Book: Spider Zhigulev

With women the same story. In his youth to meet people and for me it was a trifling enterprise, and now a heavy burden. Only if you do not take the girls from the brothel. With them is quite simple - they are austere. Merge them with the cube-another to restore shape, they are too happy to repay, climb to kiss, offer myself as a thing - popolzuyutsya, friend, if you want. But I'm not. It is impossible to serve two masters - Paparum Somniferum and debauchery. The soporific poppy calf dulls the interest, and restores the unity of the warmth of soul and spirit. Of course, there are other drugs that are operating under the calf... ha ha ha... even the bull for mating, an extract from the South American cult herbs of ephedra, but honestly, this is such crap, and not want to talk. I saw "screw" chopped - maniacs with dilated pupils, worn day and night around the city, do not sleep, looking for sexual immorality is inventive. Ugh! Look disgusting. Where is your Man person? Where gravity and uplift? And as you say, different from Guinea pigs, over which a cynical uncle's experiments? No, my friends, is one thing - opium, it is quite another some kind of hallucinogenic weed or ephedrine. In the first case warmth directs the body, the second and third - shamanic body over the soul. It's always bad boys, very bad. If you asked me if I want to legally sold marijuana or ephedra, I would have firmly said, "No!". Opium is another matter. People under poppy solution is soft and delicate, like Prince Myshkin. Under the ephedra - the Pithecanthropus. Alcohol does not count. It's a different planet - rude, terrible, but tolerable for five minutes to open the wine departments or pharmacies. In the five minutes we with the inhabitants of the wine planet even somewhat similar. In intelligence, or what? Or delicacy that sticks out and is afraid to even shout, any discordant noise, bright light, music. Is afraid of everything.
- Andrei, - sometimes blindly grabs my aunt Dusya's sleeve. - Tell me, how many steps I took? Ten? Do not miss tea?
- Don't miss it, - I say and help her out of the entrance. - If someone rubbed another step.
- Are you joking? That's good.
Just kidding. I did the last time a great sense of humor. Used to not like it. Now love. Jokes life is prolonged. And the language are pruned. That's just me.
- Battery life-then again we have cold. Go to swear. Pay a lot of money and drown us don't want. In your apartment cold? No al?
- Cold.
- You can not be angry at me, old. I forgot about the cross. Son-in-law punished. He welded new.
Thank you. And then, maybe wait?
- Wait? - sulk grandmother and silently laughing like a papier-mache. - Kidding again?
- Not kidding. Wait for a bit. I'm not welding, sticking, and cool on the screws will be put. To eternity. And the plate of plastic will do. Gilded paper wrap.
- Hiiiii-IIiii, - went to aunt Dusya. - Starved. Do not prepare in advance any wedding dresses or burial supplies, no diapers. Sign bad.

And I dress. Slowly, quietly, gently. And in the dark. Whisking by hand in the corner of the hallway, grope a pair of overalls, put on her boots hit not the first time, but on top. Lean is impossible. Dangerous. Lower back crackles like electricity, and bow your head risky. All of the three-pillar I can rush outside. At the door for a moment linger, whispering some prayers. Angels can't hear me. I know that. No one wants to hear a man in hell. Because the door of hell is locked from the inside. I open the door and step into the entrance. On top of pouring Orthodox radio. Half-blind grandmother Dusya every morning, turns on the radio with Church hymns and makes it seem like she's not half blind, and half deaf. Grandma darling were familiar with my parents. Five years ago, I could borrow money from her, and she'd given me, without fear of deception. Now will not. I betrayed her. Promised to weld a cross on the grave of her husband, took the money in advance, but not cooked. Came patient to work through a loophole in the fence, begged the men to give me three metal bar from the forge, laid out in front of my grandmother in the form of a cross, and elicited from her the remaining amount. The money was punctured, and about the welding of the forgotten. Now in her apartment lying bars for cross, but I can't borrow money from her. However, probably could, if I wanted to. Do not want - a shame. The time has gone when I was able without shame to ask to borrow money. It was in his youth, when the conscience is able to simulate embryonic schizophrenia. That is when my soul is for a moment turned into a complete child, not knowing neither shame nor remorse. Then I could just come and ask. And now there is. Crumple before the door, covered with paint of shame, don't know what to say. Like, you know, what you give, but can not ask. Age. Damned delicacy of soul, which only is aggravated and becomes more obvious.

Five years have passed, and sometimes I distinctly hear their voices from that room with poppies in stained-glass windows. I hear when I wake up in hell without a nest egg. And I wander around the apartment, talking to myself. But with morning medicine, everything changes. In all rooms, I turn on the lights, turn on the TV on any program, fill the void with some music. In paradise, I need noise. Useless, poisonous, ruthless. Because in heaven I lack hell. There must be some harmony, and I compensate for the soul driven into the underground by an external holiday. We will dance the forest and mountains. We have churches dancing outside the window, and gray fissured clouds dodge white lambs and, at my command, dance a foxtrot on slippery sloping tiled roofs. In hell I want silence and pity, in paradise there is no festive noise and dictatorship. I have already admitted that it is difficult for a frustrated creature to combine a sick spirit, a wounded body and a soul saturated with poisons. Connect so as to feel real happiness, and not fake, temporary. I understand everything, make peace, do not blame anyone. I have one problem, the neighbor in the "ward" is different. Who will turn the language to refute the judgment that we are all in this life as patients of a planetary madhouse? Look at yourself, man, look at grief and joy, intoxication and a hangover - and you will understand that I am right. But what if morning doesn’t start in hell as always? What if you light in all the rooms? Shave, wash, drive a glass of strong tea with analginum and go? Perhaps something will change in the world around us? Press the button of the television box and - let it vomit! In the end, the TV used to cause gag reflexes before. And may there be pity for everything and everyone. I am not ashamed of my tears. Because a person cannot be less than two cubes of opium solution, but he is less. He cannot jump from heaven to hell from a needle driven into a vein. And he is jumping. And then why is this duality of life? Why is there a stash and no abundance? After all, if there would be abundance, then a stash would not be needed. And there would not be this schizophrenic split of being. Is it not as clear as twice two? No, I will never believe those talkers on TV who call for the sake of love for unfortunate patients to deprive people of their freedom of choice. Hypocritical liars to whom I would prescribe an operation to shorten languages. What do they understand, sitting in hemorrhoids and scattered cabinets? What do they know that they have never woken up in hell and did not know whether paradise will come today or not at all? What can say a good, good healthy person to a patient? I feel sorry for them, Pharisee saints, who under the new government changed their color like chameleons, but essentially remained the same self-seeking. The Savior said about them: “Coffins are colored. Outside there is varnish and wealth, but inside it is rot! ”And he released the fallen woman with the words:“ Go, dear, try not to sin anymore. ” I feel sorry for everyone. Myself is not a pity. It's a shame. What a stupid thing. What can I do? Toxicosis. A time of heavy burden. Thirty-nine steps of October. And Valera, whose blood flows the desired warmth. But I remain in silence because I am afraid to spill the contents of hell. Beware of frantic fights of television programs, tight aggression, stinging blackness. Enough of what is in me. I’ll carry a sickly lump all morning, and I have to stand it humbly. Morning in itself rises in the throat and esophagus. Do not reach the bathroom, do not shave. The maximum that I can do is pour a bucket of cold water onto my head in the darkness. Lick hair, cool brains. And that is a lot.

Gaze long into a black jumper, which went to sleep last night. Here they are - two Cuba of recklessness. On his chest is exactly the charred circle of the fallen from the hands of the cigarette. If you count the holes on the jumper, they will be as useful as I had a hell of revivals. Because after two cubes flying tablet of diphenhydramine, and this is, admittedly, already quite shameless. Because foolhardy. And cigarette always in bed about to fall down at exactly the moment when you cross the boundary between the seventh heaven and unconsciousness. The body is relaxed, sleeping brain, take me out, demons, angels, I will not utter a word of objection.
Nausea is a usual thing. The toxicity from the burden of troubles. Hair disheveled, as the Pithecanthropus, crazy eyes, yellow, red, bristle tufts. Go-delirious in the darkness of hell almost to touch to the bathroom in shorts and holed jumper, mumbling prayers and regret the whole world. You see the spider in the toilet - cry. The spider completely dry without flies. Martyr. Notice the ceiling in the bathroom mosquito cemetery to cry. Stupid creatures, they flew into the light bulb and went to hell. You should try to wash up so not to be sick. If only with your eyes closed under a stream of cold water. And without sudden movements that could cause the esophagus.
In the mirror do not look. I'm afraid. Know who meet out there. Why aggravate? Nerves so on edge. Old love. On the way to the bathroom - a double door in the parents ' room. Stained glass painted Papaver somniferum. The soporific poppy. Each petal is like a living creature. My father asked me to do. When he was alive. And mom was happy with my work when I was alive. They closed their room key, through thick and painted red flowers stained glass, I could not see if anybody was home. But if the light filtered through the stained-glass of the poppy head, I knew that the parents don't sleep, and I can borrow money. Gave because he pitied me. Five years they are already in another world, and I sometimes in the morning, imagining that there, behind the oil poppy heads, like a Church dome, there is a light coming. And I can hear them whispering. And it's like angels singing.
- You promised son?
Promised, mom, Yes, no more strength.
- In the hall hanging my coat. Take money out of his pocket. Just not take it. Bread leave.
I'll get it, mom. Only to stop the run, health will correct and work.
- Only in the cafe don't look. There, our factory workers, all friends. To beg would be to drink a hundred grams. And you can't by mother father. Don't forget about it. Impossible. Contusion. Not to aggravate. Buy medicine and to work.
- Don't drink, son. Contusion. Again climb into the fray. Or you will be beaten. And you don't remember what it was. Take in the coat pocket of money. Bread leave. The rest take.
- Okay, mom. Thank you, father. I will not drink. Remember everything. Buy medicine and to work.
No more of my mother's coat in the hallway. There is no money. And work in the form in which it was five years ago, also. And poppies on the stained glass Windows remained. Close my view of the world. Yes. That is, that light.

Love the holiday of the Maccabees. Anyway, that old Testament martyrs. Main - calendar. The feast of mid-August, when Mac gets. Maccabee - Mak Wei! Villages with onion-domed cupolas of the Church, in homes in the icons of the dry heads with grains, bursting like musical instruments, rattles for trying. We are all infants in God. In the villages sochivo made from crushed grains, saying the Holy prayers. Oh, what grace!
Stop. Dreaming. Stash there, and without it there is no heaven to me. Need to gather strength and to go from hell to hell. The thirty-nine steps. Don't fall. Don't step aside. Hell, go in small steps. The thirty-nine steps down, then two hundred steps from a tram stop and an eternity of expectation. First appear Valera, gloomy, nasty Valera with the muscles of Hercules and shallow eyes old woman prozentsatz. Valerie will walk about the stop back and forth with a brilliant superiority. And he's right - he was well the night before and be fine tomorrow morning. But if he is well, he is already in the superlative Paradise compared to the pale shadows, just came out of hell. Many of us, Valera one. And all want of warmth going through my veins sad, but not everyone has the money to buy warmth.
I have no money, but there is a desire of Paradise. And waking up from a spider cheating thoughts, I need, need, need. Hurry to me and my body. And soul, and brain, and the "I", disordered and dressed in rags, to putting yourself back together and triumph. October. Thirty-nine steps, two hundred steps to heaven possible. Time. The Kingdom of heaven is taken by force. The Kingdom of the earth too. Severe withdrawal symptoms in the morning, Oh, how heavy.
A blanket of iron, move it like a funeral slab. The bed is grave, because the stash is not. If I knew what was in the fridge waiting for me two dice, I jumped on the bed like a circus acrobat and, the world would have turned from head to foot, and then immediately again on the head several times, to the seventh heaven. Dream. Now is the time to begin to kanitelis, to mock me, to show teeth instead of smiling, and the hour hand will stand still, as if tied to the pood kettlebell. The hardest time is in the morning without a stash. The burden of all the ills together.

I don’t need much from life. The peak of happiness is to wake up in your bed and find out that yesterday I nevertheless got the hang of leaving a stash in the morning. My God! Nothing pleases a sick person like the cozy little things of life. To begin with, I could wake up on the street or, worse, in a brothel. To be in a gloomy police cell or sickening hospital ward. And could wake up in another world, I want to believe, more festive than this. However, to open your day without a nest egg is the same as waking up in hell. Not a drop of exaggeration. It’s in hell that I’ve been awakening recently, because the stashes, as a rule, are no longer in the morning. It seems so simple. I selected a couple of cubes from the medicine vial and put it in the refrigerator until morning. So far in sound mind and solid memory. The stash for the frustrated types, like me, is practically a testament. That is, the only valuable thing in life, without which paradise itself is painted in funerary tones. But the fact of the matter is that the refrigerator is usually empty in the morning. People familiar with this damn thing will understand me. A careful study of yesterday revealed a nasty little minute when a bottle of medicine wrinkles self-confidently in his hands, and his inner voice whispers: “My friend, why should you smear pleasure? It is not butter, but your life is not a sandwich. Take happiness into your own hands, it is not ghostly. And we went out after three cubes. ” And send. Listen to the gentle voice of the body and do not listen to the brains that mourn in advance: “And tomorrow?” What will you do tomorrow when you wake up? Today you jump from cloud to cloud like a blessed lamb from a cartoon, and tomorrow you wake up at the bottom of a deep hellish well and start to howl like a perfect wolf. " And for sure. It happens every time. In paradise, you completely lose the practical properties of the brain. Bliss, which is no longer completely bliss, but only pain turned inside out, melts the remnants of shallow prudence. How many times has it already been! And there will be as many times. People of prayer, and they ask for their daily bread for the day ahead, realizing that the day is long, gloomy, and empty, and fraught with dangers. And here - a creature that has been utterly disfigured, split into a rotten spirit, a half-dead body and dull brains - forgets about the most important thing - the stash. The season doesn’t matter for hell. Outside the window, October is cold, damp, and dark. Low depressive clouds float over the city, sit on the tops of churches, spread out with tearful tears, fill the streets, apartments, houses, skull boxes. But if it seems to you that hell is pushing for something bad, you are mistaken. Hell is not pushing anything. I want to stupidly lie under the covers and feel sorry for the whole world - yes, I am always struck by pity for all living things, when the soul is dark. It is a pity to tears that a person is so ridiculously arranged that he must certainly pour at least a couple of cubes of medicine into his blood so that he comes to life, resurrected, begins to live and create. Funny and bitter. A couple of cubes of solution, and I will begin to come back to life. Angels will sing in my soul, and the clouds will instantly turn into stupid kids who play hide and seek with a person. I close my eyes immediately after the rubber bottom of the piston rests against the round nose of the syringe, a wave of paradise warmth glides, it’s not difficult to catch, but it isn’t caught ... One-two-three-four-five, I’m going to search. I look at the world with narrowed pupils, and there are no gloomy clouds. Hid, funny heavenly schemers. Turned over white belly and turned into lamb. Run-and-run, as in a cartoon, I jump from one plush cloud to another, fly in zero gravity, look up, see the sun, look down - gilded church poppies. Poppies. All sweetheart. And how good it is to live in the world. How happy he becomes in his soul when he is surrounded by dummies.

I like her optimism. Barely moves, considers the steps under his feet, so as not to miss, but every day goes to the management of the house swearing about the heating. In the winter and fall, and summer. Grandma lives it. His hell she prefers not to close from the inside, and to shout it out on people.

The first stage, and the chorus explodes: "have Mercy, o God, according he did to thy great of thy mercy and the multitude of thy tender mercies..."

At the twentieth stage of the bearded angels off, and I walk past the door to the kennel. A chain dog house. Howling, the dog, on the street begging, and with the master.

The light hurts my eyes. Is it the sun? Where is it? And where are the clouds?

To the stop you can walk two paths. The first takes you past the smithy, the barracks and the Church, the second makes a small detour and leads immediately to a stop. At the rear of the cinema "Rodina". When I'm sick, I go by another road. It is extremely important to see the atmosphere of the outlets from the back. If there are any policemen? Is there any sellers of drugs? View and sniff. Whether luck? And if you go on the first trail, the temple of God is not escape. And there you can lean against the fence, close your eyes and to implore all rotten inside, "Lord, you are, I know. Help me in small things, please. Help find a cure. To repay me nothing. You know. And you don't need. You have everything. Saints big and small, the great, the monk, fools and martyrs, saints and apostles. Me and you, small, don't forget. Help". And believe it? Helps. Not always, but it helps. Sometimes out of pity, the tears will flash. I feel sorry for all. And Sonechka Marmeladova remember. And her father miserable. Because we look like. We have nothing that binds the straps to life. We are like balloons – hang on a thin thread and waver in the wind. And look, we'll hang out, take off, or someone unruly and you stab us with a sharp needle, and pulled out the contents. Well, let them. The main thing – the warmth inside the shell. The warmth that you Marmeladova pull from the bottle and we of poppy solution. Let torn. If only everything went back to normal.

With women the same story. In his youth to meet people and for me it was a trifling enterprise, and now a heavy burden. Only if you do not take the girls from the brothel. With them is quite simple – they are austere. Merge them with the cube-another to restore shape, they are too happy to repay, climb to kiss, offer myself as a thing – popolzuyutsya, friend, if you want. But I'm not. It is impossible to serve two masters – Paparum Somniferum and debauchery. The soporific poppy calf dulls the interest, and restores the unity of the warmth of soul and spirit. Of course, there are other drugs that are operating under the calf... ha ha ha... even the bull for mating, an extract from the South American cult herbs of ephedra, but honestly, this is such crap, and not want to talk. I saw "screw" chopped – maniacs with dilated pupils, worn day and night around the city, do not sleep, looking for sexual immorality is inventive. Ugh! Look disgusting. Where is your Man person? Where gravity and uplift? And as you say, different from Guinea pigs, over which a cynical uncle's experiments? No, my friends, is one thing – opium, it is quite another some kind of hallucinogenic weed or ephedrine. In the first case warmth directs the body, the second and third – shamanic body over the soul. It's always bad boys, very bad. If you asked me if I want to legally sold marijuana or ephedra, I would have firmly said, "No!". Opium is another matter. People under poppy solution is soft and delicate, like Prince Myshkin. Under the ephedra – the Pithecanthropus. Alcohol does not count. It's a different planet – rude, terrible, but tolerable for five minutes to open the wine departments or pharmacies. In the five minutes we with the inhabitants of the wine planet even somewhat similar. In intelligence, or what? Or delicacy that sticks out and is afraid to even shout, any discordant noise, bright light, music. Is afraid of everything.

– Andrei, – sometimes blindly grabs my aunt Dusya's sleeve. – Tell me, how many steps I took? Ten? Do not miss tea?

– Don't miss it, – I say and help her out of the entrance. – If someone rubbed another step.

– Are you joking? That's good.

I feel sorry for everyone. Myself, not sorry. It's a shame. What nonsense.

What can I do?

The toxicosis. The time burden. The thirty-nine steps Oct. And Valera in the blood which is flowing a welcome warmth.

But I remain in silence because they are afraid to spill the contents of hell. Beware the frantic struggles of television programs, tight aggression, stinging black. Enough that is in me. Sickening who I will suffer through all morning, and I must humbly endure.

The morning itself gets a stake in the throat and esophagus. Don't go to the bathroom, not to shave. The maximum that can – in the darkness to pour on his head a bucket of cold water. Sleek hair to cool the brain. And that's a lot.

And I dress. Slowly, quietly, gently. And in the dark. Whisking by hand in the corner of the hallway, grope a pair of overalls, put on her boots hit not the first time, but on top. Lean is impossible. Dangerous. Lower back crackles like electricity, and bow your head risky. All of the three-pillar I can rush outside. At the door for a moment linger, whispering some prayers. Angels can't hear me. I know that. No one wants to hear a man in hell. Because the door of hell is locked from the inside. I open the door and step into the entrance. On top of pouring Orthodox radio. Half-blind grandmother Dusya every morning, turns on the radio with Church hymns and makes it seem like she's not half blind, and half deaf. Grandma darling were familiar with my parents. Five years ago, I could borrow money from her, and she'd given me, without fear of deception. Now will not. I betrayed her. Promised to weld a cross on the grave of her husband, took the money in advance, but not cooked. Came patient to work through a loophole in the fence, begged the men to give me three metal bar from the forge, laid out in front of my grandmother in the form of a cross, and elicited from her the remaining amount. The money was punctured, and about the welding of the forgotten. Now in her apartment lying bars for cross, but I can't borrow money from her. However, probably could, if I wanted to. Do not want – a shame. The time has gone when I was able without shame to ask to borrow money. It was in his youth, when the conscience is able to simulate embryonic schizophrenia. That is when my soul is for a moment turned into a complete child, not knowing neither shame nor remorse. Then I could just come and ask. And now there is. Crumple before the door, covered with paint of shame, don't know what to say. Like, you know, what you give, but can not ask. Age. Damned delicacy of soul, which only is aggravated and becomes more obvious.

But what if you start the morning hell doesn't, right? What if you turn on the lights in all the rooms? To shave, to wash, to get himself a glass of strong tea with analginum and go? Maybe that will change in the outside world? Press the button the TV box and let it out! In the end, a TV and used to cause a gag reflex. And let there be compassion to everything and everyone. I'm not ashamed of my tears. Because the person may not be less than two grains of opium solution, and it is smaller. He can not jump from heaven to hell from the needle, driven into the vein. And he's jumping. And why, then, this duality of life? Why have a stash, and there is abundance? After all, if it would be plenty, then would not need to stash. And there would be this schizophrenic duality of existence. Isn't it as clear as twice two?

No, I will never believe those windbags on TV, calling for love for the poor patients to deprive people of freedom of choice. Hypocritical liars, which I would have ordered the operation to shortening of the languages. What do they know, sitting to hemorrhoid chairs and sterile offices? What know they who never woke up in hell and didn't know if there's a heaven or today do not come? What can be said good, good a healthy person sick? I feel sorry for them, self-righteous saints, who under the new government changed the color like chameleons, and essentially remained the same miser. The Savior said about them: "the painted Coffins. Outside varnish and wealth, and rot inside!" And let the fallen woman with the words: "Go on, honey, try not to sin anymore."

Five years have passed, and sometimes I clearly hear their voices from that room with poppies on the stained glass. Hear when you Wake up in hell with no nest egg. And wander around the apartment talking to himself.

But with the morning medication, everything changes. All rooms I light the light, turn on the TV on any program, fill the void with some music. In heaven I need the noise. Useless, poisonous, ruthless. Because in heaven I miss hell. Must be some kind of harmony, and I'm making up for the tired-out underground soul foreign holiday. We will dance the forest and mountains. We will dance the Church outside the window, grey pregnant clouds to Dodge white horses and will be on my team to Foxtrot on a slippery sloping tiled roofs. Hell, I want peace and pity in Paradise missing the holiday noise and dictatorship. I already admitted that the creature dressed in rags is hard to combine the spirit of a sick, wounded body and impregnated with poisons the soul. To connect to feel the real happiness, not fake, temporary. Understand, accept, do not blame anyone. I have one problem, the neighbor's "house" is different. Who will turn the language to refute the idea that we are all in this life as patients planetary madhouse? Look at yourself, look in joy and in sorrow, in the intoxication and hangover – you'll know I'm right.

Nausea is a usual thing. The toxicity from the burden of troubles. Hair disheveled, as the Pithecanthropus, crazy eyes, yellow, red, bristle tufts. Go-delirious in the darkness of hell almost to touch to the bathroom in shorts and holed jumper, mumbling prayers and regret the whole world. You see the spider in the toilet – cry. The spider completely dry without flies. Martyr. Notice the ceiling in the bathroom mosquito cemetery to cry. Stupid creatures, they flew into the light bulb and went to hell. You should try to wash up so not to be sick. If only with your eyes closed under a stream of cold water. And without sudden movements that could cause the esophagus.

In the mirror do not look. I'm afraid. Know who meet out there. Why aggravate? Nerves so on edge. Old love. On the way to the bathroom – a double door in the parents ' room. Stained glass painted Papaver somniferum. The soporific poppy. Each petal is like a living creature. My father asked me to do. When he was alive. And mom was happy with my work when I was alive. They closed their room key, through thick and painted red flowers stained glass, I could not see if anybody was home. But if the light filtered through the stained-glass of the poppy head, I knew that the parents don't sleep, and I can borrow money. Gave because he pitied me. Five years they are already in another world, and I sometimes in the morning, imagining that there, behind the oil poppy heads, like a Church dome, there is a light coming. And I can hear them whispering. And it's like angels singing.

– You promised son?

Promised, mom, Yes, no more strength.

– In the hall hanging my coat. Take money out of his pocket. Just not take it. Bread leave.

I'll get it, mom. Only to stop the run, health will correct and work.

– Only in the cafe don't look. There, our factory workers, all friends. To beg would be to drink a hundred grams. And you can't by mother father. Don't forget about it. Impossible. Contusion. Not to aggravate. Buy medicine and to work.

– Don't drink, son. Contusion. Again climb into the fray. Or you will be beaten. And you don't remember what it was. Take in the coat pocket of money. Bread leave. The rest take.

– Okay, mom. Thank you, father. I will not drink. Remember everything. Buy medicine and to work.

No more of my mother's coat in the hallway. There is no money. And work in the form in which it was five years ago, also. And poppies on the stained glass Windows remained. Close my view of the world. Yes. That is, that light.

A blanket of iron, move it like a funeral slab. The bed is grave, because the stash is not. If I knew what was in the fridge waiting for me two dice, I jumped on the bed like a circus acrobat and, the world would have turned from head to foot, and then immediately again on the head several times, to the seventh heaven. Dream. Now is the time to begin to kanitelis, to mock me, to show teeth instead of smiling, and the hour hand will stand still, as if tied to the pood kettlebell. The hardest time is in the morning without a stash. The burden of all the ills together.

Gaze long into a black jumper, which went to sleep last night. Here they are – two Cuba of recklessness. On his chest is exactly the charred circle of the fallen from the hands of the cigarette. If you count the holes on the jumper, they will be as useful as I had a hell of revivals. Because after two cubes flying tablet of diphenhydramine, and this is, admittedly, already quite shameless. Because foolhardy. And cigarette always in bed about to fall down at exactly the moment when you cross the boundary between the seventh heaven and unconsciousness. The body is relaxed, sleeping brain, take me out, demons, angels, I will not utter a word of objection.

Stop. Dreaming. Stash there, and without it there is no heaven to me. Need to gather strength and to go from hell to hell. The thirty-nine steps. Don't fall. Don't step aside. Hell, go in small steps. The thirty-nine steps down, then two hundred steps from a tram stop and an eternity of expectation. First appear Valera, gloomy, nasty Valera with the muscles of Hercules and shallow eyes old woman prozentsatz. Valerie will walk about the stop back and forth with a brilliant superiority. And he's right – he was well the night before and be fine tomorrow morning. But if he is well, he is already in the superlative Paradise compared to the pale shadows, just came out of hell. Many of us, Valera one. And all want of warmth going through my veins sad, but not everyone has the money to buy warmth.

I have no money, but there is a desire of Paradise. And waking up from a spider cheating thoughts, I need, need, need. Hurry to me and my body. And soul, and brain, and the "I", disordered and dressed in rags, to putting yourself back together and triumph. October. Thirty-nine steps, two hundred steps to heaven possible. Time. The Kingdom of heaven is taken by force. The Kingdom of the earth too. Severe withdrawal symptoms in the morning, Oh, how heavy.