Book: The lonely man

A wide river ran between love and sex, and the ferryman would never agree to go to the other side.

I didn't cry. But sometimes it seems to me that my blood is leaking from my veins, as if my body was torn and now I am drowning inside myself.

I look at these young people and feel not jealousy, but a sense of wonder. They still have all - opening beauty, the endless unfolding lunar landscape of life.

I wonder how the heart sounds when it's broken. He did not attract the attention of viewers, it is not a dramatic sound. Like a swallow, exhausted, falls softly to the ground.

I try too hard to be loved. Always tried. Try to reduce the pain of others. Try very hard, because I can't face their own pain.

February is the shortest month, but lasts indefinitely.

"I missed you," he says. In the chest I hear a sound like the swallow, exhausted, quietly fall to the ground.

Sometimes I open the sliding door and I hear Christmas is coming. Passers-by talking about who is going where and who is going to buy. I listen as clerks, madrasis at the Christmas co-op, yelling songs. Sometimes I crawl out and see how wicked couples making out in dark corners. And think about the fact that this is a stolen soft - start of something or, conversely, the end.