.

The end of August changed the fly and turned into autumn. The third day the sky was gray-blue. Low clouds sailed and hid the rays of the sun.

How many times have I told him, my dear, you need to create memories, not to do day work, but he did not listen to me.

August is a traitor of the summer.

But again, this pragmatism: if feet get wet - you can get sick, and what people will say and how she then removed his cloak, and suddenly she breaks a heel. After all, as adults, we lose the ease. Like us years growing concrete masonry, and we can't fly anymore, something always holds us on the earth.

From children and stop believing in fairy tales that tales with age, evaporate, revealing to our gaze concreted, gray, cold reality, where all strive to tear off a piece better and bigger.

Good man ill be. Bad for a good man.

Now so difficult in such a huge city, in this vast world where so many people find this one person, who will thereby. All run past it in a hurry, buying fashionable clothes, then they walk down the street with a contemptuous look. People work for forty hours a week, and the remaining one hundred and thirty-five hours of sleep, eat and die from boredom in their stuffy, concrete apartments, of unnecessary garbage and useless things.

Perhaps this world is too cruel. And so violent did it to each of us. Every person who walked by the homeless, everyone who cheated on their loved ones, everyone who was a thief, took away someone's life, sat behind the wheel drunk, everyone who choked at home the rest of the pie, while as children in the orphanage dreamed about sweet, who didn't answer letters, who wrote letters when he wanted to, everyone who ever wrong, knowing how to actually do the right thing. We all brought the world to the things he'd done, and turned to those who at heart hated. We go to work we don't like to, to survive, and each killed the great poet, artist, thinker.

You know, maybe our family, at first, believe that we ought to return to the place. Always changes unsettle, then they get used to the fact that we do not. We kind of are, but we at the same time not. And then, all of them began to organize that we are where we are. We are no longer their concern. We pull out of our comfort zones, replacing all artificial. Not a real concern, for which people receive money, not our room, not our lives. Yesterday watched from the window, over at those benches. - Nancy pointed to the Park under the window. And there yesterday, sitting ballerina, carpenter, doctor, ex-drug addict, motorcyclist and a dressmaker. All with the definition of "former". And they all just sat there. Have not danced, sewed, didn't ride motorcycles, not pounded with a hammer. We do not have time to live. With each passing year, life is gaining momentum and we are becoming slower.

Did you know that comfort zone, it does not when you are all harmoniously happy. It's not about happiness and harmony. Comfort zone, it challenges you put up, the difficulties that pass, if they are not. Disease that became, as in the order of things. So not such a great place, this comfort zone.