From town A to town B

I
Into dim town A, on empty and quite ordinary street, was inconspicuously living just equally ordinary Angelina Evgenievna, a lonely, quiet lady, innocently bewildered, blithely pretty, frankly trusting and in measure sleepy. Uninspired days of her sullen bleak fate were invariably consist of only two processes - constant searching and disappointment. Such a way was simply ineradicable from entrusted existing and was accompanying the heroine from her early youth to the actual modernity, remaining completely inseparable and indelibly attached to her everyday being. Such modest life was rarely abounding with own luxury, but similarly never was tormenting from excessive superfluity of minimalism. Fate was going almost by itself and was stumbling quite separately too. All around was only monotonous - any matters, plans, habits and images. All the same. All in longing. With such one our woman was waking up, with such one was falling into usual cares and with only such one was going to bed.
Today is Monday. Plans are scanty - work, then walk and short visit in store on the opposite street's side. That is whole daily routine. That is all current fate.
Humid weather is gloomy. An unhurried, carelessly chilling calm wind is indifferently passing through silent, not crowded street. Faded foliage, just already quite dry, is so easily turning in yellow. Rare transport is boringly stretching out. Dim and drowsy clouds, languidly creeping along obscure and foggy horizon, are slowly covering its indifferently graying wide sky. Lonely relief of dying plaintive landscape is hopelessly hiding into lonely and thoughtful nebulous canopy of the unpretentiously albescent whitish veil. Oblique shadows are shyly hidding in nowhere. Tired, joyless pale town is patiently waiting for next cold, rough weather of slowly upcoming slushy period.
Angelina Evgenievna has quite habitually exchanged own shabby and battered door, crossed narrow murky courtyard and gone out on a cold sullen alley, fogged by bleary faint haze. All around is damp, sadly deserted and excessively cloudy. A few more quarters - and so usual workplace will be successfully approached. Now to sit, to forget all yourself, to endure some time and once more to go back. Modest couple of colorful signboards has torpidly sailed past, not much bigger amount of  oncoming pedestrians has insensibly crawled along and have stretched out three or four similarly unremarkable gloomy cars. The heroine has turned in narrow broken backstreet, then deftly climbed by tortuous stairs of a cramped stone porch and entered inside. An unalterably fussy indifferent office has measuredly opened own boring embraces, having monotonously spreaded out boring average cabinet. In around are usual physiognomies of employees, harsh stacks of papers, same type tables and chairs and indescribably bare walls. Working day has begun fully ordinary – with bustling, quarrels with leadership and next debilitating duties. Time was creeping entirely as always: invariably, slowly, languidly and mournfully. Closer to dinner, routine was discharged by Alena Igorevna, the only friend of Angelina Evgenievna.
"Day ago I had been in Astoria, been looking there for adventures. I had been looking and had found - I got it out of this pretzel, just a clown." - has reported dear amigo.
Angelina Evgenieva has shyly smiled: "Well, then broadcast to me all shuffle - what and how, with facts, details and deep descriptions."
“I certainly can't tell to you a lot, all is not so epic, but I've surely never met such eccentrics.”
"What is so wonderful in him?"
“So, it's not possible, not available for me to describe human's weirdnesses in only few words, this magic sphere has no limits. But if to summarize concretely, I would describe him as smart fool. Perhaps, even the smartest here ever. But it's so definitely clear, that at the same amazing time the most hopeless and moronic fool too."
"Multifaceted combination, quite rare and promising a lot. But still - what exactly had caused such a resume?"
"Well-read, quite profoundly educated and constantly thoughtful, but at the same time so childishly naive and careless. Unprecedented wondrousness."
"And what next?"
"All just as always – will laugh some time and then give up."
"What just for?" - has surprised Angelina Evgenievna.
"You are so ridiculous ... What just for, what just for ... For not to break own life."
"But whether smart people are able somehow to ruin it?"
"If at the same time they are fools, then quite yes. If any person has seriously decided to love me, if he turned out to be really unable to recognize, that I'm simply not capable of experience such a feeling, then he would do exactly everything, would blindly dragging behind, as if I am truly an ideal. But I need a conscious person. That one, who will know – what a bitch I am. Who will know, but anyway will want. "
"Interesting wishes ..."
"So, I myself am also an outstanding woman. Not some garbage."
Angelina Evgenievna has sighed: "And where me to find someone..."
"That's your personal problem." - has grinned Alyona Igorevna: "Are you still hoping for something?"
"I'm hoping, yes..."
"Oh, my stupid one..."
Angelina Evgenievna has sullenly said nothing.
"What are your plans on current evening, silly dreamer?" - has interrupted her interlocutor-girl.
"As always, no single matter..."
"It's so boring with you, so empty and unproductive." - Alena Igorevna has hurriedly got up and gone away - on business.
“All have intentions, plans, ambitions. And I...” - Angelina Evgenievna has taken deep long breath and sank back into papers. Time has dragged slightly faster. Forgetfulness, sweet oblivion, bliss. And early evening once again. The heroine has thrown her jacket on and then gone out.
Shyly gray, narrow street has measuredly taken her modest silhouette and then indifferently dissolved into thick dusky twilight of faceless surroundings. Into fussy dead bustle. Into town. In aimless.

II
Meanwhile in totally the same sad town B, was very similarly living Andrei Leopoldovich, a quiet and sleepy man, exclusively depressed, often dismal and thoughtful and always lonely, calm and dreary. His everyday reality was showing from itself only permanent anxiety, very deep and eternal, heavy losses, irreclaimable lamentation, unjustifiedness and cold longing. The way of being was quite modest. Daily work was taking own place at an engineering bureau. The path to such location most commonly was going just by foot. The rest was practically absent. Long time habitually empty fate was going mostly by itself, giving rise exclusively to dismal expectation of the finale and to the same desire of life's terminal void. As fact, except of such one there was nothing at all. But it was not that type of the void, not the absolute one, but with vanity, with stupid givenness to be and to exist and with so much hateful elementary staying alive. But really desired was only absolute nothingness.
This morning, Andrei Leopoldovich has woken up very sad and exhausted – he had night dreaming with some hopeless rubbish inside. Of course, such one has not been remembered even partly, but still has stayed quite persistent soul's fatigue and right the same internal languid anguish.
"My life is surely at bottom." - has concluded the hero and got out of bed: "After one single hour I need to go on work. After nine – to go back. About thirty years I will die. After a couple of months, winter. Nothing good if to say in one word."
Andrei Leopoldovich has rather trivially got own tasteless breakfast, then dressed and stopped in front of mirror: "What a pointless face. So pity, that it's mine. Otherwise, I would with certain joy expelled it far away, would expelled this crooked mug from all of mirrors and would take very serious fines for each appearance in such ones."
The hero has not firmly slammed the door, strictly twice turned the key, and calmly stomped in usual way.
At streets are sullen, quiet and gloomy. By empty boulevards are huddling thick dim shadows, slowly leaning to facades. Along the gray and faceless pavement are humbly crawling ordinary cars, nondescript and uninteresting. In hazy sky are floating formless clouds. Just quite typical city. Just quite typical people. Just quite typical autumn.
One couple of identical quarters, and here it is – dark brick building of the engineering plant, and now is its low checkpoint. Andrei Leopoldovich has swiftly gone inside and then speedily turned right towards to two-story bureau. Then has climbed up the stairs, then exchanged the door and settled into cabinet, laid out the drawings and schemes.
On the wall are white walkers with a yellowish-milky clock face. On the other one wall is a portrait of one of ministers. On the corner of table – empty ashtray. Under faded flat ceiling – dusty chandelier. That is all decoration.
“New eight hours once more...” - the hero stretched out: “No horror, all right? Well, let's start.” He has deftly thrown up own pen, taken off its small cap and frozen at canvas of rectangular sheet.
At such canvases, by the way, has flown away larger part of his conscious life – full sufferings, searchings and emptiness. Hopelessness, dreams and unnecessity.
By some reasons so full of aforesaid unnecessity...
It has got dark outside blurred windows. Calm clocks have presented digit six in main hour. That is time to go home. From working emptiness to emptiness of house. From one detachment to another. The door has slammed, the key has turned. Low checkpoint again. Sullen quarters again. And again boring home. On TV just as always is rave, so it’s better to go directly to bed. Exactly this is fully done. Right ideally.

III
And again city A. In small, but quite noisy cafe on the Memoryless Street, there is a company of three. At the corner of table is sitting Angelina Evgenievna - in a yellow dress and with green bow on neck. Next to her is Alena Igorevna. Next to Alyona Igorevna is Valentin Stepanovich, the same "smart fool", who was at once snatched out in Astoria.
"Tell us what day is at today." - has ordered to him Alena Igorevna.
"Very significant. Right today, for example, was born Louis Lumiere, and it's also the day of acceptance of Vanuatu's constitution."
"Oh, moron. Right today is the day when we first time have gathered together." - has informed Alyona Igorevna: “You is unable even for a toast.”
“But I’ve really wondered with dates...” - has said Angelina Evgenievna.
"Any rubbish is interesting for you. Well, it's quite tolerable and ordinary, that this imbecile brings any kind of bullshit, bur you're also behave in full unison with him. Let's be more sober." - Alyona Igorevna has intervened once again.
"Then let's drink for the best into each of all us – let all bright and all good that is intrinsic to us from the heaven will abundantly ripen in each of sitting here - in everyone something special and unique. The seed of great has own place into any of souls."
"Greatest toast." - has smiled Angelina Evgenievna.
"Just the same twaddle. But indeed rather pretty." - Alena Igorevna has handed out her full glass. Each one has clinked and overturned.
"Look, at now he came wholly silent." - one more time has reproached the lady: "Support some speech. Don't annoy my nerves."
"Why are you so roughly angry." - has surprised Angelina Evgenievna.
"Beat the innocent ones and forgive all who guilty. That is right. These are actual principles now." - has noticed Valentin Stepanovich.
"Normal principles. Don't noise and don't dramatize." - Alena Igorevna has poured to herself a second glass.
"We are quite able not to quarrel. Far outside of hazy window is flooding so attractive, tempting rain. Wait for romance inside." - has smiled Angelina Evgenievna.
"For so damn you here exists only romance. Only stupid daydreams. What romanticism can be at current time!? Dirt, slush and awkward ugly men. What pleaseful is contained in here?" - Alena Igorevna has reached for the third glass.
"And in bad weather can be peace." - has said Angelina Evgenievna, having proceeded to own dessert.
"Each one who seeks in all exclusively just good - in everything is seen, as a rule, never gets up from bottom." - Alena Igorevna has turned to Valentin Stepanovich: "What are you doing? Will you stay fully silent, or I still can baldly count on a talkative idiot?"
"If my speech would be able to brighten, at least, something."
“If I've brightened, I wouldn’t be indignant. Tell me something, babble further as you was doing it before. Amuse me as you only can.”
"If it would be so easy to find something persuasively funny." - Valentin Stepanovich has drowsily sighed: "Apparently, I'll tell you how I had traveled to Africa. Just about fifteen years ago."
This short phrase has been followed by half-hour story, culminated in comparison between African lands and native.
"People certainly differ, but, of course, there is something common - into everything nasty, in wrong and pernicious, mainly. Very similar gloating, as fact."
"I see. Even far into Africa you had been unhesitatingly considered as weirdo. This is your incorrigible state. Even primitive natives had easily guessed about your essence." - has lazily stretched Alena Igorevna and after that pushed back her chair: "It is time to disperse. Midnight soon. We can be late for our tram. "
"Truly true, any tram is quite stubborn affair. Will be better to hurry." - Valentin Stepanovich has slowly and awkwardly got up and gone to pay, then returned. Each of trinity has thrown own coat. Each has gone outside.
At the bus stop is dark. Sides are empty. From the blackening street is calmly blowing cold moist wind. Crumpled and battered foliage is humbly getting wet in puddles. Has expectedly rolled large and weighty long tram. Its yellowish-white big lanterns, like someone's desperate eyes, have sharply sparkled in darkness of surrounding bottomless haze. Wobbling carriage has taken the passengers and pacifically driven away.

IV
In city B is cloudy and gloomy- wind is howling, is stably lashing window's glass with branches. Is obstinately pouring cold sharp rain. Today Andrei Leopoldovich has so rare day off. There are no cases, no matters. Therefore, it should be something for to do. It would be so good to go somewhere, but bad weather in here is an opposite argument . To think is also bad idea – there are no good thoughts many years. And forlorn, weary body is already so tired of sleeping. After all, total opelessness.
The hero has slowly got up and then opened the curtains: "Hello, wet world, dejected and unhappy. Far away someone strange is relaxedly walking through you. Besides, with no umbrella into hands. Truly madmen."
His gaze has darted at unclear horizon.
"Roofs. Houses. Faded nebulous veil. That's whole landscape for me today. Rather well composition. At such background it's possible exclusively to suffer. So harmoniously – pure miracle, not less. Oh, loneliness."
Andrei Leopoldovich has got dressed and gone out in yard. All around is slushy. Slushy, dank and uncomfortable. All expanses, with rare exceptions, are entirely dismal and desolate, all town's transport is lazy and indolent. Houses are unfriendly. All is somehow dead, somehow spiritless, firmly vain, internally and sensually hollow, continuously sullen and oppressed, unemotional. All and everything. Awfulness.
The hero has smoothly looked around, then quite indifferently sighed and calmly wandered through empty foggy street. Has exchanged one short quarter, then the same type another. Neither acquaintances, nor simply passers-by. No one in whole town.
"So deeply acquainted emptiness - I had not been expecting here for meetings, and I have not met anyone." - has unwittingly sighed once more Andrei Leopoldovich: "At now it's time to measure my way back. What for I've gone in outside at all? I have not hidden from myself, anyway. So absurdly it's – to try to get away from fate." And again way to back.
And again so familiar places and buildings have habitually started to stretch along the sides. And again, with no single passer-by and with no of unusual things. Just bad weather and boring landscapes. And faint sadness inside.
Andrei Leopoldovich has insensibly passed through entrance, deftly climbed up the stairs and then in couple with despair disappeared in murky apartment. Enough such walkings for today.
It's dreary even in their absence.

V
Into smoked and bewitched by astringent dense fume little bar of the tired city A, was sitting company of two - a thin and tall, quite bored young man and strenuously pale-faced, unremarkable man with the sunken calm features and a motionless, detached and blurred look. The first one was Ivan Vladimirovich, and the second one - Valentin Stepanovich. They had known of each other just only half an hour ago, but were already so closely aware both of each other's destinies and views. Ivan Vladimirovich has fully managed to report, of course succinctly and briefly, but still thoroughly, about all his own hardships and mistakes – in fate's particularities and love, and Valentin Stepanovich has also similarly told to his newly made actual interlocutor about own by some reason so cursed and so painful relations with Alena Igorevna.
“And the name of your current beloved is Daria Dmitrievna, all so?”
"You've taken it in memory quite right." - has answered Ivan Vladimirovich.
"You are knowing each other for about two weeks, all is correct once more?"
"For two weeks and a half."
"Yes, that's significant. That's long." - Valentin Stepanovich has raised his eyes and asked: "And everything is moving straightly to the good?"
"If it was possible to guess, where it's moving. More often, it's just stucking. I’m not a master in such matters, but I am seeing something strange - I’m permanently passing through circles, through torments and void. I'm begging for each meeting, as for miracle. Even for outdoor ones. All I'm really able is to hope for her condescension. And no matter how much I'm zealous, anyway there is no progress."
"And is it really so joyful - in such a doom, in such a hell?"
"For life's path it is known much better – it has wandered there itself."
"In such cases you should be aside, shouldn't lean to all flaws by own will."
"All troubles lean to me themselves. More often, everything is so. And what about you yourself?"
“In essence all is similar – in sad sides, but still with little helpful shade of her agreement. We even freely see each other, even often.”
"This is encouraging permission. With me it doesn't work such way."
"Well, maybe, peace will come one day, will somehow turn accumulated."
"All such accumulations are too slow, too sluggish, weak and so terribly rare."
"That's right. It is given only to wait. To wait, to think and be tormented. From the aimlessness and despondency."
"We support such despairing state ourselves."
"Ourselves... Really. Alas."
"All misfortunes come exclusively from us."
"Yes, from us... And from life. From its content, from the sequence of circumstances."
"Such sequence is so dark..."
"Darkly dark... Poorly lightless..."
The heroes have fallen fully silent, only for some while. Valentin Stepanovich has drowsily yawned and lazily stretched out: "Let’s go for walking by embankment. At there we'll breathe fresh air, not smoke as here. It’s healthier, no doubts."
"Of course, let's go. Let's thoroughly research all that wide vastness."
Have calmly gone for walk.

VI
In town B is sadly gloomy. The weather damn poor – it's windy, damp, and horribly rainy. The morning of Andrei Leopoldovich has begun rather ordinarily and trivially and ended also quite traditionally – into working conditions among the papers, tasks and duties. The dull reporting day has unexpectedly come  up - the project must be done not later than to dinner. That's why again nervous hassle and wearisome details. Time is creeping along – so faintly, flabbily and hardly, fatiguing atmosphere without any hurrying is meekly getting boring more and more, and swirling flurry of preparing is very gradually, but anyway inevitably step by step wholly gnawing tired mind, so exhausted by weight of responsibility. Endless thoughts are attachedly huddling as roughly forworn, rambling flocks. Behind the nebulously hazy rectangular windows are indifferently stretching gray and monotonous ragged clouds. Old worn roof is occasionally creaking, here and there annoyed by free winds. A couple of hours has imperceptibly passed and report was just ready. Andrei Leopoldovich has once again scrupulously checked what was written, then looked at the mournful, indistinguishably typical drawings, and, having gathered all into one large thick folder, got deftly up from his shabby deep chair and proceeded to put control stamps in the accounting department, by will of fortuity so modestly located into neighboring low outbuilding.
Into little dim office, next to small curtained window, at semicircular table, is rather carelessly and slightly wearily getting bored isolatedly sitting Irina Aleksandrovna, a pretty, silent young employee with pale and oval face, calmly thoughtful gray eyes and gently blond, slightly frizzy curls. The girl is so habitually sad and almost motionless and static, her constrained by indifference gaze is so tranquilly fixed at flat floor.
"Good afternoon, Irina Alexandrovna."
"You've come for stamps?"
"Of course, exactly for such ones."
"Come in, I'll put right now."
"Is not it sad for you to sit at here – in such dead grayness?" - Andrei Leopoldovich has sighed.
"In grayness. But what to do, if they had sent me right in here."
"No waverings, you have to run away."
"There nowhere for to do it... And no healthy reason too."
"Well, then, at least, console own soul with walking."
"I have no one to do it with."
"Me to. Let's go somewhere one a day. Promise me, that you will."
"Is me that one with whom is right to walk? I am embarrassed even leave own house without makeup, and if I'll go with someone else die, I’ll die from shame."
"Why are you slandering yourself? In here I am of different opinion - I’m vice versa so much pleased with you and am admiring with your look at each lucky occasion."
"It truly pleases. But my opinion unlikely will come changed. Anyway, I'll maybe really agree to take a walk – for only one short modest time, with single aim to dispel inner complexes."
"Even if strictly for at once it's already whole happiness."
"Tell me even that absolute miracle ..."
"I'm telling it right now..."

VII
Right behind of the tightly enclosed  dark red curtains on forgotten last floor into one of the houses of so stably invariable city A, were calmly sitting Valentin Stepanovich and Alyona Igorevna. Their intermittent dialogue with rather fragile alternating success has somehow exceeded deep midnight, and just at now was surely at peak.
“I all the time am thinking of life's sense, of global general idea of each predestined path, of aim of everything and all. All happening is strictly not occasional, not only accidental, and what's more – so laconically, so homogeneously and smoothly are intertwined and twisted all world's things and beginnings. From time to time you are even admiring, even marveling, how all the coincidences, fate's motions and life's cases are juxtaposed, combined and ranged among each other. And after all, it such a way turns out, that all is not random and chaotic, not just vain."
"I am not asking you of something universal, not asking you of useless empty fuss." - has interrupted him Alyona Igorevna: “I’m asking you about the relations, about purely human matters. What is the aim of our coexistence? Will it turn out into something, or will fade?”
"I surely believe in great fidelity and rightness of the future, in real prospect of the unity we have begun. I believe into something so certainly holy and good between us, that firmly promises to bloom. To bloom on forever age and to spread into mightiness."
"Oh, what a demonstrative trashy nonsense has been invented by his head. I am laughing at him – so openly and unambiguously, and he so much responsibly relies on some true sanctity and some soul's exaltation. Brainless fool." - had operatively and involuntarily concluded Alyona Igorevna and, for the sake of elementary and pointless curiosity and only, has rather trivially interested: "So... Well, and how exactly are you going to sculpt such common greatness - from which of countless vague matters?"
"From mutuality and total understanding. Yes from the affinity of souls."
"And right at here has started clear madness. As if he even don't notice, that I am so much openly mocking at him. And he in his pitiful turn so calmly spends own time in vain. Own time and own spirit. Well... Well..." - has aptly thought Alyona Igorevna and languidly and snidely held out: "So romantic it is... But how long will last this charming idyll?"
"For whole life's time. It can't be less. Such way is not allowed."
"No variants, he's absolutely strange, so fundamental falling into weirdness had never been seen before." - has concluded the lady and smiled: "So, life is long, unstable, winding... Will not such alliance come boring one a day?"
"I will never get bored with so astonishingly miraculous fate's blessing."
"Oh, madness..."
Meanwhile, Valentin Stepanovich has surely continued: “So, after all, the highest value is the happiness of two: their jointly created soul's harmony, their common sharing of each other and mixed experience of living into love. Without peace, that is in equal measure taken by each other, there is no feeling of fullness, of self-significance and weightiness. There is no true justification of your being, no meaningful sense. And inside mutuality are - all such principal, dominant aspects."
"What else is so richly in such one?"
"Some special shade. Some special inner magic, aura, some substance, changing everything and all. Someone loves you, and you're instantly starting to look at this world very differently - both nature, people and ideas get quite another face and appearance. Some special shade imperceptibly comes into all. Maybe, color of love."
"Not those colors you've chosen, sir, not those ones." - once again has concluded Alyona Igorevna and continued her skillful sneering mockeries and jokes.

VIII
"So sad are dark maples at autumn, so much lonely are all of these meager and passively thinned, almost totally faded and perished terrains. So empty are these calm and modestly narrow streets, wide strict squares and black woeful gaps of the neighboring arches. So dead is this land, so quiet. So deserted - here and there. Now it's finally killed. Yes, just killed. Although somehow poor this word is, defective." - was wistfully and sorrowfully thinking Andrei Leopoldovich, with no joy singly sitting on the same lonely bench in small abandoned park in city B. “So much sad is at here, so pensively lifeless... And in soul? Into soul even worse. Only darkness in there. Total hell. Hell and darkness...” - the hero has quite bitterly sighed and slowly transferred own look at the sullenly thickening clouds: “Still there is something really immense in this nebulous height, something incomparably unshakable and greatly magnificent, unceremoniously staying above and over everything and all. There is some true power, some indisputable authority in this changeless steadfastness, some inexplicable higher harmony, persuasively impregnating all the blurred dim firmament, so much detached, diffusely vague and, what's bad, so painfully truthful. In what exactly, tell me, is smoldering in here pristine life - in which environments, phenomena and spheres, in which materials and matters, in what of ephemeral secret stratums? Into where is life's source, so unknown and far, into where is that hazy beginning of the endless thin thread, extremely patiently extending through all the bins and all the outskirts and suburbs of this fussily hastening wretched actuality. Where is it, that unutterable spark of creation, where is holy flame of the origin, right instantly deifying each of souls, ennobling everything and all and so profoundly primordially sacred, where it really is... Into nature, in us... Where exactly... Who'll say... Many hundreds of same type sunrises and sunsets will be freely exchanged, but you will not become somehow smarter. No matter, contemplate you or stay closed."
Quite perceptibly forworn Andrei Leopoldovich has slumberously cringed and awkwardly yawned: “And now I need to go, right at this strictly accurate moment I, probably, am starting to be waited. We agreed to have meeting at six. At now, I suppose, it's half past five. Yes, all totally right.” The hero has hastily got up and strode along the clouded long alley. It was supposed to have a meeting with thoroughly known Irina Alexandrovna - in one provincial cafe at remote and desolate district, far away from all noisy and empty. Till such location was a half of mile, and there was no fear to be late, but anyway, according to precaution, no additional hurry turns wrong. So, after single dozen of short minutes, our pensive Andrei Leopoldovich has rather speedily exchanged this easy distance and tranquilly approached two-story dirty-yellowish building of the needed address.
Inside of hall is perceptibly chill, the light is dim, the people are rare, the tables are prosaically modest, fairly shabby and tiredly worn, with napkin holder into center of each one. At sadly colorless wide window, up to half softly curtained and gray, is calmly and indifferently flaunting some deftly framed by antiquity engraving. Under smoked blurred ceiling is shyly hidding.one generously decorated crystal chandelier. At dusky entrance is woefully whitewashing in darkness a lonely and inclined, fragile hanger. At low, but wide unlighted bar is proudly and majestically standing a multi-level rack with bottles. At little distance from such one is meekly showing oneself an entrance to space of local kitchen.
Close to six, the silhouette of Irina Alexandrovna has looked inside of hall and, having slowly approached our bored hero, distinctly greeted him in few brief words.
Andrei Leopoldovich has promptly and excitedly got up and, having taken his girlfriend’s coat off, pushed out waiting for her chair and sat her personality at previously occupied splendid table, then straightened tablecloth, sedulously smoothed all folds on its glossy surface and handed out the menu. Irina Alexandrovna has monotonously stared at humbly presented smooth lines, looked out through half of categories and chosen a couple of the most unpretentious dishes.
"In general, I'm always fully modest – to degree of the horror. You even will not find more gray and plain."
"You are a flower of life. Most marvelous and wonderful from all."
"Come on, which a flower else... Only stem, sadly faded. But thank you for such raving anyway."
"Do not be modest. You are truly an angel."
"All angels are in heaven, and I am here - am cramping into cabinets and digging through papers. Just scarecrow and nothing more."
"It's so stupid to belittle oneself so, unforgivably stupid."
"Who knows - what is stupid, what's clever. So many many people, sincerely considering  themselves directly wise, as fact, are empty useless fools, even clinical ones. And if about me, I'm, at least, evaluating myself only soberly. If I was also doing stupid things in addition to meager appearance, I would have been a sheep at all. But now I am slightly better."
"What misfortune is with you – why are you hating all yourself?"
“Into me there is nothing worth to be kept or regretted. Nothing suitable to be appreciated or cherished. In general, believe me, too, there is not much good into people – they are only meat, consumable material not more. All those ones who are more beautiful and healthy - they come pampered or sacrificed, and all the others get simply lost in outside – into thickness of crowd, so homogeneous and gray. I'm there too. Since my birth and till now. "
"But what about individuality, originality? They are a reason, are an aim."
"But what for do you need it? Well, you will be exalted, will nicely write all your sufferings in poetry or paintings, or symphonies, having deftly prolonged your ill puberty until eternity and irrevocably lost into silly daydreaming, and meanwhile fully similar others into neighboring village will quite easily make the same prolix verbiage in incredibly countless volume. What perfection is here? The same antique posing models, by yours mind, were they really beautiful? Among of them, as sure fact, had been only most primitive ones, who had freely agreed to get totally naked in front of drunk and poor painter. And just these cheep and hollow harlots were generously immortalize for long centuries. Even more - they till now admire the crowds. So miserable caricature."
"Here I will not agree, there are great works too. Great and brilliant. Only one from the billions, but still. Works are utterly different."
"This works for too sophisticated, for deadly poisoned by deep melancholy. Will you really agree to be ruefully suffering more than for years and to feel total pain for only single simple fact, that some shy-man, like you, once in endless dark century will appreciate sense of your sayings? You have to be a real fool for to feel something surely serious to your chosen partner, especially if he is so romantic."
"Such position is too much one-sided, too materialistic..."
"Do you know how righteous girls were becoming dark witches into Middle Ages time? Previously, if some woman was accused of own attachment to demonicity, it was quite customary to burn her. So - those ones were easily and nimbly finding trustful gullible men, who were eager to hide them and save. And then exactly these dull idiots were successfully getting guillotined themselves. Right at this perfect moment the lady is supremely turning into real hell servant. Although in fact she simply becomes truly proud smart woman."
"The best way to the devil is to start own fighting him, then it will be the shortest of routes. And, in this your opinion, it turns out such way, that the fastest of roads is to fall with such one into love."
"The best way to the devil is that one, which is going through woman." - has cutely laughed Irina Aleksandrovna: "You are kind... Kind and weird."
"You are also the same."
"Maybe... Maybe..."
"Do you like this location?"
"A lousy, filthy place. Disgusting. But for you I'll tell - yes."
"You've appointed here yourself..."
"I have done it with reason, intentionally – for not to be especially blissful."
"But why?"
"Into couple with men any pleasure is strictly contraindicated - even out of sex, and in such process aforementioned connivance is completely unforgivable at all. People hastily get comfortable, get totally used to it. Rejection and aversion are more pragmatic, more sweet."
"But what about outlet and joy..."
"What for is it? To get attached to some kind of mad moron or social garbage? Tell, with what to be glad here? Joy is wrong in itself. Natural selection never accepts such nonsense."
"And what can be selected by such method?"
"Something worthwhile and suitable, at least. In terms of you - something really masculine, and in my own case - an adequate woman without sick sentiments."
"Then what is masculine in your opinion?"
“Well, at least, not even think of loving own woman or, what's more, of believing to her. To take care of her, to play role – that is right. But not more. And, of course, no faithful fidelity. It's extremely unnecessary."
"That's some kind of atrocity..."
"Well, if sphere of predation does not make you excited, then remain in a status of plant. Maybe, someone will really take it – one, whos "flowerbed" stays accessibly vacant in here for especially long. And moreover, all you need, calmly wait and desire is also exclusively just that."
"I'm only wanting to be with... Be with one, whom I'll be able to let all my heart and to give all my care and warmth."
"Strange desires... But well. Each one has own oddities and quirks."
"So, maybe, let's dance?"
"After couple of meetings - if all of matters will be lucky. And in most lucky case this stupid nastiness will never come at all."
"So cruel..."
"I am joking here, just get up – we'll slightly shake ourselves. I’m myself rather bored with the sitting."
"And you are surely not plain, not simple in inside, not explicit..."

IX
Into calm town A is the first real blizzard. Valentin Stepanovich, together with Alena Igorevna, is measuredly wandering along - through wide and snow-covered deserted street. On its desolate sides are unshakably staying big snowdrift. In front of way is sleeping single lantern - with extensive thick halo around. Into distance are hiding in murk sadly rare and vague thin contours of the neighboring houses, unhurriedly and woefully dissolving into cold hazy shroud of dispassionate, lonely sky's veil. All the world is sedulously covered by deep canvas of lifeless, dead emptiness. The area is plaintively devoid of population. The outlines are gloomy, bleak and plain.
"So slushy evening at today." - has meagerly remarked Alena Igorevna: "Even no one visible moon into whole endless sky! Even faint and indefinite one."
"But what for if like that? For to tease own eyes. Any moon should be bright. Bright, visible, voluminous. Keep in mind, human's fortune and happiness are supposed to be tart, overfilled with own luck and success. Otherwise it is not satisfying."
"It turns out such way, that kinds of happiness are different and variously diverse? It’s impressively interesting. And to what concrete type of this weird gradation does our own alliance refer? Explain me - just for the sake of simple curiosity."
"The most faithfully long and delicious one - the most capturing from all known and, as fact, the most highly desired. The most hotly and lustily coveted. As some marvelous sacrament, as some imperishable slight magic."
"So expressively pure and so stupidly evident comic, even truly with something appealing, with something morbidly attractive in inside." - has straightly thought Alena Igorevna: “It would seem – I'm so openly laughing at him, so much clearly looking at him as at penny, am perceiving him fully as absolute jerk and excitedly swearing, and he, my moron, is talking once again about magic and, what's more, is so really glad and rejoiced. So naively silly and strange."
"Let's dream about different..." - has suggested meanwhile Valentin Stepanovich.
"How it is?"
"In most productive and romantic way. We'll dream about many things at once – maybe, something will really come true. It's both ambitious and strongly resultative. And also pleasing to the heart and to the practice."
"Do you straightly consider, I am having a full hem of joy, when I'm wandering here into slush? We have sat for a while, well, okay. Now time to go home. I have no intention to dream into inclement cold. Be sure, that even in good weather and without wet snow such desire is not so huge. And now - at night and in sprinkling moist drizzle – I'm certainly and firmly disagree. Leave such blisses to somebody else."
"Sometimes it’s warm from only one thought. From bright awareness of good. From hope or spark of pure insight. That's why it's vain to judge so bad about dreaming."
"So what really useful can be truly extracted from such ones? They are just food for disappointment and only. Feed yourself with such junk. If it will not climb back from your throat."
"Once again no tender, affectionate dialogue, once again only purposeless series of uncounted disputes and infinite reproaches..."
"Bot how else to react on your oddities? I don’t accept such rave like that. No one, who has workable brain, no one truly healthy and mentally sane will produce such incoherent nonsense with head. Now to home - as soon as it's possible. At this obvious moment I am ardently dreaming exclusively and only of that."
"Then no slowness anymore."
Have successfully added the speed.
All the house is quiet. Things are scattered. Blurred curtains are closed. Lonely lamp is lamentably crippled on one lampshade. Wall-papers are quite dark and wearily monotonous and sullen.
"What a woeful dungeon." - has sadly concluded Alyona Igorevna and unhurriedly gone in inside. Valentin Stepanovich has peaceably conducted his pale passion and cautiously sat her at the table: "Let's take one tea?"
"Two teas. Most hot and strong ones. I've got completely frozen."
"Already poured. Take pleasure. The cup is waiting for your will."
"I see the cup. It's excellently visible. About what will be the conversation? Again about stupid dreams? Unrealizable and vain. Or will we find something more deep and fruitful?"
"True dreams are higher than the clouds. This thing is undeniable for all. But we also can freely discuss any other accessible theme. No tangible matter, innermost, sacramental and deep, or impudent and petty. Any motive and any of styles - from the most plain and ordinary to the wicked and forbidden."
"Wide serious. What exactly you'll choose?"
"That's not so easy. All my assumptions and conjectures are so hardily hated by you."
"Not all. Only useless and stupid. I'm not so evil, as fact."
"Then about life's luck – about rights on such great treasure, about helpful influence and accidents, because directly everything is planned from very start."
"What precisely do you mind? What is luck? What is the meaning of this constant?"
“Luck is dark. But the road to luck is a sequence of circumstances - that ones, which bring you any favorable products and results. For me, it's so.”
"And what kind of result, into frames of your own perception, so most persuasively is it? On the basis of what you have right to consider yourself firmly happy? After what are we getting such status?"
"Only one - truly tangible getting of your own individual feeling of life's and fate's justification. Truly tangible chance to calm down and reassure worn and orphaned ill soul, to become really someone, to turn out to be complete person, and not a paralyzed pawn."
"The irony has stripped till naked body." - concluded targetly the lady and gently and unhurriedly cringed: "How awfully far you are here from your own pretty ideals... My dear, darling guide, you've fully lost your way... About what to ask him else..."
Alena Igorevna has thoughtfully sighed and slowly reached for the sugar bowl: "And how close have you got to your happiness?"
"Already reached the key from it - from you."
"Just nitwit. Pure nonentity and nothing in addition. Now that's not even funny."

X
In town B is standing global vanity – each one is hurriedly preparing for upcoming new year – is crowding and scurrying here and there. Full of pensiveness Andrei Leopoldovich, among of many others, is monotonously stretching through tight busy street. Everywhere around - sweet clutter, motley faces, wide looks, vague silhouettes, noise and big cars, flying by. All kinds of dishes and rich regales are generously flaunting and shining behind of spacious shop-windows on shelves; truly countless visitors are swarming into sections; illustratively bright, lush and festive, almost endlessly long and so freely and randomly flickering garlands and exactly alike massive luminous balls are very lavishly and proudly erecting at solemn central facades, with specially sharpen ostentation rapturously coated with all of known to people decorations. Every thing and detail is surely and confidently blowing with voluminous, strong inspiration and persistently forceful apotheosis, thick and touchable magic and temptingly alluring anticipation of the next fairy tale, so much tartly and daringly reigning in New Year's frosty air. In a lonely gray height are deftly and impetuously rotating thinly carved, full of joy snowflakes. Andrei Leopoldovich has approached one of the boulevard's shops and frozen over rack with superb splendid jewelry. Into stock there are diverse beads, foreign porcelain and plywood figurines. Nearby are elegantly painted round dishes and immodestly colored lanterns. Common choice is quite wide. Even prices are not so rubbish. The hero has stopped own glance at one of varicolored trinkets, and after finding suited bill, relaxedly inquired about size of price and cautiously wrapped his newly-found miracle in wrapper, then turned with fancy ribbon in a nice, pleasant way and meekly trudged back.
The present, by itself, was intended for so greatly well-known Irina Aleksandrovna, with whom it was supposed to meet at work through some fortuitous accident, which, in fact, can be easily done artificially – if such case is especially necessary. Just exactly such way has behaved Andrei Leopoldovich, in own turn having not deliberately looked to his chosen one’s daily office and offered to spend some joint time.
"Do I look like an idle loafer?" - has surprised Irina Aleksandrovna: "The day is at own peak, there are lots of duties. What a kind of dull whim - to tear me from my work?! And from what should I suddenly rush to fulfill it?" Then, one short pause later, she much more peacefully continued: "I’m only joking. So, boldly tell, with what you've come – with which of news?"
"So, the new one year is on the threshold, so I've decided to attach you to worldwide celebration – I have brought you a gift and appeal of the being together at updating of date."
"The company, it means, has come desired." - has remarked the lady: "Are you yearning for feasts? If such ones are so necessary."
“Into general - no, I'm yearning only for ordinary evenings - without superfluity and rakish, dashing fun, only simple and modest nondescript inconspicuous gathering of two similar souls."
"Ones are crazy at body, the other ones - at spirit." - Irina Aleksandrovna has smiled: "Have you suddenly started to be crave for affinity? This is too desperate affair – only reason to rub heart till blood. You indeed need affection. And such one is directly utopian."
"I want to have my right on hope..."
"It's useless, fruitless completely - just aimless weight, inappropriate cargo. Not for what..."
"I want pure joy - at least, one sip of such one, even awfully tiny, all the other is emptiness, water..."
"And you will sink exactly right in such one, that's rule of fate."
"I don't believe in her."
"She does not care."
"I just search a way out - from the everyday grayness, from the cage of the life and from frames of its habits, from all bustle and fuss."
"Such one was born before than you – you'll never overcome it, and rescue, salvation or relief are matters only imaginary, you can't destroy global wall of futility. Our choice is not great: into first useless case - to endure, and in fully identical second - to misbelieve and to be in illusion. Take what's nicer."
"Anyway, only one simple happiness is indeed truly pleasing and necessary - even being surprisingly deep in mistakes, you are still neatly crawling for it."
"So we live – ones are crawling, ones other are flying. You belong to the first, rare ones to the second. Nothing new has appeared – either crying, or laughing."
"With no priceless dream this life is stomping into abyss."
"But what for do you need such a stupidity? No matter, with dream or without – as a fact, no halo of luck will observably grow anyway, and no personal star will light up and rise over."
"I have no need in whole star, I'll be totally glad with, at least, dim flashlight, faint and small... I already will really be pleased. We will go, will celebrate warmly and nicely - and I'll get stable outlet."
"I will take your cute present, but I'll never agree for to celebrate – do it somehow yourself, with no me. Anyway, truly thanks - really hilarious figurine, pretty."

XI
Into aged, overcast town's park of well-known town A, in the opposite pose to each other, were restlessly, and even somehow idly, calmly sitting, in spite of the heavy hard snow, Valentin Stepanovich and Ivan Vladimirovich. And, of course, they were sitting not aimlessly, but for sake of the intensive talk - about something truly urgent and definitely difficult and dark - about personal heart life and own spiritual research. This cursed sphere, being inwardly almost paranormally hopeless and apathetic, was concealing and hiding, as fact, only rough, dead despondency and horizonless, immense bitterness, but at same woeful time was serving as exclusively good food for inner soul's space and was successfully killing long hours and even whole days, engaging all the mind in discussing of little details, usual problems and endless omissions.
"What kind of awful thing it is: to annoy human's heart – inadvertently, secretly, and, what's more, to prevail over all helpless head! And after all, every pitiful thing, every little and miserable nonsense so swiftly transform all your life into rubbish, into constant damnation." - has gradually begun Ivan Vladimirovich: "So great is this world, so much many-sided and almost practically immense, but you become attached to so narrow and scanty being's frames and personalities, that even all your human appearance comes erased from you away, like reduced by the acetone. Not much later than two days ago, I was traditionally walking through local bored area into regular tryings to find out any good mutual relationships, and, as I've sadly got to know, it would have been much useful and much better to stay keeping in silence – there was no one case of responsiveness at all, just as if I was talking with dead stone walls - on the contrary, only contempt and mockeries' suspension – so dirty and dreary, loathsomely mucous and tireless; like a leper I am, like some nasty and horrible  demon. There is no frankness in world - into lost present time, there is no unity here - only hopelessness, where any human alliance is a couple of two hardest enemies. That's an agony... Pity, but true. And, what's hurtfully more, they yet even admire with such poorly rotten and vile combination, boldly throwing own sharp and so aptly and glaringly catchy thick phrases, which are fully endorsing and firmly approving any irony, sin and cynicism, successfully explaining it with targets, with some kind of the best criticality, of the highest at earth pragmatism, of deep prudence and truly far-sighted approach. And so assertive is such harmony of this distraught sick people, so strong and unbreakably dense, that any right alternative has no chances. As if all minds are in ring of hard stupor."
"This is real time's grief. In main turn, just those outcasts, who has boldly refused to be sunk with the others. But personally you, first of all, blame the rot of society, not yourself and own mind. It's a problem of stone and path - if you've got at some route and then suddenly stumbled on wallowing stone, then the same poor stone itself is, alas, absolutely innocent and harmless - it was just lying and no more, but youself are fully blame, no one was forcing you to go exactly by that way, where was an obstacle, there were also lots of free ones, but you've chosen that one with the stone. We love freaks. But this is a reproach to own mind. Not to society, which from forever was a swamp. No one interpersonal association is a priori capable of making creativity - only dirt and destruction, only scarcity, only evil. You can become attached to slut, to liar, idiot or dummy, but that's clearly not they are instilling your right to be answering someone with love. It concerns only own past experience. Your servant is your brain. Shy away from the sinners. They are easiest key from the hell."
“New actuality is worse. There is one big weakness – strange and adverse desire to be here with somebody else - it's the worst of the curses and flaws. Firmly add me to all of the available drugs, teach me how to gamble, fully force me to be total sodomist, moron and figaro, but, please, rid me of awful ability to believe to the close to me person. Rescue me from so heavy impossibility to reconcile with permanent loneliness, from desire to share my being with someone. Better kill me, or mutilate, break and dishonor, but protect from such mortal reliance like that."
"Any trust is a sin – very terrible, wretched and, as fact, irreparable. It makes you fight for vain illusion, makes you breathe with a kind of vacuum, makes you mentally lost for all life. You are waiting for surf from the sea, that even not exist at all. They've given you such misconception, that free volume of years and world can quite excessively endow you with all of concrete heights and values. For you was given straight belief, that among great and endless reality can be surely found some indeed truly frank and sincere companion. You believe, that all this is not vain. You have a mirage of some logic, which calmly makes your existence subjectively different from delirium, madness and rave. It's simply absurd to expect any train outside of the platform, but even on the platform it's far not always able to appear - especially with route, that wholly suits you. This is clear example of hidden futility. Life and world seem to be full of secret potential. It seems, that we have lots of geniuses and there are so many pure souls, but in fact only nits, sluts and freaks. "
"So, how to get protected from all false?"
"Be more prudent and deep, put all of the particular details into integral picture of world, ascending till the global scales. And smaller tear your own heart – forever densely remember, no greatness at here can be built by huge feats and hard sacrifices. This rotten world requires from you just not less than a self-immolation. It demands total selflessness. This is the worst of our qualities. It deprives you of yourself. They ask to change your life on happiness of traitors. And it's not only in love. In everything. In so wrong patriotism, into collective social systems, into dialogs about vocation. Look, firstly, at the source - they primarily burn some house, and then immediately rush to save it from the fire and persistently call you to join. Each one, who wants you to defend native land, right with equal free easiness boasts with weapons and really thinks, that enrichment by ruination of the weak ones is something normal, suitable and worthy. All who stubbornly call you to sacrifice with the latter, most often sit on bins with gold themselves. All of those who call to achieve their goodwill and deserve their love, in a fact so much firmly despise and contemn own partner and all available time only constantly mock at such one, see such one into role of gutless and soulless property, with even no idea of some truly bright feelings and purposes. There are only Herods and satanists. And those ones, as a rule, are most usual in judicial mantles and cassocks."
"But sometimes own soul still believes anyway – into played empty tears, into faked hollow caresses and just made, artificial tenderness... Anyway still believes."
"Not the content of one or another proposal is persuasively weighty and truly important, but its source and original authorship - if the devil sincerely offers you anything good, then it will be much wiser to cancel so awfully lavish suggestion. Any false dummy feelings do not heavily differ from the real and viable ones. All their actual cost and veracity are indeed truly known to their own native author and only. You can't be absolutely confident whether you are loved, you can only guess and believe – but single faith does not bring any goodness. Reciprocity must be twice mutual, not one-sided. Relationships without mutuality are like bricks without cement: till nearest chance of the parting. And the first stupid step is already a step to nowhere. It just opens whole way to all others, predetermining their sure committing."
"But how to be - everyones change their roles so deftly, that we have no chances to notice."
"Lie does not like own nudity and sharpness. It tirelessly searches for any mask. Each satanism, most often, comes presented as a kind of religion, and each deception as attempt to show you the truth. Be afraid of reprovers, that's the main obscurantists."
"With such position everyone is an enemy."
"So it really is. Everywhere is falsity. Remember, value and price are two totally different things: credibility and truth are so far not the same. You can give huge amounts of money for pure fake, but you also can take best of miracles fully for free. There’s no correlation between the qualities of your idol and the easiness of its final obtaining. There is only global mass fiction. It is called at here as "life"."
"It's better to be dead..."
"Yes, perceptibly better, but at now not time. You know, life is very narrow – you have barely moved in away from one edge and already has reached the same type opposite. Mistakes at here are not forgiven. In fate we have to show excessive kind of our accuracy – right the absolute one. Precision and great rightness are life's wings."
"But what about ideals of being?"
"All of ideals stay just indifferent - they never tolerate the fact of conjugation, that's why the road to them is usually entirely original. There are no patterns of path, no clear instructions. Only endless attempts and mistakes. The second ones are incomparably more frequent, as fact."
"All the century pay we for own oversights."
"And for such ones of others - in our world each reckoning has dissonance in working: as a rule, only innocent ones come most usually punished and kicked: just pretend, that your future love passion had at once met an idiot – long ago in before, and nowadays, right since that poor time, is surely considering all the next cavaliers you as deep idiots. You are not idiot yourself. But you'll be marked in such a role. And first initiator of this circus is not involved in act at all and calmly rid of any sanctions. What you'll say of such state?"
"I will only ask by what steps not to get into dirt?"
"No way to such bliss. Here works one doomed inseparability – of every light and every dirt. All good things are quite often connecting with fallen. Moreover, unity and enmity are two main tools of any devil: to bring you to all bad and to separate you from all worthy, that is whole his task."
"Into whom, in such case, can be found sincere support?"
"In oneself. Keep in mind, you can fight for yourself exclusively by own modest strengths - autonomously. And, please, be always much more sober. And I am not about alcohol. I am about mental drunkenness: freely trusting to traitors or making mistakes, you lose your sanity, play madness - as if you've woken from noble hangover. Shy away from all wrong information – from any of its variants and types. Firmly, clearly know, that bad swimmer is confidently able to get drowned anywhere – even just in a spoon. And brain is right the same - each unprepared mind unwittingly believes to any kind of delirium. It doesn’t matter to which one - theistic, loving or formally scientific."
“Sometimes it seems, that happiness is house. Big, huge and affable for all. And you yourself right now walk around. You walk and look for entrance inside, you are seeking for any access to such great, exorbitant goodness. You seek, but still can't find. And then you grow old, you wait a long and next lie down in a coffin. And all, that leaves - two useless dates on faded plate. And you yourself already far away."
"You should be able to be strong. Being truly a phoenix, you have sometimes to be an ash. You must be able to survive into weaknesses, to experience moments when you are firmly shown as a shit. You must be able to survive. Just survive and rebel from the lepers."
"I want to hate all people. Each of them. Everybody and everyone."
"Do you think there are any people? Who can be named by you as human? Is, at least, one such person, about whom you can not doubt, can not only to guess. Do such people exist? Do they happen? Don't believe to dead bunch of the bodies. Any public opinion is a broken compass: you think, that it's just normal, and follow its instructions, but in the end you're coming to deadlock. Live as you are condemned. At today, it's the best and most righteous path, most logical and pure."
"How easy it is to become fully nothing..."
"Just simple. Very simple. As fact, you can become discredited just once, and even with extremely little thing. That works like with a crack on vase - more than 99% of the whole material remains exclusively intact, but water is still pouring away, your vase is no longer solid. This wrecked receptacle is absolutely spoiled. Protect yourself - your public status, soul and reputation. They are more valuable than body, than any volume of vain wealth. More valuable and vulnerable, alas."
"But where can be searched the source of luck, of inner balance, of some kind of wide standard of mind and ideas?"
“Life's luck is not a property of you: it’s working like with vase – its cost and value are determined by the master, this small fact does not somehow depend on the features of vase, on its true everyday practicality. Any 15th-century vase will quite easily cost endless millions. And any current one - just couple bucks. With luck it works the same – you can be born directly smart, truly prudent and happy exclusively by coincidence of dogmas. And, as a fact, you can be only born in such rich state, you can't become, that simply is not realistic. We are not able to get changed. It's possible exclusively to our worse side."
"Then what is main, what's valuable and true?"
"All main things are quite blurry - you even don’t know where to look, where lies treasured blessing of being. You don’t know, even if you're smart. But remember one thing - the highest grace is hidden into unity, in wide integrity of fate, even if just in its ephemeral details. If yours stupid, vain dreams are entirely slender - that’s firm key from all peaks and all tops. But if even the most realistic reality is exclusively blurred - then all will sadly disappear. It’s better to be rough preacher of hard absurd, than a doubting scientist. Walking firmly and zealously, you'll never stumble or lose speed, you'll never linger, never turn away. And road's exit's from right track are dangerous directly by the fact, that returning most often gets given not so soon. Not right instantly will you return to good path from apostasy. And not fact, that will do it at all."
"With such position - only soot stays at soul. So dark it's in there at now. From aggravation of all doomed."
"Each soul, please know, needs own lantern - bright lantern of idea and impetus. Light and darkness are mutually exclusive. Seed inside of yourself true and firm auspiciousness, and all filth, trash and garbage will surely be just incinerated and will quickly and simply fall out. Go only on call of exceptionality, sow deep rightness, and insignificance will promptly disappear."
"I don't understand my life, don't even know how it affects..."
“Understanding of world in own absolute essence entirely comes down to a long labyrinth of ideas - that ones, which every single person keeps silently inside of poor head. And if these mixed ideas are quite right, then you get regularly encouraged by the life, but if such ones are empty and chaotic, then life atrociously and strenuously beats you and refuses in all. That’s how it happens."
"It turns out, I am not so glad for this life, not a friend to my fate – foe, enemy."
"You look in here only at good, fully thinking that, firstly, it always is true, what’s exclusively wrong, and secondly, that it inevitably leads you to heights, what is also not true. If you're going to south, it’s not fact that you’ll be wholly lucky with your fellow travelers, even strictly in spite of so pleasant and resort direction. Into fate all is made just the same – you will go for love and loyalty, and such ones will just trample you out of road, having given you pain, dirt and moral hard leprosy and asked you not to go for next time. Right at this you will end all your travels."
"Then, at least, all attempts will be fully short-living."
"Moreover, any longitude is not a comrade here. If you need to wait and persist for achieving your goal, then, most likely, it's totally vicious and abundantly alien from the earliest start. All truly good comes for free and, as fact, right into hands like a zombie. And if you vice versa see refuses, then it’s much better to disperse. Much more logical, useful and prudent."
"I so much don't want to be a fool..."
"Then hang yourself. Sometimes it helps. But if to say with leaning on the essence, then I will assure and calm down – this is utterly simple. Into darkness we always see more than it really is. Our partial, false understanding inevitably gives heavy rise to the fictitious difficulties, strongly leading to wilds and dead locks. Do not try to be thinking about at all uncontrollable, it's extremely and stupidly dangerous and so profoundly irrational and mad. That makes you fool. And makes better than anything else."
"So frightening is our helplessness. Our raising to zero. To pure pitiful void."
"This is the main of earthly torments. Sparks are powerless – they are certainly able to make any flame, but only with the presence of combustible products. All initially doomed wrong attempts are so aimless with absence of flame – such dead sparks are just useless cold flashes. Fully empty and not somehow warming. As fact, you don't need to be a torch, you just need to have someone, in whom you can create responding fire."
"No one is like that. And never will. But I'm looking for them anyway... And, as fact, after all, there is only emptiness. Why it's so abundant..."
“That's for better. Give to human firm fullness and he'll calmly remain it unclaimed, give him emptiness and he'll quickly acquire identical fullness, so much indifferent before, give him severe bitter lack - and he'll promptly achieve an excessively rich superfluity. We live and act on contrary and only. If you're not hited, you are hiting yourself. And don't rely on hollow humanism. This is not human matter, you know."
"This world is acting right in opposition?"
"Exactly so - and nohow else. Only one, who is seeking of truth, is receiving the biggest of lies, and exclusively one who is truly desiring deep holiness is receiving the devil. It's exactly unchanging."
"I want deliverance. Sharp finish. Sharp and brief. I want some total rightness."
"I'll say you more, such one can be exclusively just so, not somehow else. Any rightness and correctness are available, as fact, as complete ones and only - if right has suddenly transformed one day in left, then left has similarly turned oneself in right. That is why, having once realized all and everything, you will surely stop all past whitewashing of vice and also will invariably forget how to blacken the light. Just at one tiny time."
"As by miracle?"
"As. But personal initiative is also quite essential. Freely playing with fate, time from time you can win. After all, it is not so clear - who is playing with whom. A deft and nimble fox is capable to torment own hunter so much, that he himself will be totally ready to fall down and die. Be more powerful, and all facts will dispare. And one more time: don't accept sacrifices - into any of cases. God is never demanding such ones, only treacherous devil."
"But what about God..."
"Just equally endures own helplessness. Alas. And his weakness is even more painful than our."
"And love, why it is so rare at here?"
"Love is as chemical reaction: for such one are required some peculiar conditions, most often casuistic and unattainable, unreachable at all, that is why this great feeling does not ripen and shine, does not burn."
"But from what to get hope into searching for truth and fidelity? What to do?"
"To rely at one time onto several sources. Rave's polyphony is less often perceived as an absolute truth. But any single strong, self-confident position almost always indelibly stucks into brain and persuasively claims to be something reliable. Alas, sick and exclusively harmful individuality is also too much strong and incessantly unceremonious."
"How nice to have mind."
"And how bad when your enemies also possess it. As a fact, our mind is a kind of non carnal sexuality. It attracts you, makes you gravitate closer and closer to person, makes you want to be near. Into evil and vile combination with a rotten low soul, this is the worst of known poisons. As well as sexuality in couple with veiled meanness."
"But sometimes I so ardently want to... Want to go for alluring temptations. Even if through all of the hardships and thorns, but only for to find and to to achieve."
"You should not pass through thorns. I was saying not once – only lightness is needed, only confident harmony and abundant conformity, most plentiful and rich. Without such one will be nothing. Equations of soul can be correctly solved exclusively by smoothly whole numbers. Equivalence to partner, reciprocal and firm similarity and spirit's commonality are the only sense. Outside of such ones only darkness."
"So fearful to lose..."
"But do not be afraid anyway. We must be able to lose too - only temporarily and in small, in wholly empty. Remember, superiority is not a sign of rightness. You’ll easily be beaten by true hooligans and robbers. You will die in such fight. They will win. But they never will go to heaven. Not always winner wins. Be knowing."
"That's too sad anyway... Everywhere is total duplicity, deep duality, cheating and masks..."
"That is right. And faked cover is so much tightly soldered down with essence, that it can't be someway separated at all. This life is metaphorical and awesome. It's wonderful."
"And what's about human?"
"Each human is a stone, freely thrown by some careless hand, and whole question is only one: into where is it flying - down or up. That is all."
"But such role is so insultingly humiliating."
"This world is built at now commonly on bad. It has exactly inverse principles – any local complexity entirely depends on some kind of simplicity: you can calmly be here a genius, your head can easily invent greatest technical miracles, best symphonies and masterpiece paintings, but any ordinary stone, aptly thrown in you with required strength, will deftly turn all your whole personality into banal dead corpse with a broken cranium, each alcoholic and each fool can so easily kill into here any artist, any righteous enlightener, inventor or musician. A whore can bring a poet to his suicide. A brainless marginal can rapidly ruin and cripple helpless actress. All kind things so indissolubly depends on much heavier evil. At the top of the universe, calmly believe me, is darkness. Any light is just scenery, hollow deceit."
"Then what is the criterion of truth?"
"Only one. Firm survival ability. Any kind of accessible lie sooner or later dies, but veritable truth – inexorably never. That is why don't look for such things into people - they are helplessly mortal. Too much than necessary."
"Any sense is so rare, so woefully weak."
"Every sense is like sacredness: it doesn’t stick to all. It’s property of only exceptional committings. That is why all the others are so distressingly ridiculous and strange. But, as fact, they demand equal time, all mistakes occupy it till satiety - it doesn’t matter in this world from what you build your house: from good materials, or from spoiled unsuitable rubbish, each construction's erection will decisively take equal period. But results will be different - in one case nice, rich building, and in other – a squalor. But the time will be spent right the same. As right the same returnless forces."
"Where are real miracles? Are they here at all?"
"The only residence of miracles is head. You can born it by thinking and only. Just imagine and all. Each world's miracle is exclusively personal."
"That means for us - never fight with sentimentality..."
"Not totally like that. Fight only with compassion. Eradicate such thing from depths of soul. Never keep such a pestilent feeling. Don't even try this stupidity on practice. Especially don't judge by outcomes - person died, got suffered or crushed by tree or tram, or turned sinisterly crippled, and you instantly feel so sorry for him, so much sympathize, but you ask no question - whom has he been? Maybe, absolute scum, total nit and exorbitant bastard. Maybe pure devil’s servant, that must be killed much earlier and harder. When I see here someone in torments, I start wanting to finish him off. That's the only right way. Please, forever believe me. This world preserve and save all of really valuable people itself. And, what's more, just without some help or involving. But if person got lost, then he hadn't been needed at all. So... Never, never sympathize. If you see dying child, leave him out and don't disturb. Anyway, after time, will be lavishly born many others."
"Strong position... Harsh and merciless."
"But in essence exclusively kind. It’s much better to kill all your friends than to save even one real enemy. A drop of evil totally destroys even sea of each obvious goodness. And, alas, I myself, if to be fully honest, so frequently feel extremely heightened compassion, although perfectly know, that it’s not justified even partly. Yes, good people are also quite able to suffer, to encounter with hardships and pains, but only one in million is good. So it’s better to show no help. Let God decide himself – whom at here to survive, whom to die. Do not spoil his plans. Or you'll instantly start to be serving the devil. But if you’re getting such a friend, you will never get rid of him."
"But how to avoid the devil?"
"Almost no of ways can be helpful. Against his tricks, you're only a pawn. We all are weak. Becalmed and full of softness devil is much nicer for us than joyless, strict and unreachable God. Therefore, we freely follow for darkness ourselves. We even beg for being near. And life's authority is always only single - above of you all time or light, or murk. Nothing other is given. And to be outside – be yourself, by the way, is also not allowed."
"Light isn't relevant today."
"That is right. Today it’s trendy to be garbage. And each really suitable person is too bad for the role of ballast - it’s too pity to kill him. But look at crazy daily crowd – just cannon fodder, nothing more. That's why they are in so loud favor."
"Such state is frightening and awful..."
"For trembling ones even trivial wind is a hurricane. Don't be afraid. And never spend all passion of your soul. Any harmful and mindless devotion can be ever demanded from you exclusively and only by the devil, and if to say about God – be aware, such one, as an obvious rule, does not care at all of any human's attitude to him. Don't think, that all is unambiguous. Our world is a kind of suspension: just shake, and all looked before as good will promptly dissipate and disappear."
"It will be very difficult for me. I'm a slave of my doubts."
"Any doubts are awfully doomed. And even fully insignificant and small. It works like nudity and shame: if you are shameless, you can easily put all your clothes away, even if you was tightly enveloped into tons of textile, you can effortlessly climb on the table and perform to occasional random spectators, just involuntary and fully accidental, all the views of your own genitals and not only. But if you are directly modest and dressed exclusively in thin and tiny nightie — you, on the contrary, will wrap yourself in its liquid material, will grab it, as your last salvation, and will firmly refuse to be stripped. With doubts all is just the same – some of us are entirely able to reject any rave fast and easily, some – vice versa awkwardly and painfully for soul. On last ones hold all workable sects. And, by the way, all confessional cults in addition. This world behaves and acts according to the rules of fighting – here wins that one who is the strongest, not that one who is right. You can be killed and harmed by any force - by people, fate or dangerous and stupid oversight, and in case of the battle all is strictly the same – you can be killed by infantry, by cavalry, and by those who shoot from the sea. All are surely equal, and no difference who plays inside of act – fools or gods."
"So, by what of the ways can we get proper caution?"
"Any caution, as fact, no matter, that it's rather strange, is needed mainly in good spheres and only – in those ones, where really is broad spacious place for duplicity. And if to look at any of initially vicious beginnings, in such ones a priori will be much more purity, with almost no chances of duality, dirt or deceit. I trust to prostitutes much more to any of priests. So, stay away from everything exalted. Any evil is getting presented exclusively in veil of morality."
"So hard it's – to live in this world."
"Such one is total slave of well-being's phantom - into visual judgments this world is assuredly blossoms. There are lots of cars in around, lots of bright wide shop windows and various appliances. You don’t even know how works your processor, you can’t make any paint, any metal or clothes. If you'll be moved in pristine woods - will you make any car, build a skyscraper, or create everyday electronics or, at least, elementary small power station to maintain kitchen lightbulb? You are only a bug into immense far world. The amount of all current knowledges is in thousands times much more greater than whole capacity of most smart, bright and talented heads. You are a prisoner of new civilization. And true majority of minds are not so worth and full of kindness. Even right into time of concentration camps, inventions had been having own place. And such ones were exactly progressive. Besides we have a lot of madmen. Each one of them has own little world. Such worlds of madmen are very very funny thing: it is extremely difficult for them to meet and to associate with any of smart people, but they are also totally unable to keep peace with each other, that's why rich madmen argue with the poor, divorced argue with betrothed, indigenous with newcomers. Don't forget, they are madmen, what to take from them all."
"And, after long communication with such people, you're getting shallow yourself."
"That is right. Each pettiness has harmful predilection to be excessively intrusive - a simple movement, for example, dull nibbling of button or pen so quickly turns in daily habit, but getting up in early morning for short running and nimble gymnastics or reading one smart book a day by some of reasons doesn't work."
"Specifics is too tragic, too tormenting and stubborn."
"But empty. It doesn’t lie close to miracles. Remember one important point - not believing in something ephemeral, you'll never meet anything unforgettable. Learn to dream. But only in measure. Good measure is so valuable for being, so powerful in obvious results. And only in deceit it's weak. Its endless scope sometimes is too enchanting, that's why it is entirely impossible to believe into someone or something. Don't trust to anyone at all: both your neighbors and heads of the world are similarly lying at each moment. Your wife is saying that she loves you, your priest - that this world is ruled by God, your town's politicians - that there is a lack of money into treasury, but then it suddenly turns out, that your wife is a traitress, your world is abode of the devil, town's treasury has magically got precipitated as many personal extensive, dazzling mansions. They will deceive you into all - both in small and in global. Such degree doesn't play any role. And any evidence is thing, exactly labile: look at history; at first, unshakable religion had been so freely dominating, when ancient sciences had not been truly having enough of own information, and now all is vice versa. Truth is only a fiction. And how long and stable will it be - is just result of circumstances and chances."
"But how can my healthy sober mind be able to survive?"
"Any mind has a right to be healthy, all it needs for such aim is to be independent - sometimes some small and ugly bird, so insignificant and weak, stays day from day exactly free, and sometimes large and graceful nice bird sits in cage. You don’t have to be a genius or skillful mastermind for to have truly right and correct understanding. Main thing is not to be a fool. So, strengthen, gain your priceless mind, take care and protect. Adversities and harmful misconceptions swarm and huddle almost everywhere, but all keys from such ones are exclusively deep into heads. Don't give yourself to wrongness, and nothing will have chance to overcome your fate. All is surely simple."
"But why we so so often don't see this difference between the gloom and light?"
"The similarity of opposites is guilty: the same sky is so often seen just on the ground, underfoot - in spills of water and in puddles. That's why we take pure madness for eccentricity, clear extravagance for generosity, and total stinginess for useful economy. That's why we gladly sing long praises to chatty charlatans and liars."
"All that straightly and surely means, it's much better and safer, and smarter to stay exclusively away from any kind of human goodness? If it's so frequently deceptive, wrong and false..."
"You've noticed correctly and aptly. All negative is truly more reliable - correct answer for each equation can so easily be promptly written off, but you certainly can't get an error, resolving by firm rules and patterns and without of miscalculations. Never cling to the visual blessing. Moreover, such a feature is always only harmful, vile and worthless. You can calmly and peacefully sail, even being on sinking wrecked boat. The only question is how lucky and long?"
"This world was made directly by the devil, not someway else."
"Even if all is really so and our world had been made by the devil, anyway choose attachment to God and don't doubt. No one can disturb it. And learn to disagree. Passivity is not a correct habit. And once again, keep more self-confidence and strength. Remember one, we can be trampled exclusively by our own soles."
"What holds us here, in such a case?"
"An accuracy – best of human's helpers. Such one is high above of any miracles and blessings. All your steps, all positions and prospects are totally and solidly determined exclusively by one well-known thing – by person's relevance to being and by degree of self-appropriateness to the context of boundless life. Even more, all around is final result of only one determination – you can come happy or unhappy with equal kind of inevitable fatality. The world is generally one, it has a common source of forces - keep in mind, both knives and amulets are made of single metal."
"But whom to be in such a madness - a harsh and heartless fervid skeptic or an ardently trustful and sickly incorrigible romantic?"
"At now skeptics are exactly everywhere - they believe in some form of occult mysticism, as it seems to their wavering minds, but in fact they believe into regular physics, simple chances or usual circumstances. And by the way, recovering from pure materialism is even much more difficult than from any of hardest religions: if some stone is pressing your chest, then you will so trustfully feel it, will so firmly believe in its power, that you will be directly unable to be thinking of anything else! But what's really happening here in such case? Change your current blood type or right number of present molecules into cells of your heel, and you'll not even notice, but distort your desires or views, and you’ll lose all yourself, having instantly turned into alien person."
"Then how to denounce this reality? – its characters, ideas and events..."
"Denounce them with help of contrast. Especially in all of public matters: each dirt is invariably leaning to riches, but true actual riches, into own modest turn, are never sticking even near to any kind of aforementioned poor dirt. Look straightly at extremes – most sure thing on our planet. This is amazingly reliable."
"But how to be good and at the same surprising time not to suffer?"
"For any good and honest human, first of all, there is no place in a bad, low world, and, at second, for sorrowful such ones it simply will not be allowed to exist into here: weak and breakable bridge will come broken right under that one, who is saving a child, truthful one will be surely slandered, sincere one will be fully and wholly deceived. Remember please – we're going to the hell exclusively by way of good intentions. Do you want to come evil? Set indeed irreproachable aim, and you'll at once become obsessed - right in process of sinless achievement ."
"How sadly expensive sometimes can be human's experience..."
"Not entirely so. The value of experience is free, if to look at such thing just conditionally: someone have to crash madly high-priced worthy car for to get right conclusions, and someone have to crash  a costless one. All is matter of case and conditions. It's as in lottery – someone lucky will get whole million from the first single ticket, and someone less successful will stay exclusively with nothing even after a thousand ones."
"And it's unable to predict..."
"Yes, it's so. Sometimes pure nonsense leads to greatness, and sometimes all is right vice versa. Here works the principle of the spire – such nice thing, as the highest detail of each building, so frequently allows you to recognize and notice all the same poor building itself, by entirely similar scheme something totally secondary so often leads to main points and brings you to new level of your mind. All is dark and ambiguous. Into fate there no things, that are little, just remember and add to opinion's volume."
"After all, so frightening, painful and sad is this vicious feeling of weakness, of firm and harsh impossibility of luck, of deep illusiveness of any true success, of any purity and rightness."
"Impossibility is also, by the way, perceptibly dissimilar and awfully diverse: not to open your lock, as a fact, is more sad and offensive when you're having a suitable key. Any chances are making more painful and only. They never gift you real opportunities, but in couple with them it’s more hurting and hard to be loosing."
"What else is killing us? Describe me all the poisons."
"Effectiveness. Its trap is more than fatal. You see some beautiful, well-read and successful in all lovely person, very rich, disciplined and developed. Such one is too idealistic. You will look at yourself as at absolute slops in each comparison with so graceful companion. But it's calmly quite likely, that inside this saint human is vile harmful scum  and so so rare nit and traitor, with rotten empty soul, extremely full of vacuum and only. But external wide harmony will not let you discover this truth. A newly made and well-functioning prompt machine gun is much nicer than old broken tractor. But the first one brings death, hard injuries, pain and sedulously lacerated bodies into pools of red glistening blood, and shy and modest second one produces healthy, mellow grain and supports population's vitality. Appearance is greatly far from essence."
"This world is too much vicious and dead."
"Exactly so, you are right. Too bad, too useless is existing. This wrong reality is like a crooked mirror: in inside of its sinister limits any good and magnanimous persons come exposed as tyrants, sincere ones – as scoundrels and rascals, but any obvious bastards gets shown as real heroes and stars. But remember most firmly and strongly - crooked mirror distorts exclusively reflection, but not a face itself. Keep always only own opinion and mind, and no facts and cases will denigrate and blacken your pure image."
"That's a swamp, not a world, not a being... With neither truth, nor kindness in inside."
"Big miracles are highly variable phenomenon, as fact. Somewhere even flying under ceiling is not a new and not a skill, but in somewhere else an elementary soul's reciprocity or kind, soft word are true sensation. Learn to choose useful paths. Although all of such ones are already prescribed. Here works long interconnectedness of constants: both principles and ways are surely determined by pristine inner essence, the initial one for all human's beginnings. You and others were primarily born either fully for flight or exactly for creeping. That is all. All of points and rules of each life."
"Not a fate, but a trouble..."
"Not in all. Time from time we have obvious need into optimism too. Believe in inexorable superiority of sobriety - no matter, how drunk you are now, sooner or later you’ll fall asleep and wake up fully pure, your mind will surely triumph! And no other way is given. Don't even doubt in such thing. But delusions, of course, are too tempting, too alluring and sweet for the mind – such ones, as fact, are much much more fertile than objective reality: right answer anyway is only one, and the rest of all other free number is the whole infinity. The volume of illusions, after all, is much wider and larger than anything else. That's why such hollow phenomenon is more desirable for heart, more more long-awaited and more pretty."
"But how to improve your way, if you have stumbled?"
"Very difficult. Difficult, alas. Here takes a place the principle of chemical reaction - as with feeling of love. Only now you need the reversible one. Yes, reversible chemical turnings are exclusively real, but, alas, for such rare process most often are required new conditions completely differ than for primary reaction: an ordinary daily boring life is quite enough for to make great mistakes, but for to correct poor outcomes you need to get some powerful insight, some mental width and inner soul's meaningfulness, deepness."
"It’s, probably, so easy and so simple to live with such an endless mind as yours..."
"Exactly no. The wider are you visible horizons, the more grief you can see. Okay, we've lost the theme. What is about your relations? With Darya Dmitrievna, if I remember right. Let's tell it deep and in detail, with all main kinds of small particularities."
"Then fully listen to my speech..."

XII
In town B are calmness and tranquility, New Year's time is far behind, all echoes of the holiday have surely subsided, quiet streets have ruefully diminished in festivity, exhausted, faded atmosphere has slowly passed in usual daily frames. All is just ordinary, peaceful and unremarkable. Even snow is scheduled.
Andrei Leopoldovich was woefully and measuredly walking by embankment, sadly cold and unused  at this hours. Around emptiness of vastness, bare ice and unfixable loneliness. No gray, frowning houses, no black faceless gates, no featureless people. Only lightless landscape, full of deep immobility, static sorrowful nature and fluid reachlessness of doleful  horizon. Bleak and tiresome clouds, ragged and uniform ones, are meekly stretching step by step through smoky dim haze of the bottomless sky, effortlessly, unhurriedly and restlessly exchanging aimless distance in dispassionate sliding by pale and lifeless surface of strongly frozen snowy limits of lost world. Apathetic, indifferent land, bewitched by silent fearful gloom, is nonchalantly blowing with tangible tragedy, so lavishly dissolved in thick and saturated breathless air. No shadows or signs in whole picture, one mortified and soulless oblivion and all, one restless pain and only. So old and familiar pain. That’s all variety of existing. And at tomorrow, should come first working day, first one in new unhappy year – with wearisome duties and with another pointless chance of meeting with all the same Irina Alexandrovna, still torturing dreamy soul.
One more purposeless day in away, into thrift-box of garbage.
Andrei Leopoldovich has got hidden in front of well-known thin door and shyly entered inside.
"Well, broadcast and describe, in which way have you passed idle time of last holidays." - has habitually greeted the lady.
"Was unstoppably thinking of you all the time..."
"And I wasn't."
The hero fell in hesitations.
"Please, unlearn to be longing of anyone, it's exactly impractical. Attachment is pit: the deeper you get in, the less chances you have to come out." - has extended indifferent Irina Alexandrovna.
"Sometimes you're climbing in this pit, like in favored treasury, by the way irrevocably calling long veil of own rightlessness, but doing it assuredly, by mind."
"No one can stop back those ones who is rushing in abyss. Interpersonal soul's masochism is even more addictive than any kind of current drugs and invented perversions. Its webs are almost totally invincible, omnipotent in strength of control. Time from time it's at all undeniably fatal. The victim’s role is generally sticky. Extremely sticky brain's meanders. To get protected from such role is directly unreachable. You too have woefully turned out to be strictly unable to free oneself from this unlucky abyss. Looking here for deep unity, for true personal convergence, you will surely find only harsh alienation. Just a fact of this being."
"Do anyone believe in real happiness? At least one single person in whole world."
"No people like emptiness, they prefer stable logic and valid guarantees. Do you know where happiness ends? Right in there, where begins daily life. Where appear sad truth and reality."
"I've been reading some similar things. That God surely ends just in there, where religion begins. Such lines were teaching to be free, to be strong in all cases."
"Poor teachers you've had. If you haven't turned out to be mentally able to heed them, to follow their words. If they all would have been even partly, but tolerable, they would surely hammer at least something inside of your head, having truly reduce all the rave in its cavity. And at now your mind is so far from all practical, as unreachable space from each one who is having no rocket. You only amuse yourself with fantasies, and at life's harmful scene – no joys, no viable fairy tales, and no of such ones can be expected."
"Reality, reality, true life, big being - what all that means? No matter, in which of all words you will call it, what is this poor world without positive bright color, without fullness of free hopes and without tart heightened feelings, what is it? Mortal swamp."
"In tight surrounding by cripples, it’s greatest sin to be with dream. Among deep lepers, health and beauty are working as a poison. You should get out of society. Hut, sea, grass and digging stick. That's your level."
"If to add one, you're loving, to this modest sequence, then it really will be not bad."
"It is not possible to conquer your absurdity. You would have to give up your vain childhood. Last one has fully passed, you'll never get its fruits. You're only generating dull illusions, that is all, you are weak."
"Why? In what?"
"Into essence. If I would know in one of days, that my God is just mortal, and if I at the same pleasant time would have an opportunity to kill him, my hand would promptly do it with no doubts, with no even chance to stop. But you yourself, of course, would save his life, having argued such action with fact, that it's much easier together. You need to have some close companion - God , human, dream, no obvious difference, you need that one who understands you, you need some team, some long support. You are too empty for self-ruling, for pure supremacy of will. You adore your partner, but it’s more rational to hate him. Only then such a “gift” of this fate will transform in your personal rag. There is too much human in you. You make me to have nausea from chatting."
"But what's inside, what's behind of this dead alienation, of this dreary and tedious influence, of dummy cold absolutism of your personal rough autonomy, what it really brings and contains except of strictness, emptiness and hatred?"
"Just greatness. Wide mighty greatness in all sorts. There are only two pleasant rights - to kill and dominate, that's all. And each of other countless opportunities is nothing more than temporary measure for self-defense. And any serious attachment is just a form of human's dirt, the most mindless and miserable one, by the way."
"You consider me useless."
"I know. And I'm totally right. I am right all the time, even being exclusively rightless. After all, you is also so neatly agree with all my words, especially in terms of self-perception – you is disgusting even for yourself, that's regrettable, tragic."
"But how to believe in whole myself and where to find true self-possession, if each one only hurts and condemns, belittles, humiliates and breaks, fully burying all strength in hard impersonality and vainness..."
"You are too angular, too stupid, it’s too much difficult for you to be straight, you are too windy, too much far from true monumentality and firmness, you're devoid of justified vectors. You're only wandering around. You're wandering in labyrinth of self-created purposeless expelling. The whole world, which in opinion of skeptics is only just morbid provocation, for you is contrariwise an abode for sick hopes, for expectations, senseless chances and strange dreams, that's the most brainless lie of all possible. You is a corpse. You're still quite full of life, quite young, but you're extremely inappropriate and ownerless – in all of ways and aspects."
"That's why I really want to get escape from all this pernicious, vile constancy of being, I want to break with that, to fly away, to get detached from this futility forever - not only for short time, not for brief faint forgetting oneself. I want some saving bright alternative - pure closeness and serene mutuality."
"Then you've missed. I don’t feel like that. Especially with you."

XIII
In indifferent gray town A, is raging harsh and dejected February – is droping heavy snow flakes and driving playful blizzard, so irrepressible at night. All streets are silent, houses are calm, sad facades are enclosed with plentiful thick hoar. Rueful vastness is blurred, vague contours are smoothed, uneven lines are rambling and chaotic. Slim bleak harmony is surprisingly simple and stable. In the midst of this coldness and mortal oblivion, in one of bars, which don't extinguish own lights at night, is humbly huddling in aloof depressed by apathy Angelina Evgenievna. Her woefully extinct, eternally tormented modest silhouette is monotonously cutting dismal, featureless wasteland of the murky and deserted hall with unhurried desperate glance. It's desired some warmt. But who will give it, who will gift... In such a case it's time to go home.
Near the gloomy wise-iron huge door, someone deftly called out: "Wait a time. What's your name?"
"Angelina."
"And my is Pavel. Let's ride to you?"
"I don't know..."
"Do not break my brain. You are far not a refined one."
"I'm not on purpose. It's too unusual for my mind to be doing like that."
"You'll adapt, not a trouble."
"I only need to get used to such great innovation."
"That's a matter of time. Where you live? Where to go?"
"Just nearby, into distance of several houses."
"Then let's go ahead."
"I'm too shy."
"Nothing wrong, you'll disperse such a nonsense. All we are not without some sin."
"What is my sin?"
"Do not worry at all, we’ll create it."
"It's surely not boring in your presence."
"That's not new. Any evident, tangible happiness into practice most often is just trivial and awfully straightforward, even stubbornly primitive. As a rule, we can really wonder exclusively with something fully simple. Old familiar road of stupidities is more broad, more easy and spacious. It's more appropriate for obvious perception."
"And you will be my guide in such a path?"
"Even surely more – I'll be your personal adventure distributor, extremely unreliable and startlingly inflexible and tireless."
"Exactly interesting job, most uncommon from any existing."
"You'll also get some fictional profession, do not worry. We’ll organize such entertainment. Let's only go on, let's already proceed."
Calm walk has got own humble start.
Long quarters are completely inconspicuous, total absence of rush and of people is prevalent directly everywhere. Views are gloomy, blurred contours of somber, bleak houses are strictly inexpressive and unhappy, surroundings are cheerless and indifferent. Behind of thickening opaque sticky veil of soft and sleepy lifelessness and fluid hopeless darkness are quietly dozing wilted languid areas and sorrowful locations. Shyly frozen in caution til far vague morning wide vastness is lonely blowing with dismal emotionless sadness, fully flooded all city. Are lonely shining sharply restless huge lanterns. Bordered by peace, wholly vacant terrains are smoothly and obediently surrendering to the midnight's captivating mild bliss.
And now long-awaited porch. Next – short uncomplicated stairwell. Next – grey door of the needed apartment. That's confidently all.
"Right here we'll please both souls enough." - has aptly noticed Pavel.
"We do not even know each other. Do not know at all." - has faintly sighed Angelina Evgenievna.
"What a fuss? What a for all this nonsense? Or you are right from those dull persons, confused and hopeless just from birth?"
"I'm trying not to be like that."
"Then undress. Why you're so sluggish?"
The lady has diligently sat on the corner of bed and timidly begun to get naked. Her uncertain and tiredly blurred dim gaze has reservedly glanced at random faceless objects of the room, at indistinct reflection into faded washed mirror and at own bare body.
"It will be something new..." - has meekly thought Angelina Evgenievna: "That's already not bad."
"Why so so slow?" - has asked the guest.
"I'm not used to such actings like that."
"Yes, rummage, rummage, do not tremble. I am not in a hurry."
"I'm, apparently, absolute nothingness. Oh, my goodness." - has concluded the lady and, having rather speeded, begun to put away the last remaining items of the clothing, becoming lavishly presented into native pure form, completely defenseless and opened.
"Well, she's really uncovered." - has quite unwillingly commented on cold Paul.
This poor meeting by itself, as fact, was far not long-awaited and was promising no true prospects, no greatness, but Angelina Evgenievna has perceived it as piece of big happiness and frankly interpreted as sweet luck.
"Why you've frozen, you are not stone. I have come not to look or admire."
"What do you like in such a process?"
"What you can?"
"I will try all the best..."
"You're having no other ways. Get now on your knees. And straighten up your hair, or by what should I hold you?"
"I will not run away in any case."
"That was remarkable from earliest beginning."
"I was not hiding any of myself."
"It will not work even if you will stubbornly try."
"I am not an expert. I'm trying not to let to myself superfluous things, am trying not to argue, I’m even trying to give help."
"Do not speak, give some rest to your throat. It will sedulously work at something clearly another."
The lady fell completely silent. Exactly pleased by her accessibility glad Pavel has made one heavy step and taken soft companion by neck. She flexibly moved forward.
"Yes, all right, just like that. And bend down your back slightly more. Nice, well done."
The process has immodestly got hot tart start.

XIV
In town B, the first approach of spring. In around is still harsh prevalence of ice, monumentally dominating over shyly upcoming far flowering. But whole world is already more friendly and bright, and even partially more joyful - both on streets and inside of the heart. All town is remarkably more dazzling and attractive, more hospitable, spacious and light. Slightly faded, still sleepy and tired long contours of so early and recently freed from abundance of hoar slim buildings are tenderly enshrouded in weightless foggy haze. Everywhere pure peace, everywhere just careless, quiet relaxation. Over calmness and drowsy oblivion of the limitless spaces of land is hanging, as a boring, dreary shawl, deep monotonic heaven arch, completely unalive and alienated. Underfoot – crumpled snow. Andrei Leopoldovich is freely, leisurely and idly going past by the sullenly spreaded wide square. So wonderful is this small pleasure – slow walk, so usual and trivially simple, but so joyful and exciting – you're coming to some insipid desolation, then walking through painfully familiar surroundings and streets, and, of course, you will not even meet some of friends – no such ones, but anyway it becomes much more pleasant, much more bright into doleful heart. And if you'll meet some known face, then at all real holiday. And now right the same – all around is gray and unhappy, and in the distance at the booth with smooth posters - Irina Aleksandrovna herself.
"That's a sign." -  has admired the hero and cordially greeted lovely lady.
"Why are you here? - where I am." – has coldly asked the girl.
"By the chance of pure fortuity." - has answered Andrey Leopoldovich.
"You are having surprisingly charming relations with fate, even intimate ones."
"No, I’m hardly a friend to my fate, only far passer-by. After all, it's at all is not possible to become more related with fortune."
"I am perfectly seeing, that you are only a guest – a person of the secondary plan."
"The main thing is to get an appropriate role."
"Well, what kind of life role do you want at this time?"
"All is wholly the same – just the role of your daily companion, of your devoted satellite and indivisible heart partner."
"Am I a planet for to need any satellite? I am not a celestial body, put away all your stupid ambitions, roll them up like own sleeves and don’t show in any of times."
"I am trying to do it not hard, not intrusively."
"What real difference for me – how you do it, don’t cling to me in any ways and forms. I don’t need in such king of behavioral garbage."
"I am looking for simple small happiness. For sure understanding and support."
"That is not something sacred. Almighty, paramount and supreme. Such kind of seekers are at every step. Have been born much much more than enough. For the future, I think. For centuries ahead."
"This is pitiful, poor affair – to be a beggar. Yes, I know. Inconsolable it. But after all, I'm so frankly and so sincerely pleading for unity, for true and sinless mutuality, for warmth."
"Oh, moron. Just a moron. So outstanding flippancy of mind, so sick impracticality and vainness, so infantile unserious naivety. What for are you with me?"
"Whose presence do you want in such a case?"
"Though anyone's, but only with ability of strength, of real mightiness and firmness, of mental coldness, clearness and sobriety. Candidature of useless slug is a penny in concept of love."
"You're approving excessive predation, approving enmity of sexes..."
"Yes, I am. You are right. Have you suddenly got filled with mind? That's praiseworthy."
"But it's impossible without of support, without of deep stable understanding and true feeling of real companion."
"What is this feeling? It will pass and entirely melt. Today we all are separated."
"But what about reciprocity of souls..."
"With strong, harsh ones and only, with surely well-promising and great. But such ones are too rare..."
"Then allow to hug you, at least. I want to get some love seduction."
"Am I a lamppost for to grasp me? Buy a dog and then squeeze it. But not me, not my flesh."
"That's not my fate..."
Have missed each other.

XV
In town A, calm district is timidly and silently enshrouding in canopy of fog, full of ashen gray smoke of the slowly thinning quiet dawn. Lands, gently bordered with deep shyness and confusion are softly getting filled with life. Long and angular shadows are crawling pass, trams are riding away, weary district is meekly awakening up from the night, uneven monotonous silhouettes of bleak faceless pedestrians are floating through paths. Dreary canvas of cloudy veil is blankly spreading into distance above of gloomy dismal houses and places. Are deftly lighting up first humble windows.
Angelina Evgenievna is sitting into loneliness. Recent Pavel had already gone out. Neither number nor living address, by the way, were deceptively left. However, that was quite habitual. Inside of tired body is definitely pleasant sluggish fatigue, in legs is languid lovely stiffness, slight warmth and mildly and voluptuously tormenting intense bliss. In head, intoxicated by unconsciousness, - an unconcerned pacification, in mellow mouth - still not melted lustful taste and still clearly perceptible viscosity. In around – just emptiness. But such one is excessively coated and removed by strong internal inspiration and playful inward ease. All doubts are turned off. All the spirit is bight. Any second and moment are blessedly enthusiastic, tart and opened. Rejoice, the heart, fly higher.
"Good... Just good. Body, thoughts, me. All is good. Such a beauty." - has thought Angelina Evgenievna and longly yawned: "At least someone has paid attention to my life... That's a pity, They didn’t stay for long. But not bad anyway. It suits to me. I should take little walk - for refreshing myself."
Having offhandedly ignored even taking of shower, lady has lazily got up and, having thrown narrow coat on oneself, has indifferently slipped into murky doorway and walked away.
Street is quiet. Huge thick houses are colorfully welcoming. Wide landscapes are expressive. All outlines are firmly full and saturated. Pure enjoyment, not less. Saint paradise can be and on the earth. At least few days in whole life. It seriously happens time from time. Yes. Indeed.

XVI
Town B is similarly nice and totally welcoming. Andrei Leopoldovich is leisurely walking across familiar uncomplicated surroundings. Lonely alleys are hospitably spacious and clean. Diverse and pretty faces of the houses are calm and meekly peaceful. Passers-by are rare. Air is static.
"What a marvelous beauty! Amazing. What a deep and perfect spring. Literally cinematic. Just magic, nothing more." - was reflecting the hero by dragging at his random aimless route: "All starts from truth. From harmony, equivalence and unity. With kindness. Without such great points, there is nothing real, there is nothing surely valuable. Only hollow, petty and secondary, only awfully empty. Without kindness - no understanding. And no justification. No love. Heart's kindness has a road, free from bustle, free from garbage and sins. Not everyone will follow it, not all. We must renounce humiliation, must deny it. We must be ourselves. We must be much more wise. More demanding. We must change our fates."
Andrei Leopoldovich has looked around: "What an exalted spring this year. Aristocratic. But on soul just slops. I need to pour them out. To get rid of such rubbish. Yes, I need. I need to take renewal. I need to go ahead. To go to the kindness."
To the kindness, to stars...

XVII
And once again in town A. Valentin Stepanovich, together with Alena Igorevna, are trampling by the cobblestones of already entirely melted embankment. All around is light. There is some rare snow into lowlands. There are single velvety clouds in sky. But landscapes are quite warm.
"You are so much funny and absurd." - has remarked the lady: "You just think and imagine, that's all. A baby in tailcoat."
"So, all the life is given for to learn, for to build huge conclusions and think. Think and catch all new things."
"And what new are you catching right now?"
"Right now - nothing. But this is not decreasing whole novelty - motley posters are fresh and a few meters next - erection of new building. I clearly know both the architect and the company group, responsible for process of construction. I can quite easily describe their inner history and all design aspects."
"This is too superfluous. If you would know some unusual rare ways of giving pleasure, then I would intently listen. And you supply me only with science. Does any woman really must be smart? She should be careless. Completely careless and free. And, by the way, exactly happy."
"But happiness is fully ephemeral. Each one desire to possess it. But who really has it? How many of people? You will not give to it one short description. Obtaining of desirable conditions far not always makes pleased, glad or happy. What the happiness is? That's just the same as asking – what is an electron? We know its parameters, its apt characteristics and internal substructure, we know all the laws of physicochemical criteria, but what's an electron itself? What is its matter? What are all atoms and molecules? From where this reality had come and how had it been reproduced just from nothing, what does it mean in global, in most pure understanding? What an electron is? What is the happiness? What a kind and from which of formations? We can only notice such one, can distinguish and all. But we can't repeat..."
"Was you happy yourself?"
"I don't know. Maybe yes... But most probably not."
"It seems sometimes, that you are smart, but as fact you're unable to think. What a for do you need so impractical brains? For to wear wide hat?"
"Sometimes such ones are truly helpful..."
"Not noticeable. Alas."
"Rich benefits sometimes are just invisible. But they really are. That is main."
"But how can be something, that can't be somehow felt?"
"Just as the same perplexing happiness."
"You still have puzzled me. Damn mental rascal Okay, you may consider that you've won. And now let's go to the grocery."
"Let's go, yes."
"Oh, filthy knavish varlet. So you are."
XVIII
In town B, is already full May. All the nature has bloomed, last agony is over. Wide streets are abundantly filled with fast people, so motley and glad. Prompt cars have boldly multiplied own previous small number. Everywhere is fuss, saturation and fullness. Everywhere is harmony, freshness and bliss. Everywhere is warmth.
In a cozy, free bower are sitting heedless people - two cute girls and a couple of pensioners. Next to them, Andrey Leopoldovich - admires with young ladies. One of them with a book and a hat, and the other - with nice multi-colored ribbon on wrist. Both are pleasant.
Soon the lady with book has got up and gone away along the alley. The hero caught her up.
"Do you hurry?"
"It depends on in where you'll call."
"Will call to take a joint walk."
"Let's go."
"Where from are you going?"
"From college. I'm a teacher in there."
"Pretty. Cute. And I'm a prisoner of project engineering."
"That is also romantic."
"Are you really thinking like that?"
"Yes, I'm thinking. And this is fully justified. Engineering is not so idle. That's why, such one is very interesting. At least, it's surely not empty."
"No nature like emptiness."
"I'll say a little bit another – as fact, that's emptiness does not like and approve our nature. That's why it settles mainly into people - in their souls and their minds. It's much more comfortable there."
"I am in total unanimity with this. Time shallows."
"Time is a mirror of our perception. And worldview is not best nowadays. Most of people do not understand what a for are they living. They do not understand why they still remain humans. We're  having only habits. We don’t delve in any content. We build bridges in clouds. In empty illusions. And such ones promptly melt. With all plans in addition."
"We're settling into castles of the air."
"We're settling anywhere. More often into ordinary cages - either close or wide. In cages of prejudice, dogmas or deception. We want to reach and take a flower. But we see only bud and ignore sharp harsh thorns. We search imperfectness, defectiveness and faults."
"This is like some damnation, like a curse or plague."
"More likely, just a banal finish, as a result of previous inconsistency. For something better, all we need clear goal. We need a beacon, compass, mental map. And by the will of fickle wind, even truly the warmest and tenderest one, you will not sail in paradise."
"And besides, no suitable maps have been written for those of persons..."
"The map is our whole world. The world of roads and expectations. The first are wrong, the second are unjustified. We are falling in hurry and thirst. We rush and suffer. But in the end we just despair."
"Despair as an obvious endpoint?"
"As a sign of completion."
"And if I'm having no despair?"
"Than all life is ahead. Or, at least, little part. At least, death."
"You're unusual."
"All of us are the same. Even shadows of random park's bushes - after time, they already will not be repeated."
"You're really so outstanding. Even prettily wonderful. I would be so happy and glad to get reliably acquainted with your person..."
"It will not be successful, alas. I am just going to my chosen one for anniversary. But your company also was utterly nice. So, thank you for your deep informativeness and wide openness. The personalities of your unique formation are far not typical for poor modern times. After all, look since now at yourself as at the rarest, materialized in human miracle. All indeed is exactly like that. That's even not hyperbole. And if to say about happiness – just wait. Maybe, really such one will appear. At least, at sunset of the path. At least, before the curtain."
"Thank you too."
"Goodbye."
"At his place should be me..." - has sadly thought Andrei Leopoldovich: "So regrettable."

XIX
In town A, is expectation of the summer. The world has breathed new life. Into opened cafe under whitish thin awning are sitting Valentin Stepanovich and Ivan Vladimirovich. Their company is once again the same, not wide, but true and just idealistic - the dialogue is quite measured, the conversation is organic, the unity is native, warm and close.
"And again I'm in thoughts of my Daria Dmitrievna." - has begun Ivan Dmitrievich: "As in some hopeless witchcraft has frozen our reciprocity. I can’t achieve her, cannot reach. I can’t get real deep relations. I just can’t..."
"Does she again reject you personality?"
"She ignores."
"Yes, it's ruefully painful, I know."
"More than painful, just truly unbearable."
"Don't pay attention."
"But what to do? To tolerate? To endure all sorrows and griefs?"
"Not so, not in such a way, just simply not to pay attention. That is all. You should rise up till scales of whole reality. Imagine that all world is just a dream, that your being, as fact, is not more than an image. Do not trust to existing. True confidence in our actuality is awfully disastrous. That's sad, but aimless objectivity is a priori much more evident than thoughts, but it doesn’t possess any correctness. It’s important to have no delusions. To gain the power of your brain. Here works the paradox of labyrinth - you don’t see it's way and exit, but only being in inside. And if to look just from aside, then such one, on the contrary, will be quite simple. Remember, any of delusions are dangerous exclusively for their adherent followers."
"Is that all for to have life's successfulness?"
"Yes, practically so. It is essential to have the role of leader. Remaining all the time at such positions, you'll be with luck, even surely dying. Each person most of all needs in cognitive dominance, in unambiguous control, which provides with supremacy over of weakness.  Do not bend under facts. You wasn't not building path of fate, all forces that are moving you are fully autonomous and free, but only you yourself can indicate your right direction."
"But what about love... Will such position gift some benefits in it?"
"Don't mix up real love and amorous madness. Shallow falling in love is like fear: such a feeling is wholly indifferent, is autonomous and totally torn off, not even partly based on actual affairs, our inner soul's attitude and sensitive affection more often lives without any reason, relying only on illusions and premonitions, on vain deceptiveness of hopes, and having no true support of objective perfection of the partner, so highly valued and exalted in hazed mind. But real love is not a thing, that can be build on speculations, it can exist exclusively in frames of mutual identity, where your own heart attachment is all the time entirely identical to that one you receive in response. Love is utterly balanced. Its power and degree are absolutely equal for both of owners of each other. And all of forms of such strange feeling, all known variants of contacts and relations are only local types of one great godlike genre."
"Can so bright and sinless feeling be existing?"
"If you will throw off all the masks, then maybe yes. At today love is hidden - under flirting, dummy courtships, seductive lustful piquancy or sex. Do not mix up these opposite constants. Such ones of course, are quite contiguous and close, but not in absolute degree. Love is a lizard, and sex is lizard's tail. If you're clutching the tail, you're staying just with it and only, sadly losing the lizard itself. By grabbing the reptile by body, you're getting all the animal at once – with the same  priceless tail in addition. Sex more often is out of love, but true love into any of cases all the time and with no exceptions is leading to most shameless, lusty sex."
"That is more than amazing."
"Take care of yourself, do not be inexpensive. Divide cheep emptiness from truth. For this endlessly useful ability you must have only bare experience. For to get an aversion to copper, you at first need to get tight acquaintance with gold. Without tasting high, you'll not forget of low. That's a rule."
"While looking, you have hundred  chances for to stumble."
"Here works the equality of hindrances – both big and little locks can close your exit similarly well. If you'll not break locked door itself, you will not get away even through of minimal locking. Into fate all is also the same - any meaningless nonsense is already quite dangerous and strictly influential. That's why mistakes are much more frequent than any mushrooms rain. That is hopeless."
"But on what to rely?"
"Just as always – rely on yourself. And on initial full absence of illusions. Truly smart and indeed mindful people never trust to the power of head - they faith exclusively in stupidity, they clearly know - it will win, and just by that no one from progressive persons even nearly expect from society any deep comprehension or cognitive sanity. Be of similar views – my advice."
"This is awfully difficult. You so promptly get confused, get fully lost and broken and so much ardently begin own fierce search of any vague, hollow hope, if you've stumbled even once at puzzling harsh complexity of being."
"As fact, complexity is just an underside of dominant simplicity. It all the time is temporary, paltry. From the primary source of all known elementary particles till all global planetary systems, this immense world is absolutely simple. This is being's foundation. Take the same usual clocks – such thing just shows time and only. That's rather ordinary process. Rather primitive role. But clockwork is so terribly hard and confusing, so madly detailed and so difficult, that as a fact is just incomprehensible at all for any far from technics brain. But does the clocks have any sense except of showing time and only? All huge complexity of intricate small elements and parts is only additional, impersonal and supplementary in essence. It can't be autonomous and free. Its tasks are purely intermediate and faceless. Complexity is totally devoid of identity. Such one is just a will-less servant."
"But how to achieve strong understanding? - your own one, protected from all storms, where to get that notorious priceless simplicity?"
"Look at global totality, at laws of interaction of life's inward phenomena. Here works the principle of figure works here – no one of triangles can have one single angle and only. Every case or event has own evident effects and outcomes, has inherently assumed additions, flaws and limits. Learn to build whole picture of iceberg, having seen only peak of the top. Without this, you'll simply die."
"But we are studying mostly at mistakes..."
"Alas. Alas. There is no way for to change this. We're getting smarter only through stupidities. That's an axiom. Just one of principles of world."
"And after all, mistakes are stupid, such ones are disappointing and wrecking. Especially in love."
"Not in all of its forms - in unrequited one and only. Such one is totally sadistic. Unrequited love is wet firewood, from which you have to get a fire. No matter, how many boxes of matches you'll spend, they will say, that it was not enough, although normal dry logs will easily get flamed from the very first match."
"But we trust anyway – till the end, till the finish of being."
"This is our weakness. Those ones who had lost honest face have no chances on getting forgiveness. Moreover, all they should killed. Annihilated."
"We live in wandering by torments, in endless search..."
"True bird is dying into flight. Do not despair, this is noble."
"Where to find soul's tranquility, where to get..."
"Just relax. Just relax and don’t think. The wind of fate and life's conditions never blows in one single direction. Sooner or later, any changes still come. The main thing is to notice."
"Optimistic and bright..."
"Do not be sad. It’s not pleasant, not worthy. This is sad and destructive."
"I want to see creation... To see fruits and results."
"Me too... Believe - me fully too."
"I am wholly believing..."

XX
In town B is full, wide summer. All of colors are strong, soft landscapes are filled with aggravated life, thin outlines are contrasting and perfect. Thickly greening fresh foliage is neatly scattered here and there by melancholy pensive alleys, narrow motley terraces and parks, so ardently popular among of countless pedestrians. Carefree, omnipotent July's weightless comfort, reluctantly, but relentlessly permeated all corners and edges of town, without rest surrendered to idleness, is fervently dispelled in every sip of tartly hot and imposingly viscous air. Light dope of unobtrusive midday heat is cleverly dissolved in sweetly cute, alluring selflessness of mindless recreation. Long and sunny horizon is laconic and somehow sadly stretched out at uneven and ragged plain relief of paused in oblivion soft ground. All around is calmly bewitched by some southern harmony, by some magic of fragrance and warmth, by tender glare and relaxation of nice summer. All silhouettes are motionless. All world is hospitable, broad, good-natured and tasty. Deep space is boundless and flooded by pure beauty. By pure beauty and pleasure. Just true bliss, as if happiness really is.
But not in everyone all is so. Even here into sweet idle summer. Andrei Leopoldovich is somber, his presence on own balcony among of colorful lush flowers can't attach his dejected faint soul to this visual magic festivity. All his rare and cheerless thoughts are devoted to permanent loneliness and to sudden and painful awareness.
"Who I am? Who I am in this life? In so petty and purposeless one. Is this world at least partly justifiable and sane, if you're born for to search and to rot, is any real meaning into endless mistakes and in regular troubles? And how long can I endure? For what to stay alive, for whom? If I have no suitable path, then I needn't to go at all. Wrong vain path can't be, at least, forgotten, not even saying about being changed or  fixed. From you to emptiness - one step, but back is no, no way. And after all, you can go away just from everything, except of you yourself. Whom you'll be, if you're having one right – just to live, live with life – either great and enchanting, justified, full and long, or petty, insignificant and useless. And it's not our own opportunity - to sculpt ourselves. There are no roads for those ones, who got inwardly lost. In such a case you all your life will stay in alienation, will stay behind of line between you and all others. But what to do? How can you get out of role? Where you'll take true self-confidence for to find inner power above of fatality. And one single reluctance to lose does not guarantee any of victories. It only promises to bring you somehow closer. And next it's matter of success. Who knows will it be or not... Our precious happiness more often gets completely splitted at banal chaos and uncertainty. It's much stronger than any of logics, than our empty sick ambitions, so much naive, futile and just stupid. Time flies, years ends, life stubbornly and inexorably melts out. Melts time, chances moves far away, inconsolable truths are gradually gets own lavish place. World slowly turns into burial chamber, into hopeless cage, transforming into place for anxiety and disappointment. For mistakes, harsh apathy and loss. For painful fading and absolute aimlessness, from which you can’t escape and can’t hide. Entire journey of your life can have own way for pitiful deadlock and nothing more. For pure killing and breaking. Why does the path of human's fate not always follow the good, why we have rueful tragedies, griefs and omissions... Why does the whole immense fate can turn out to be just a mockery, just a fiction and global abuse? Someone’s life will remain weighty memory and unforgettable results, but someone’s else will just scatter and cripple, just die. This is madness, not less. Life is governed by strange incompleteness, by sad unfinishedness, alas. It begins and then goes - goes, spends and just ends. Its line so promptly curls and  looping. It's changes and intertwins in vague outcomes, in final point - either bright, full and kind, or unhappy and bad, wrong and empty. We are only blind wanderers - uninformed, shy and helpless. All is good, but in measure, all is useful, but only in time. Every single experience, every short opportunity, matter or chance have exclusively limited period. It is indisputable - life is built on small: on dim foundation of the past, on blurred years, days and cases. There are shaky views, faith in fate and its laws, but there is simple life, not always correct, calm and good. You can only trust it. Trust and make own mistakes. That is all what is happening here. This poor world has neither unity nor obvious guarantees. Nothing clear at all. Not even slightest light of hope. Only endless confusion. It’s scary."
The hero has sighed and lowered hazed eyes: "So indifferent summer. So cheerless and bad. Just a rubbish. Not more."
He has risen from chair, slammed the balcony's door and left in.

XXI
In town A, into small faceless bedroom, is sitting totally defenseless Angelina Evgenievna. Her sad and quiet day is meekly passing by. But remarkably fussy last week had flashed out a little bit differently – in exceptional frenzy of ecstatic deep rapture. Yes, it happens sometimes, that smart people quite intentionally do awful stupidities. Into role of the last ones in such upsetting case was acting uncontrollably persistent and unexampledly resolute searching of anyone at least for single night, but directly not less. Such illogical venture, being utterly reckless and impeccably windy, was in poor addition almost fully unreal - for practically dozen empty evenings, no one of them has finished with the finding of even fleeting temporary partner. This may seem rather strange, but regrettable modern reality has appeared entirely hopeless, greatly cold and unfriendly, exactly far of even ghostly chances of acceptably true hospitality or, at least, of some simple adventures. There was no warmth or responsiveness, no joy, no reachable kindness, exclusively one harsh insensibility, one rude disunity and murk. The world has chosen alienation.
"What a kind of life am I having, what a kind of damnation is this, where is going such path? What a kind of soul is in me? What a kind of role? I am quite self-sufficient and worthy, concretely burdened with reason, with kind loyalty and inner helpful straightforwardness, but what I’m doing – am diligently begging of elementary intimacy, like of miracle, like of gift, like the last obscene whore, I’m almost dragging for the rascals, and anyway I am staying alone - not even used at least, just rejected and only, rejected during process of acquaintance. Does it befit to proud human to be so sorely and deeply humiliated? To whom I serve? To what intangible strange whim? Why do I need to go through torments, through hollow seductions and refusals? After all, I sincerely want at least bodily harmony, at least carnal delight and that healing saint manna of so simple, but precious sexual closeness. I want small paradise, want pleasures, even trivial, primitive, short, but entirely mutual, hot, fully shared with somebody else who is equally hungry for physical comfort. It's not especially pleaseful to be self-satisfied and only. I want more, want something alive, something tartly alluring, fully serious, deep and indeed bright and memorable. And in loneliness... In loneliness, even being consoled, you will not close that inner gap, will not be satisfied holistically, fully. And it’s an endless pity... By the way, I don't want to be rushing - to collect all the taverns, like hopeless harlot. Have I lost all myself? Very blurred and vague, apparently, is this right to be happy. If even average plain pleasure is so hidden. Or some damnation or witchery is it. I am totally ready to believe into everything. Into any of essences, facts and illusions."
The lady has frozen and disappointedly sighed: "This is harmfully stupid. Stupid, helpless and wrong. I'm acting as a fool, as a silly vain woman. Silly, useless and lonely. And as it seems, such wrecking state had chosen my being on forever."
She has ruefully closed the eyes, grabbed the tissue of dress, got unhurriedly down and wept: "Why did I get my poor birth? For what? For such a life? What a hopeless, disastrous kind of sick dirt. And all the fate, all the way are like that. All the conscious torturing period. Punishment. Plague."

XXII
And again town A. In bleak and sad imprisonment of walls of fully average and regular apartment of also doleful and weak Valentin Stepanovich, are sitting two — the very owner himself and his faithful, irreplaceable friend - Ivan Vladimirovich. Their habitually melancholic dialogue is still about sphere of  relations, of endless searching and inner cognitive perception of this world.
"It's so dark in inside, so unbearably painful at here. And not only at times, but exclusively always." - has unhappily noticed Ivan Vladimirovich.
"It’s not only at here. It is exactly everywhere. If you’ll move into Africa, you will suffer in similar way. That's main feature of any socially-determined concept. Its abode is a forge of flaws. What is our existence in it? On what it's based, on what it's ripening and growing? On which ideological constructions? We're acting only in response, we're not producing something new, we are simply transforming and changing all bringing to life's path from outside, modifying such variable matters in new phenomena and forms. It is not possible at all to become truly mindful and generous, pure, sincere and kind, living only in dirt and in meanness, in deception, rejection and fuss. Our rotten society is a place where people are born, this is awfully strange. It's looking more as form of morbid hell, than as daily reality. I deny any principles, popular here. I deny any concepts, deny religion and morality. What does society really want? What does it want in naked response? We firmly hate all terrorists and maniacs. We criticize their choice and show them as non-humans. This is not fully so. I never was condemning such lost people. They are those whom our society deserves. We propagate simulated faked kindness, we have 5-6 marriages - exclusively for low, consumer aims, we freely agitate to go to the war and explain all the faults of each political system with sharp necessity and temporary measures. It's quite normal at here to support double-faced, mean behavior, to abuse your life's partner each day. They say “I love” exclusively in order to evoke stupid mutual feeling and to get easy benefits. They're broadly saying one and doing totally another. They're thinking of most close person as of somebody else, as of somebody far. They don't unite themselves and their partner. They're telling to the terminally ill and dying patient – don't be sad, all is fine, and then insistently disassemble him on organs and use as suitable meat. I would be glad if someone will go out and show them violent blood bath, I would hastily give all my life for such brave priceless person. This is strictly condemned. This is seeming too cruel. But true cruelty and evident disgust is to see how our society exposes own infamy as something secretly ideological and philanthropy. Society is the worst of evils. I never was in underworld, but I’m sure - in there it’s much better."
"I completely agree with your words. I agree, as a your copy. They distribute exclusively harsh grief. This is as obvious as if you need to multiply by one."
"That's complete inner model of our hopeless realities. We are supporting only crawling ones, only crippled, lost natures. Remember, no one will ever help you in development - only in aimlessness, in falling: when you are sinking, you at least can catch somebody’s hand, but when you're flying, you can cling by wide air and only. And such wrong principle is true in all we know. It's strengthened clearly everywhere, by any person of this world – by churchmen, by psychologists and pseudo-humanists. They assist us to die and forbid to survive."
"There is some invisible veto - on happiness, on love and all the same. And even on free sex. In any case, on notably pleasant."
"That is right. Nowadays it’s indeed very difficult to be thinking about own happiness, such a thing has turned out in real taboo. We are forbidden to acquire prosperity, last one was rapidly equated to hard egoism, to bad manners, to miscarriage of pride. We are told - live in team, under one common flag. That bright flag, on which one either face of some God, or nirvana of communism, or lush apotheosis of future scientific idyll. All the time we are led. All the time we are deftly directed. So, faith in conspiracies is now greatly adequate and entirely cleaned of any admixture of madness. All is surely so."
"But, explain, how anyone can stand above of boundless reality?"
"It all depends on how you look. It seems, that it's impossible to manage with whole world in alone, but try to do it jointly and you'll fail even more. I am not a supporter of occult positions, but the hypothesis of holder of all being can't be rejected anyway."
"Such sick phantom is utterly disturbing, catastrophic for lost understanding. Which force will save from aimlessness, from void..."
"The power of your self-control, the righteousness of inner aims and the force of detachment. There are only you and this world, you and other surrounding being. There are no people, no worthy opinions, no dogmas or principles - no. There is only you with whole universe. Society is a set of animated flesh and only. It's just a swamp, where is possible only to perish. Avoid any company of humans. Despise all facts of integration. Remain on distant from all dirt. Identity is surely the highest of all miracles. Owning it, you're automatically turning into God. Be unique. Stay yourself. Even if all around is rotten."
"It makes me to despise the whole world... including God himself."
"Him in very first turn. God's spark all known earthly time had been inflaming, by the way, only fire of hell. And what about our world... It does not even nearly deserve any tangible heights. Yes, it has some achievements, some scientific and cultural breakthroughs and peaks, it has few fragments of perfection, of short idyll and unprotected thin beauty, but at the same unhappy time it also has cruelty, deep meanness and hard pettiness – such ones are not eradicated. This world is closer to all empty. It is entirely unable to spread own blessing everywhere, unable to transform it into cult. Any kindness is only by-product, not a chosen grail. With progress all is just the same. This actuality quite ardently prefers to rot and only. Such poor world will not ever go out of vainness. White sun will fade, achievements will come totally forgotten, our vague times will irreplaceably go out, but mediocrity and vices will continue to prevail over the meaningless humanity's face. That is inert. Monumental. Forever."
"Where to find light and peace? Not to burn out in one moment..."
"It's said – we can't be late at all, there is no final of being, no irrevocable position, there is no end for the sphere of prospects, there is no definite loss of oneself. We live not limited by anything, except of our death. Our obvious path is constantly both relevant and opened. While we're staying alive, while saint flame of true hopes is burning, while desires are keeping own sharpness, we don't fade inside, don't lose our chances and real probabilities, don't lose the path we need. We are alive until the death and only. But when we'll die, it will not be so interesting. Life implies great rights, life provides us with fullness, with possibility of flight or, at least, with the power to refuse of being crawling. Live widely. They will many times narrow you down, believe me. It's not so difficult to fall, to give up. Go ahead. Go firmly, without of changes. The flag of dreams do not leave any place for white one. We are embodied for miracles, for fervent love and gorgeous achievements, for splendid heights and inner saturation - for pure idealism, as fact. Breathe with whole deep chest, believe in better, act and go. Play all in. Shine with grace. We have huge billions of lost ones, have millions of colossally miserable and petty and many many thousands of rotten, vile and empty. Be the only one happy, don't be shy of success, don't be afraid of envious and average low people. Majestic one is not a friend for ugly. Live autonomously from all. And just live and not less. Live as human, not only exist. Leave this duty for others. Don't hesitate, they'll cope with such a mission. All we know how to rot. But ignore it. Keep uniqueness of soul. Without this, you are a faceless phantom. Without it, you are a hopeless corpse - inglorious and useless, after all. Not everyone is full of real splendor, of wealth and inward strength. Not everyone is able to reach happiness. Be suited to this marvelous condition. Be able to experience such bliss. And it will come in one of endless days, do not have any doubts. Birds have right to have heaven. The main thing is to be just the same. The main thing is to be truly perfect. The main thing is to blossom. Then wilting will remain with someone else, not with you. Believe and grow, go up. Know yourself. And not knowing, just learn. There is no other good way."
"But how to meet happiness, to catch it? What is needed for this?"
"As with any of meetings – is needed unity of common coordinates. For to meet with some person, you at first are discussing the place, then the date and convenient time. Not knowing where, when and what for to be going, you'll simply be unable to get crossed. Even living at neighboring streets, even trying in many of times. Only tangible presence of spatial and temporal community guarantees really reliable inevitability of meeting. Into fate all the same - how will you meet someone, not even knowing where to go and for whom to be looking? When you're leaving your home, you don’t have even shadow of chances. That’s the main poor thing. After all, there are no uniting right coordinates of ways, and how to achieve them is not known. It is believed that similar of souls rather often are going with similar paths, time from time even somehow noticing ways of each other and then uniting into couple, but this is only an assumption. Perhaps, such marvelous spiritual coordinates exist, working well and connecting good people by inexplicable strange stigmas and fateful inner routes. I so ardently really want to believe it. It sounds too encouraging and great. You can just try and check. But at the same exhausted time, you can't confirm right at now. We have exclusively one hope - extremely blurry, faded, dim and far, but anyway alive. Alive. And it already sounds fine. Just believe. Learn to hope. This is strong, priceless quality, don't hesitate, don't doubt in such matter."
"So weak is this narrow exit. So fragile."
"Like any of life's greatness, by the way. You can remain in own superiority exclusively by struggle."
"But struggle is a choice of inwardly unprincipled..."
"Alas..."
"Alas."
Both have got fully silent.

XXIII
In town B is inevitable, depressingly gray autumn. Sad foliage is preparing to fast dying. Day by day, tired air is getting much colder. Cheerless faces are slowly adding in own ugliness and meanness.
Andrei Leopoldovich is lonely trudging through the avenue, sedulously covered with deep permanent fog. On the soul are sick slops of apathetic hopeless feelings. Into hollow brain, so thickly exhausted by aimlessness, is continuous blackness of pain, of unbearably strong inconsolability. Into plans is just vacuum.
"What a spoiled dead day... Darkness, dampness and drizzle. Like a total damnation. No remarkable buildings, no posters and no native faces. Only agony. Firm and oppressive."
Soon, instead of the expected bright poster, an obsessively handed strange booklet has landed into palm and some young man has deftly reported: “My dear passer-by, I dare to inform you, that in this dark and sad town B had opened very beautiful and pretty, completely unconventional cafe. Do not think that there get crowded exclusively minorities and only. This rare place is for people with different thinking. Would you like to be constant glad visitor? There is good discount if you'll come with this paper. For example, on rum. "
"An outlandish gorgeous almshouse?"
"Yes, outlandish. Even more. That's why just go. The entrance is deep in arch around of next corner - through black basement. That's directly symbolic. Do you fully agree?"
"Just eccentrically. Yes."
"Then right now in road?"
"Do you get something greatly impudent for such stubborn dull ads? If you're so happy of my visit?"
“I am living at now on 8 dollars per day. If I will not spend out all leaflets, I will get only half. My wife is crippled from her birth. She similarly works at cold uncomfortable street - on Ascension parvis, her money are the same. So it's better to take my leaflet - if you believe in our God.”
"I will take ..."
"And promptly go around the corner. Around of damn corner and in arch."
Andrei Leopoldovich has obediently obeyed and soon timidly stepped in aforementioned sooty hazed location. In such a petty institution was twilight. All tables were triangular. Lustful waitresses almost without of clothes. Few visitors are widely full of strangenesses and rid of any sobriety of mind.
Behind one of the sofas was unfamiliar pale lady into yellow dress and with orange and burgundy pendants. The heroine herself was having neither freshness, nor even partly picturesque appearance, but nevertheless she has somehow caught faint attention.
"My new mistake and nothing more." - has concluded Andrey Leopoldovich and begun worthless getting acquainted.
"Will we be truly mutual in desire of company?" - the hero has asked.
"Oh, how urgently you've found me, sit at here, we'll build some vain communication."
"What's your name?"
"Yulia Afanasyevna. I am compassionate and harmless."
"From what of places have you come?"
"I was going from work and came in. I'm appearing here from the earliest opening. I do not live without evening coffee."
"Where do you work, if it is not a secret?"
"In correctional center. I'm psychologist. Am building inner peace and grace and cultivating hearts and feelings."
"What a noble nice post - authoritarian."
"No, it's trivial. I'm only digging into natures, like in useless old rags - just motley shreds, not real souls. But jointly they are quite great palette."
"How many them are?"
"You're not the first."
"Are you looking for keys from the fate?"
"For passkey from such one. I’m looking for obvious patterns, but also helping to some people."
"That's rather fine."
"I will help to you too."
"And how will you classify myself? Diagnose me according to standards."
"You're also one of them... Don't worry, not of madmen. One of people. Of rest endless world. And I'm just trying you to understand."
"Is it difficult?"
"Just ordinary, usual. You reveal all yourself. Few facial expressions are enough. You're fully opened for conclusions."
"Am I a simple book?"
"Brochure..."
"That's even worse... Alas."
"It’s not scary at all. Any people are so. And you too."
"What a miserable strange consolation..."
"At least, not anxiety. Not madness. Wear yellow, like me. It lifts whole spirit up."
"I would wear even a matting, if it will give some use."
"It depends on your luck."
"I'm not a favorite of fortune."
"That is also quite trivial."
"Well ... the last identity was shaken."
"Originality is only delusion. Break it out. Let's go better to embankment. Or order me some icing juice."
"For improvement of health?"
"For emotions. Were you trying to put face in cake?"
"Never."
"You are simple. My patients are much more original. They like long nails in own nostrils or public playing with naked crotch. Such things are helping them to joy."
"Impressive hobbies. Unusual."
"My contingent is also quite specific. Come on. Let's go or let's run – that is faster."
"Oh, yes, let's go for some start. For nails, I think, I am not ready."

XXIV
Calm town A. Angelina Evgenievna is quite peacefully sitting with Alyona Igorevna, traditionally dreaming and complaining about own life.
"I'm alone... I'm completely alone."
"You’re strange, stupid woman. I have exchanged three new sex-partners in only this quite modest month. And it's not counting my own Valentin Stepanovich."
"What an insulting nasty dirt! After all, how you're only able to show so frightening vile infidelity? He so loves you and believes."
"You is really stupid. Which of aims do you follow? Whether not in betrayal is the highest of pleasures? To deceive, to make somebody fool, to know that you're loved, but not to love in own response – that is more than a bliss. I always was aspiring to freedom and I've got it. And the last one, as Greeks said, is the greatest of joys. But relations are also quite colorful... Sometimes. And not in all. Even to cum with your secret paramour is much more sweet, if you're thinking about own husband."
"You are scary lost person. Horrifying."
"I'm just simple self-confident woman. Exactly ordinary, trust me. Everyone is like that. And you too."
"Me not..."
"Come on. You really was never dreaming of betrayal?"
"I even had no single thought. I can’t find anyone just for night, and you suggest such dirty tricks..."
"You are silly. Let me leave you the number of one of my boyfriends, if you're the most offended and unhappy. You even shouldn't thank. And the pricks he has also quite nice, by the way. So you'll at least get wet while dreaming." - Alena Igorevna has got out a piece of paper and sketched out a set of few numbers: "Hold on, my friend."
Angelina Evgenievna has timidly taken.
"Why are you so slack? Was you beaten by head in the childhood ?" - has quipped the guest.
"I am normal..."
"Well. Okay, I am going to manicure soon – I have to be at cottage of one soldier on weekends, will get fun. Do not be bored either. Knead your mortal flesh. See you next."
Alena Igorevna has hugged her friend and disappeared into door.
Angelina Evgenievna has closed the lock, returned to own bedroom and taken out the leaflet, then held for time in own hands and got puzzled: "What a filth... What a blackness. I don’t want, don’t need such option."
She has torn the unfortunate paper and thrown away: "That's not mine."

XXV
In town B, the first of serious downpours. The weather is quite sorrowful and dreary. Passers-by are entirely gray. Wet wind is hopeless, cold and rainy. Andrei Leopoldovich and Julia Afanasevna are lonely walking through foggy and thinned sad embankment.
"Late autumn is a time to search new colors, great time to be renewed. And for my patient it is at all the hottest period of being." - the lady remarked.
"But what can be upgraded into ordinariness? Is such a matter realistic?"
"Yes, all is possible. And even rather simple. You need just single confident attempt, first helpful step - to transformations and new heights."
"But if it also will not work?"
"Just try again. It is not scary. All is replaceable and plain."
"You ignore life's uniqueness again."
"Not me, but world."
"In such a case, I want to die and only in the last one."
"And this is just your running from the current objectivity. You are hiding from life, staying out."
"It’s more logical here."
"Logic also is powerless. Be guided by true facts. That's better."
"Fact's are out of fairness."
"Such ones inevitable."
"This is a flaw, not an excuse."
"But this is givenness."
"That's wrong."
"Wrong, but actual."
"Not to meet real joy in this world. Not to touch."
"That means, you don't know how to touch. You're unskillful."
"But who will teach..."
"Smart ones don't need in teachers."
"Do such ones really exist?"
"In dreams more often..."
"Metaphorical case."
"All the world is directly utopian. All cherished in its abode is only an unreachable illusion."
"Why all is so?"
"Why trams are going by rails, why all objects are falling exclusively down? Being's basics are so. Physics, geometry, chemistry and psychology. Your thoughts can equally quite easily be read, examined and predicted, as well as trajectory of some orbit."
"But orbits also have disasters and mistakes."
"Yes, of course, fully have. Just as you, you're similarly live both cheerlessly, mistakenly and surely not catchy."
"It's more useful to break with this life, as it seems."
"It's better just to calm you down."
"I am not violent at all."
"But your passivity is even much more harmful, more pessimistic in forecast."
"It means, I shouldn't wait for happiness?"
"You can wait just for anything. Especially unreasonably."
"But on what do we have truly credible chances?"
"On pure uncertainty only. On beautiful mixture of being's laws and social positions. On reality."
"The last one is ambiguous. To ones it's warm, to others - cruel."
"Be from the first."
"But if I am entirely unable."
"So, then be satisfied with the fate of lost second."
"Such one is utterly annoying."
"Be endurant. You have quite many years in ahead."
"It sounds like damnation."
"Listen better. Then maybe you will catch some extra notes."
"It will not have significant result."
"We all are more ambitious than needed. Learn to be humble, after all."
"I'm not accustomed to such matters."
"Relearn yourself, my ward."
"It's fully undesirable..."
"Desires are life's garbage."
"All is really wrong."
"But not for you to judge."
"I even am not trying, by the way."
"You're already exactly aware of own inevitable defeat. At least, some firm experience for mind."
"But it's awfully negative."
"Any other is strictly redundant."
"Oh, curse."
Have got ruefully silent.

XXVI
In town A is trivial bad weather.  Humid sky is despairingly frowning, vague features are slowly getting lost in faceless waves of matte-ashen fog. Silent deserted streets are blowing with deep wilting and strong hopelessness. Occasional and lonely insipid clouds are sadly sobbing with short rains. At empty wharf, already desolate and gloomy, a floating restaurant is spending last warm days. Among of visitors is also having fun our poor Angelina Evgenievna - in endless vain attempts of finding something mutual, as always.
Into hal is exclusively dark, briskly playing fast music is abounding with vivid harsh temperament, so efficiently swaying freed bodies of having rest glad people. Last ones are marvelously active and gifted with exceptionally stoic inner solace. Till pure orgy, of course, was quite far, but a couple of ladies have already thrown off inappropriate here underwear, and one of them has even climbed on central table. Angelina Evgenievna, who was not filled with so wide boldness, is sitting quietly, drinking cold mellow cocktail and monotonously gazing into cloudy distance, so much lavishly flooded by motley human mass. The soul is predictably in yearning. The body too, but in a different own way. Slim shameless skirt, neatly put on the heroine, with help of all defenseless length is strongly and diligently exposing explicitly unhidden carnal piquancy and undisguised transparent openness of wishes, but such a process by itself is still quite far from clear anatomic demonstration. Exactly tired, lost in searchings heart is so intolerably wanting inner warmth, completely noticeable, tangible and firm. But where to take it, where to get... In such a way has flown a couple more hours.
"At least someone... At least some single soul..." - has humbly prayed the lady.
In such a role at this night time has randomly turned out Roman Valeryevichto - an unusually tall stocky man about forty, into black velvet jacket above of greenish-purple shirt of gentle silk and with gold cufflinks.
"How is your late evening? Have I come not in vain?"
"You've come in best of all its moments. Sit down, I am opened for everything."
"We need to have a drink at first. Let's take some vodka for good start - the most expensive from they have."
"Admirable decision."
Roman Valerievich has called for lonely waitress: "Give us vodka, the one that's the best."
"Am already just bringing."
"What have delivered your soul in this lost corner?" - has asked the hero.
"Necessity of partner."
"Simple concepts, as a rule, do not play heavy roles. Do you believe in own fate? In depth and thoughtfulness of any world's beginnings."
"My fate was never kind or tender."
"But, perhaps, it was saving you for better?"
"Not sure... I usually just go through disappointments."
"Being really afraid of the rightness, you inevitably begin to make mistakes. The biggest madnesses come made more often by the sages. This truth is old."
"But anyway I have no aspirations, no will."
"Having ceased own past burning, you begin to die out. But this is not about us."
"I really hope..."
"Take my hand. Let's share inner aura together."
Angelina Evgenievna has timidly held out her thin hand. Strong weighty fingers have deftly grabbed her palm and slightly squeezed in lock.
"We should have such alliance both in souls." - Roman Valerevich has said.
"I delve by you in fairy tale."
"We will finish last one at your home. And will walk under broad night sky. Just for everyone's envy."
"What a glorious and promising feeling, what a frantic desire to sit and obey. What a close and alluring flesh paradise. Time from time I so ardently want to be taken - harshly, strongly, with force. Till deep trembling inside. Till warm and ripping waves, till full loss of control, till oblivion. When you're submissively getting at once in everywhere, when you're going to space. Eh... Dreaming. Dreaming..." - has thought the lady and obediently laid her hazed head on the shoulder of newfound companion.
Soon have brought aforementioned vodka.

XXVII
In town B the first faint snow. Andrei Leopoldovich and Yulia Afanasyevna are effortlessly trudging by their favorite walking route. In around is lonely calm area. Moist air is both thick and cold. Deep bleak vastness is totally hopeless and lifeless. Sad landscape is the same.
"Tell, what day is it today?" - the hero has asked.
"Wednesday, but what for do you need it?" - has sharply answered Julia Afanasevna.
"In peaceful neighboring town A, soon will be the 20th anniversary of Lirgachevsky plant. A lavish holiday is promised, concretely full and festive. We can visit."
"I don't like any movings. I prefer to stay home."
"And common meetings? What do you feel about them?"
"I like such ones. Especially somewhere in cafe."
"Cafe is too redundantly official. I would prefer some home type of meeting - just together, in much more intimate and frivolous atmosphere, with full nice chances to get to know of each other greatly deeper, maybe even to get some tart pleasures."
"For which of whims have you taken this rave?"
"For our future possible life-way."
"What are you talking of?"
"Of next relations."
"Our relationship with you should not go out of strict frames of conversation. I have treated to you my own ward, with whole heart, and you... What kind of sick freedom? You are interesting for me exclusively as kind of psychotype. As my good friend and faithful person, who is ready to help. Don't even think of any true intimacy! No common tenderness or signs of your affection, only talks – about themes far from body and with no possibility of our alliance ever. Please answer, have you understood?"
Andrei Leopoldovich has slowly nodded.
All next walk was in silence. They've finished at familiar old lantern, which was serving as a reference point. Have stood a little, said goodbye.
"From this dark day I walk exclusively alone." - has decided the hero and calmly wandered to home.

XXVIII
In town A, inside of quite familiar small bedroom are two dim silhouettes - Angelina Evgenievna and Roman Valerevich. This is their third night. The previous two had passed like some indescribable rare holiday and put the lady deep in inner splash - both in physiological conditions and into terms of external soft romance. All was so much idealistic and so colorful, that whole life was as song. At now all was just the same.
Roman Valerievich, this time in cherry jacket and in black sparkling shirt, was sitting next to his naked passion and gently pouring red wine: "You're like an ancient goddess - as from some old indecent picture."
"True earthly love deifies."
"We don't have vain earthly things, we have just paradise, not less."
"That's for sure."
"So beautiful, free and exciting is in our angelic harmony."
"As if by whim of God, you are at here... Even more - you yourself is my God!" - Angelina Evgenievna has cheerfully reached forward: "Take me all. Take me wholly, my sweet."
"Completely? Yes? And from behind?" - Roman Valeryevich has smiled and deftly winked.
"As you want."
"You're asking?"
"I'm praying..."
"Tear off your ticket to heaven."
"Yeahhhhh."
And has circled, has wheeled - all impudent and shameful.
The hurricane of bodies, of endless lechery, inner flame and lust.
Soon has come early dawn.
Completely satisfied Angelina Evgenievna is patiently awaiting for awakening of dear chosen one. The room is staying hot, the heart is fabulously easy and exalted. The gentleman has woken up.
"Good morning, my saint love."
"Yes, quite glorious time. Cook me something."
"I'll do it instantly."
"Just right so. Be quick."
"Are you now in a hurry?"
"Not so fully, but yes."
"?"
"At lunch will be my train. We still have little time to walk."
Dumbfounded, as after icy shower, Angelina Evgenievna has sharply frozen with an alarming lump in throat.
"Stop your fuss. I have to go, that's a fact. I have a wife in native province. I’ve come exclusively for fun. But I have given you three nights — most magic number ever, for any of the sacred books. So, let's finish the plot."
"I ... I ... I would eagerly be your hot paramour. With great pleasure, as fact. With only dim faint chance to be sharing your flesh even once in a year."
"I have a paramour in lands of close Primorye. We also have a child. Although I with all strength had been warning her person. But the kid is quite nice, so I’m in a plus. I don’t need anymore such mad worries. That's why we probably will never meet again. Fairy tales are so beautiful exclusively by fact of no repeats. I love pure dreams, without daily grayness. I love pure dreams and you! You're now also one of dreams. And now proceed to cooking process."
The woman has stood up and monotonously trudged to the kitchen, has taken out broad pan, burst in tears.
"What are you doing, are you right? Beauties shouldn't be crying. Wipe your tears away. After all, nights were nice. There is no reason for sadness."
"How painful it is. I was deceived once more again, was made blinded and burned. What is it... What for is my damn being..." - has sobbed Angelina Evgenievna: "I’ll cook right now, don’t worry. I’m so sorry for my weeping."
Have spent the breakfast, then have walked, said goodbye.
The train has left.
 
AFTERWORD:
The Lirgachevsky plant has 40-years anniversary. In town A, is full-sized and surprisingly colorful holiday. Each one is having fun and joyfully rejoicing in cheerful dancing on the square. Flags and posters are bright. Into small quiet arbor are smoothly sitting two calm people - Angelina Evgenievna and Andrei Leopoldovich. Their timid bitter fate, so restless and inept still has jointed them with each other. Two chaotic life lines, brittly breakable, bleak and unhappy, have meekly intersected at one spatio-temporal point. How untimely and how fruitlessly have touched their tormented and hopeless hearts... How much disappointing can be our entrusted vain destiny.
"I fate is totally the same..." - has weakly sighed Angelina Evgenievna.
"It's so strongly desired to be just near – all the time, to have someone with whom you will never part out, whom you'll never exchange. It's desired to have selfless happiness, unforgettable innocent miracle, so endlessly desired, so meaningful, deep, kind and priceless. It's desired to give all affection, all your tenderness, all inner warmth and sincerity to the one who is your clear copy, entirely identical, indescribably close and so immensely needed and holy. I want just this identity of souls, want easy hopeful simplicity – that magical and greatly charming state, which is called by most people as happiness."
"You're speaking in my words, in my thoughts, into voice of my soul..." - the woman has moved to Andrei Leopoldovich and hugged: "How late I have found you, how awfully stupid I had been living all my life. How sorely bitter. How sad is this utter untimeliness..."
"I want just not to lose you. To enjoy every moment, to meet each dawn and to admire with each second, with each moment, that sent from above. And in such way till the latest life's end."
"We are together. From now we are surely together."
"From now and forever."
"Yes, right so."

At the door of the town's A nursing home is standing thin and pensive man - Ivan Vladimirovich. In his hands is a box with huge cake and few napkins – at today is the hero's birthday. So, at now he is waiting for pass to Valentin Stepanovich, who already eight years is inhabitant of such sad institution.
For some reason they don't let in ... The hero is slowly steping from one foot to the other in exhausting long waiting. But they still do not open.
Soon the lock has unwillingly snapped and fat face of the local old watchman has slowly showed out: "Have you come to your friend?"
Ivan Vladimirovich has nodded.
"He has died. Just in morning. He asked to give you little note. I’ll bring it now, if not lost."
Ivan Vladimirovich has grabbed his head and gritted his teeth.
"My dear Vanechka, I am writing this letter for case, if I suddenly will disappear. It happens, that we, people, go away in one time. After all, we are living not centuries. It’s probably quite normal, I don't know. I all the life had been considering myself as a smart one, all the time - until the day, when she had left me here alone. Soon you also had parted. It’s not enough, as it seems, for true happiness to have developed brain and only. There is, apparently, some kind of the higher protection – that one, which we by some unlucky reason didn't get. I don’t know who writes all life’s paths and create human souls, I don’t know real goals of this world. And I don’t know why all is just so. I can write more than hundred long formulas by the help of one memory, I can tell you all history of Europe or quote Schopenhauer, but I am totally unable to explain the machine of life's being, of whole universe itself. I am unable to all this, as am unable to be happy... And forgive me for fact, that I was saying bad about God. He still turned out to be stronger. And now goodbye. I’m already getting dressed in jacket, if you are reading at this place. Consequently, quite soon I'll meet the very God myself. I’ll try to ask him make you lucky. Without miracle of luck, all universal atomic-molecular mixture with all strange laws and small details is simply powerless and useless. This is fully the end. All the best. Yours, Valentin Stepanovich."
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The distance between towns A and B is small. Even on the map, they look quite compact to themselves, but not each one from town A can find own way to town B, to find own incorruptible and pure understanding and unity, to find fidelity and full justification, to get filled with the personal human demand. Not everyone in world of wretchedness and lie, deception, envy pettiness and void can manage with the finding of identical warm heart, of the same inner world and structure. Human does not exist outside. Each personality is blossoming exclusively in couple, in cherished souls connection - where are only you and your partner, who serves as sure stairway to sky-high heights of life's greatness and inner devotion. It seems, that there are some hidden ways and roads, which lead us through dates and spatial dimension to each other. That roads, which give both all grace, all errors and all chances. And such ones can be neither removed nor rewritten – can be just spent. And right by these unknown roads is also trudging into haze, in among of all others, my own similarly mortal vague fate.