Book: The ballad of the flexible bullet. Page 2

Madness can be compared with a flexible bullet, and any specialist in ballistics will tell you that two identical bullets do not exist.

... the only true definition of death is the death of intelligence. And the madness is a flexible bullet entering the brain.

I just want to say that the errors of a man is his literary fingerprints. Ask any editor who repeatedly dealt with the manuscripts of the same writer.

You ask me, are there any long acting means. I assure you, no such means. All wounds are fatal. Reconciled to the inevitable. Sometimes the rope slack, but she never breaks. So. Bless a moment of respite and do not waste time in vain regrets. A grateful heart remembers that in the end we will win.

Play your game, if you want to. But not anymore. Don't go too far.

Once I learned that you can't light three cigarettes with one match. I do not even know where. Then I learned that it came from the trenches of the First world war. German snipers like he was waiting for the moment when the British will start to light on a match. After the first cigarette you heard the sound of a gunshot. After a second you felt as the projectile passes by. And after the third you took down the head. But this knowledge hasn't changed me. I can't light three cigarettes from one match. One part of myself tells me that I can light at least twenty cigarettes on a match. But another part - the most sinister voice, a kind of Bori Karloff inside of us tells you: "just Try to do so, and then..."

There are many people who never walk under ladders a ladder and open an umbrella in the room. There are basketball players who cross themselves before executing a free throw, and baseball players who change their socks after the injury. Our rational consciousness is accompanied by a bad stereocomparator our irrational unconscious. Faced with the need to define what "irrational unconscious", I will say that it is small, covered with felt room where there is only one small card table, on which lies one thing - a gun loaded with bullets wandering.

She was angry because of the fact that you played along with his fantasies. She was afraid that you might ruin them.

At first it was fiction, then a superstition, and then unwavering faith. It was... wandering imagination. But it's all gone bad. Very bad...

In our soul there is something that attracts us with an irresistible madness. Anyone who looks down the edge of the roof of a tall building, at least feels weak sickly desire to jump down. And everyone who at least once put a loaded gun to his head...

Madness is a sort of suicide awareness. Not say whether the doctor that the only way to understand death is to imagine it as the death of consciousness? Crazy is wandering bullet that enters the brain.