station [Theme]

A terrible mistake of modern man: identification of life with action, thought, etc., and already almost complete inability to live, that is, to feel, perceive, "live" life as a non-stop gift. Going to the station under a fine, already spring rain, seeing, feeling, realizing the movement of a sunbeam along the wall - this is not only an "also" event, this is the very reality of life. Not a condition for action and thought, not their indifferent background, but that, in essence, for the sake of which (so that it is, felt, “lived”) and it is worth acting and thinking. And this is so because it is only in this that God gives us to feel Himself, and not in action and not in thought.

The railway station is a place of transformation. We get on the train and stop being ourselves. From now on, we acquire a different past and look forward to a different future. We are ready to tell a random fellow traveler everything that happened to us, as well as something that never happened to us. Judging by the conversations on the train, there are no boring people in the world with uninteresting biographies.

It is very difficult to overcome the hostile force that has seized key economic and ideological positions and still holds in its hands many of the political levers of power in the country. But the hour is coming when all the evil spirits will be delivered to the Yaroslavsky station, the places for it in the last carriage to the north are ready. And law enforcement agencies are already picking passengers from among high-ranking corrupt officials.

- And how? Better alive in pajamas than a blind man in a fancy suit.

In a dull time,
On an autumn cloudy day
One I go
To the railway station -
Watch, wander in the crowd...

Station World. Circus human. Where in the turmoil of sale comes home despair and where cherstveya slowly turns into indifference.

I find odnushku, draw tattoos and goes to St. Petersburg,
I'll take "Billboard", flares up a fire pit envy of grandma's friends.
It told me to do Thank a good friend of mine:
The suitcase, station, train "Moscow-Saint-Petersburg".


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As a child I loved going to the train station and watch the trains leaving. It seemed to me that they were going somewhere where it's not really like here. The train went "THERE", they went "AWAY", and I'm deadly jealous of the passengers, tired raspugivali your bags at the baggage bays: this is a fascinating spectacle to see into the lighted Windows of the carriages. On the train coming "OUT" in the dreary "HERE," I chose not to pay attention...

On whichever came station
and who would I have off
heart like a mourner howling.
Where is the spirit that inspired wife
to send dry-eyed husband to the war!
However, I'm not a wife and not a warrior.

Maybe these eyes I do not meet never,
Maybe the last time your eyes saw me,
Where the platform will come to life, train to happiness bring,
Those mysterious eyes - just where is the station?

- If you have a station... then there's probably a train.
And if there's a train... it goes to the Wild Hunt.
- If there's a train station... then there's probably a train.
- And if there's a train... it's going to the Wild Hunt.

- Why in the middle of the library, train station?
The station is also in the Wild Hunt.
- What is the chance that they are related?
- I'd say high. Approximately 100%.
- Why is there a train station in the middle of the library?
- There's also a train station in the Wild Hunt.
- Any chance they're connected?
- I would say high. Like 100%.

You didn't tell me,
You just hand filed.
You just slowly from the station,
Slightly hunched went.
And for a long time staring into the distance,
And everyone there was flying in your eyes,
Where, having lost our voices, timidly
Led wheel conversation.
I see all of you at the beginning,
Then you melted away,
And the locomotives were all screaming,
Cars were passing by and went...
Night rainbow station,
Tales and travels series.
You didn't tell me...
You told me then...

To the door will fall down one shoulder,
The room will become, rattling the key.
I and hundreds of thousands of years
In the dark find hand light.
Room.
A creaking Board.
The quadrangular depression.
My circle of wandering in polumgla.
Fiery sun on the table.
Once a year, rushing to the station
I am one of those who rarely left.
As I leave? Where will you go?
Holidays are times of the year.
Ten meters of peaceful living,
My, my love, anxieties,-
Form of urban life,
Standing across the roads.