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- Eat. Look at the second one.

There is no happiness in life, there are only flashes of it. Appreciate them, live by them. Don't expect much from life. You won't have a better time than now...

And now I will have to kill again, like a thousand times before on this shore, because I have no other choice. My snakes and the goddess will not allow anything else. Once upon a time people came to me for help, for advice. Now they come to make me a killer, again and again.

Chamomile didn’t care at all that she was such a poor, simple flower that no one sees or notices in the thick grass; no, she was happy with everything, greedily reached out to the sun, admired it and listened to the lark singing somewhere high, high in the sky.

There is no one in the house. A dog wind blows in all the cracks (why a dog wind?). In general, the wind is a fool: it blows in a bare park, and there’s nothing there to pick. In the yard I still deal with it somehow: I’ll stand with my back to the wind, my head down, my legs apart - and “I don’t give a damn,” as the gardener says. And you can’t hide anywhere from this bandit in the room. He bursts from under the door, through the window cracks, through the fireplace hole, and squeaks, and whines, and howls, as if his mother were a dog. He has no muzzle, no throat, no belly, no backside. I can’t figure out what he’s blowing...

You me...

Mountainous Karabakh is called the land of nightingales.

You know, once in Russia before the revolution there was such an attraction: a circus often came to the fair, and in this circus there were different performances. And here is one performance, one attraction called as follows: Live

“No,” Oliver answered coldly. - Show me something.

At first it seemed like it was even fun to invent characters and their actions, pull strings, move the plot here or there. And then suddenly it turned out that there was no mention of any invention, that the plot was moving not according to her wishes, but according to its own, that actions were not invented, but happened as if by themselves. The famous Pushkin Imagine,

Ev is not without words, it is not çaqqalsız.

The problem with self-analysis is that it has no end.

You know, father, our life should be like a Napoleon cake - dough, cream, dough, cream, and powder on top. If our cake consists of only one dough, it will not be tasty. If it consists of only one cream, it will be too sweet. And if the dough is interspersed with layers of cream - dough-cream, dough-cream, dough-cream, and powder on top - then such a pie will be sweet. The dough is our labors, our worldly cares. If our whole life consists only of them, then such a life will not be sweet. If we have only one cream, that is, only one prayer from morning to night, which is practically impossible in our life, then this will also be wrong, and it will not work. But with us everything should be harmonious and measured - our works should be intertwined with prayers. And not necessarily with long ones - you can with very short ones: Lord,

You are an excellent manipulator. You know how to press on people's weaknesses. <...> You have an approach, a technique. But do you know what the problem is? You are too smart and there is no room for common sense in your head anymore. Because if you had it, you would realize that you started something that you cannot control. Do you think you're the boss now? Wake up guy, this mass is the boss now.