Author of quotes: Ruslan Galeev

Grassroots Artist worked diligently and enthusiastically. He did not pay any attention to us, then putting on the canvas smear, then move to step throwing their work with a critical eye. He Fucking looked exactly as he described it, dark nights in tents summer camps and rooms of the student hostel: skinny and short, with disheveled hair, colorless hair, pale due to the constant lack of sunlight, with proportionally long arms.

Is not hungry, but I pushed in itself, and biscuits, and pasta, and the shoals left on the floor and stomped on... I feel strange.. Like watching the hero of the old computer games, running around the maze. Something in this game podvisli, the hero over all the bombs, he destroyed all the monsters and collected all the chests and coins, but the door never opened, and he ran and ran through the maze. Smoking forever... not worth it, my world without it looked like a bad-trip...

Oddly enough, in these moments of despair and the wild, unimaginable boredom, I never thought about his position. I was covered with mold idleness, but did not even attempt to deal with their own life. Perhaps there was some protective function of the brain, and maybe it's that I have from the beginning had the feeling that everything that happens - not really, but pretend, like in a movie or book.

The weather outside has deteriorated, and the squares of Windows turned to the street side gray, or scaring passers-by, or lost in deep, inaccessible to people melancholy of overcast days. This gray color was impossible to hide, little one-bedroom apartment soaked up they were heavy, catching the mood of the Norns.

You know, once it happens to everyone. In life there is too much silence, so much that it seems as if nothing can change, and it's not scary, it's almost enough, it becomes habitual, moreover, the only possible - there is an idiotic belief that you're touching with the fingertips of eternity and nothing can ever change.

The man who is not afraid of their pain, mentally ill, defective. Without fear of his own pain, he is able shamelessly to hurt another creature.

I live in a strange world, too dirty to be attractive, and too perfect to deserve my forgiveness. But who am I to take the right to forgive or not to forgive?

The world is illusory, but it is not static. That is something old, of course, were right and each of us is the illusion of each and every Creator. The world is a tapestry, a continuous interweaving of illusions. So we met, and our illusions intertwined, for a while we both become more real but still not real. I heard that the world, any world, at the hands of a madman, and heard that the world is just text, and it ends when the readers go through with the last page. But this is only legend. Just legends that could be true, so what? Our world already exists with the same right with which there are other worlds, he already has a bundle of illusions, created my body and created a new illusion that those, in turn, became a little more real. God enough breath, the rest will make ripples or thread, they will weave your tapestry. For you really what you believe or what you believe in those, in whom you believe. The illusion of clinging to the illusion, although God long ago abandoned
burnt pots and went to look for a new hobby. And the illusion of live. I don't know what could be more adapted to existence than the illusion. Except that errors of the human... and they are, in fact, illusory.

Sometimes artificial is more real than the present, but believe it is not worth it.

Green sat in the square and looked at me with the longing of the captive giant, inaccessible to ordinary people. When you breath out his nose broke two wisps of smoke. They say that in childhood they removed fire in the glands, and then cut the wings, and they cease to develop. Well, one day, it happens to all of us.

History never ends. Just everything has its time and its place...

Death is stronger than all, but the everyday automatism is stronger than death

- Instead of blood - mercury, instead of the heart - the smoke, instead of the body - the voice.

If in my soul the devil comes, tell him that the subscriber is not currently available, but be sure to call him back...