Book: About Grasshoppers

With every plane of yours going in the wrong direction, all I can do is shake my thoughts about non-disengagement. And it doesn't hurt, because there is no time when basses and highs are closer than those 10 seconds during which spring dies in Paris.

but you can't remember where.

Beauty is elusive, long lost and never exists at all, but since then it has stuck inside me in such a bright shard that I would almost call it a premonition. On the same plain of all human lives, I would call it a timid foreboding of the mountains...

Tell me, how will I give them absolute freedom if their corral is their head? Only the heads are cut off and remain. After all, they need everything else's: a stick, brains, a carrot - there is no one's own. Have you seen what happens in the field with the rams who have lived in the cart all their lives? They wither there from the longing of green - they are interested in the field only in such a way, hypothetically - so that there was somewhere to aspire.

Should paint pictures with strokes, like impressionists. Their strokes consisted of paints, mine consisted of lives. But neither they nor I have a single smear that would not be perfect.

- What about mutual aid, self-sacrifice, detachment from worldly Affairs?
- I told them karma will spoil. They are sheep something in yourself to work off, and if you do, it hurt.

That's when I first realized that there was absolutely no difference whom to pray to, it is important to pray, because praying blessed, not because he prays, and he prays, because he is blessed.

The cat showed the presence of complete lack. Probably discarding his mortal body, he started to wander to distant worlds with rivers of milk and cream shores.

In the room was dim, smelled of incense and creaking floorboards. Suddenly
one of the balconies flashed white cloth. It's so weird at this late hour, in this
half of the castle, all alone on the balcony sat a girl. Her hair, carefully
combed before bed, but rastrepina, little cutability, they, obedient
any breath of wind danced the scarlet silk ribbon.
Who would have thought that such peace may descend on man just because
somewhere on the wooden balcony on a moonless night, the cold sits a lonely child with scarlet
silk ribbon, barely glinting in the dark.
Beauty is elusive, long-lost and generally it does not happen, but from the moment she
stuck inside me like a bright shard that I almost would call it a hunch. On
the same type of plain all human lives, I would call it timid foreboding mountains.

Everywhere was the scent of heaven ringing.
Her hands smelled of grass, steel, and blood.
Shy the sun glided over the cooling skin. And then it happened...
I saw from the arid shores of the dispatched fleet, and people in turbans to read
his parting prayer to the God whose name is long forgotten language means "Spirit of the Desert".
Saw the blue domes merge with the sharp ridges, which ends their reign,
and begin the endless steppe - ownership of the yellow men with rough faces and elusive, useless wisdom of the wind. Saw the land of his friend Christian, I saw how funny his brothers, believing more in public opinion than their crucified Martyr. I saw the fog rolling in over the hills, Shine in this steppe wind bent trees seem to fade in this spot grazing horses. I felt like silvery frost on stunted bushes as they rustle their long leaves. I took it all at once, because that's the way it should. Should painting brush strokes as the Impressionists. Their smears consisted of paints, consist of my lives. But neither they nor I have not a single stroke that would not be perfect.