Character: Vladimir Bogdanov

It was an interesting experience. I was among the people who had never met, never heard their conversations, feel their smell, never been to their habitats. It was a world of "Housewives of middle age", which I thought live only in the ranking of the Gallup. The world of migrant workers, the Caucasian drivers of minibuses, mashed fathers of families and other stuffy people.
Yet it was the students nicohitler with forever red eyelids, "krasauchiki" Dagestan haircut Mireille Mathieu (by the way, they are called "Muscovite") and the "Muscovites" - provocatively dressed provincial and habilities of padovka.
Here on the walls of the cars advertised unknown to me brands and the shops, read books, titles and authors which I had never heard of (and occasionally eyes came across mine, which is already there).
Here leafing through the magazines that I thought were closed in the late nineties, discussed the details of yesterday's "Let them talk", resented "obarevich fucking Americans" like the Americans "obureli" right in the entrance.
Here even the young people joked jokes their parents. But no one ever smiled in response. Here nobody smiled.
Someone else's everyday life had forever careworn, unhappy face. The pitch RAO "Nospecial" to match my condition.
In General, this Moscow was unfamiliar town. I didn't know its rules, policies, and habits. I was not familiar with its inhabitants. I felt only the smell. Capital smelled of sweat, ink Newspapers that get their hands dirty, and Cologne Paco Rabanne.

I hardly ate anything. My fuel was cigarettes and alcohol. Lack of appetite, fresh air and natural light did the trick: I was like a heroin junkie. Finally I won meme of the social networks, "You will not lose weight by the summer". However, until the summer stayed to live.

- Why don't you have dogs? Don't want any dog to have? It is now so fashionable!
I'm unlucky with bitches - zeju through his teeth.

In the head a cascade of memories of all the moments of cheap bravado. From the above the age of seventeen phrases: "I am ready to exchange all my time allowed for twenty-four years Cobain" - to high-sounding heresies in the interview like: "All my heroes are dead - on about something Yes speaks." Or the recent "All mediocrity desperately want to live happily ever after, and the geniuses at the thoughts of death do not have time". It seems as if with every such passage the fate of the first, grinning, writing off all of the boyish, then he narrowed his eyes, reading his interviews or watching the night partying, alcohol, drugs and other shit, and one day just gave up.

And the question whether the creative effort of the "cries of wounded souls" in the intervals between receipt of the bourgeois household joys, from the region unanswered. Like, would play Viktor Tsoi corporate, if he stayed alive. Or the question "What do you want?".

Generally men, at different stages of his life, driven by petty desires. To stand at least fifty, to do nothing, and grandmother was. To vymutit exactly what they want, and pay less than others or nothing at all to pay. To love to eat, but my belly didn't grow up to have friends with whom to talk. To look in the mirror and say, "I still got it". To win in small intrigues, to get significant discounts, when you bring the invoice for payment of her stolen hours of drug, alcohol or sexual buzz. To a career of some sort, the car to change to.
Each one of us to the question: "do you Want to go down in history?" - smile, because the firm knows what really wants in the may dump at sea.
But somehow, miraculously infinity this rat race leaves one in history, and the other plunges to the bottom of the shameful petty-bourgeois swamp.
Some turn out heroes of our time, and the other a mortgage at a good rate give. And combine that never works. The first known and the second happy.

People, it's been twenty years since the day we graduated from high school. Changed modes, presidents, fashions, music styles, formats. Went crazy film and book. Finally happened, her mother, and the Internet revolution. Where were you while all this was happening? WALKED OUT OF THE ROOM?

We really want to go to sleep to Wake up already in tomorrow. Where it seems that yesterday nothing special happened. Although, of course, we both know what happened. And that "everything" we will definitely catch up. Not tomorrow. Sometime later. But will catch up.
It is "all", this pyatisotdollarovy weight called "bad feeling" suddenly drops from the ceiling at exactly the moment when attitudes of girls and boys, regardless of age and social status moving from one phase of the "likes - dislikes" in phase "as you think, at the wedding, the bride looks better in white classics, or should I choose something more original?".
And it's not a question but a statement. She thinks you're just waiting for this easier for you, when to send, because she read somewhere or a friend told me she doesn't remember. And you think about how great it was. All of these advances, languid whispers in dark restaurants, romantic night walks, funny gifts. Everything that yesterday was a cute habit, today turns into a commitment. Because in her head, a wedding ring, gifts and friends. And you have a fancy ceremony for show, then the mother-in-law, furnished apartments, children, shopping, family resorts and not hidden in time cant.
And you mumbled something, then how do you expect rapid positive reaction. And there, where they should have erected your "Yes" is now the damn weight, and you from her in different directions.
And whatever you said in the next five minutes, tomorrow, day after tomorrow, this week, next month - all will be feeling "bad aftertaste". When failure is perceived as an insult, and consent - as a forced favor.
Weight already caught up. And very soon will sweep you and your relationship into small chips.
Then begins the ridiculous quibbles spring, summer recrimination will change in the fall of unwarranted conclusions, which will slide into the winter showdown, which is long gone. Most likely it will end in a vulgar scandal. After all, what would the Russian melodramatic show you started watching, always watching "Let them talk".
Our Oksana situation to find out nothing. I think we all know about myself. And the answer to her question "What has changed between us?" seems very simple.
Fear are our only qualitative change. Only it is the fear of loss of time, and I have independence.
I'm afraid that soon all will disappear. Owning your own time and space, no need to report on how much I get back and why leave. Leapfrog noncommittal relationships, sudden partying with friends during the week, daily hangovers, tears and reunification in the name of nothing. In General everything that allows you to somehow reflect and write, it'll be gone. Lost under the layers of daily ritual obligations called family life. Or "dispensation", in the categories of Oksana. I'm afraid that once comfortable world of bourgeois pleasures, who fought with my literary hero, strangle me in her arms, making one of the pot-bellied dads, family resort governors and mayors IKEA. One of those "normal people" that I have all these years abused.

I can't stand "normal" and "normal". Them gives mold the Soviet refrigerator.

But admit it, you, for example, at the concert "the dispatch," despite a new album, still want to listen to "Personal Jesus" or "Enjoy the Silence". This is what you come: and suppose they are "old" play.

Mostly we do not remember the moment when something starts to go wrong. First, you catch yourself on the fact that you know exactly what will be the reaction of others to your statements and actions, and less and less are trying to "write down", to say what you don't expect, try to surprise. This condition is familiar to people, every weekend conducting a preference in one company. At first glance, the combinations of a great many, but over time you mistakenly affirm that played them all, and I am sure the outcome of each. You claim to be a Pro. Master of the game.
Then the processes around you are slowing down to one day go completely different. You try to explain the logic of their actions by attempts of mimicking the post-cataclysm world, new times and new generations. You stand in the pose of "I'm above this", ignoring the new trends, which, in your opinion, is just cleverly removed someone from the archive of forgotten junk. You tell in the interview that "your new sincerity is our old lies." You're doing everything they can not to admit that you're no longer rule the flow, you go with the flow. You blows. You have torn down, and fight over neither the strength nor the desire.

My daughter is growing up in another apartment and I take your guilt with gifts, alcohol and the explanation that now is the time. Wife at home, that is, in principle, no. And with a woman who is waiting for me tonight, we are each other almost do not know.

If a work made from the APE man, his absence turns the human into microblogger.

Suddenly it seems that somewhere above came a heavy "za**Alo". And perhaps this is the only thing today I definitely agree.