Book: Spring snow. Page 1

He heard, one drop at a time from a small hole at the bottom of the world, similar to a water-filled leather bag.

The endless wandering of the soul. Aimless desire... Pathetic ecstasy. Pathetic self-defense. Pathetic self-deception. The flames covering the body remorse because of lost time, lost a lot. Empty years of life. Miserable idleness of youth. Resentment at life for what it is worthless... Room for one... Night alone. This desperate gap between you and the world, people... Call. The call that is not heard. Splendour outside... Ostentatious nobility... And it's all me!

It was "no" with a force capable of easily, like silk, to break the sky.

As man, endowed with a rich imagination, he was apt to rise above the reality of the Palace of fantasies and tightly close Windows in it, not to see reality.

... there are people that grow flowers, only to be followed to pick off their petals.

It was like awakening against my will: you're still in a dream, but can't resist the morning sun penetrating through the thin skin of the eyelids and cling to the weak remnants of sleep. It is in such moments to comprehend its true beauty.

The only reality is the life of the senses, feelings, unfettered, mindless, animating, when it seems that they died, resurgent, when it seems that they faded feelings, not knowing the goal and the result.

How hard is it to make people believe in something with logic and how easy it is to do, referring to feelings, let and imaginary.

Now he felt a real sense. Rude and senseless, dark, devastating, far from elegance, nothing like how he imagined love.

You have the ability to make me happy but you rarely use it.