Not experienced memory

I
Into wastefully spacious bedroom, filled with temperate window light, has awakened by first shining rays full of bliss Margarita Yegorovna, sweet shy lady, invariably lonely and almost not familiar with optimism by the reason of fortuneless fate, coldly meager on promising share. Her day, disjointed with clearness and straightness, has got lazily indolent start in habitual loafing manner - with deplorable thoughts and self-addressed reflective talkings.
"I've been lived almost half of my life, but all stays routinely useless, stays unfixably vain, daily being is bleak, hollow, breathless, all I have – just one permanent waiting, one long boundless pause. What a for do I live, does it have any sense, any tangible meaning... I wait for all answers and directions, for pure fidelity and mutual relations. I'm even wondered and puzzled – where did my fate today get found, where did it target own small route, with whom I'll evidently be after everyday tiresome abyss, after following roads and paths. I know the only tiny truth – after every of purposeless mornings will be similar purposeless day. Fate is motley, but anyway gray, and not for us it's to decide – what to choose, to invent and commit. I know each one is surely unique, but not for everyone to be here right and weighty. And no one will explain or releasingly solve this unbearable piteous tragedy. World's frames envelope every hovering existence in entirely different measure: some of them are exclusively happy, some are hurted and harmed, ones eat bread with no salt, others - salt with no bread. And paths are far... Far, but limited, alas. All ends one day - all joys, all ways. And not each time fruitful lucky plot. You need to hope, but in fact you so frequently cannot."
The lady has got gradually up and, having louringly cringed from painstakingly tearing feelings, has approached the mirror's surface: "It seems as everything is beautiful in me, even sweet and so properly pleasant." - Margarita Yegorovna has moved her hand by mellow hips: "But after all, I am alone ... Like a wanderer lost into desert. Or a bird, who has splitted from flock. Or hopeless outcast, rejected by society. After all, earthly presence is worthless, dark and vain, sadly shallow and gray. Like in dungeon all life, all reality. And no outlet, no rescue."
She has got cautiously dressed. Slowly brewed morning coffee. Then meaningfully gazed in square window, sadly thoughtfully paused. Time to go to the life.
Outside is immovably boring. Summer's heat calmly dries vain surroundings. Rare, constantly tired pedestrians are meekly moving with no purpose. All is written in silence itself: the clearest classicism of season at highest apogee of sharpness - air is thick, houses' contours are peacefully smoothed by light feathery haze, melting features are wearily blurred, paints are sugary, tart and seductive. All the city is quiet. Walk is surely usual. Direction is quite customary too – to local bakery and back. That's all we need sometimes for brief warm feeling. After all, being's beauty is near... But in heart is still stubbornly joyless.
Has returned back to home. Has proceeded to food. And again sure dominant beauty. At least, for half an hour for sure.
And then again in usual sadness...

II
Onto bench at old featureless entrance, into torturing boredom's languor, is calmly having idle rest rather meek and observably shy, full of coyness Savely Semyonovich, quiet and fully devoted to silence, pensive, doleful young man, who, by the way, is sitting not in vain, but for certain and evident purpose - is waiting with all patience for one person, his truly wonderful and longly known friend - Alexei Borisovich, who also was completely dedicated to stubborn thoughtfulness and endless wistful yearning. In around is smooth peaceful summer – humbly warm and sincerely playful. Into bottomless colorless sky, are slowly creeping multi-shaped, slightly watery clouds. In unattainably far distance, are cautiously humming rare beetles. From opened window are blowing in room lovely fresh apple smell. Peace and rapture. At least from outside, from sight. One moment more and Alexei Borisovich has come – as always prompt and nimble-minded and richly generous on passionate reflections.
"Best of greetings." - Saveliy Semyonovich has held his modest hand.
"The same for you. How you are at today?"
"At peak of usual daily vainness. All as always before."
"Stability. The sister of stagnation."
"And of life..."
"Not life of everyone is so."
"Two ours ones are surely like that."
"And this is clearly expected, do not suffer too much – if we'll die, nobody will notice. Let's go in abyss of discussion, it's more appropriate in there. Which way at this unlucky time you've been tormenting your lost soul?"
"All as years before – with long tireless thoughts: of fate and world – the main of being's tools."
"All other is unnatural and boring."
"I agree with this sad painful statement. I think again, and think quite keenly, of most right and most ideal time - which of them fairly claims to be so?"
"If to delve, any one is just rubbish. No suitable rational period. Antiquity bows head in front of spirits, dark Middle Ages builds bloodthirsty religions, hollow motley modernity, in principle, denies all kinds of God, and vague futurism in poor inner essence does not even believe in anything and even in oneself. Each one is running from some problems, each one is striving to some end. In any time and any of locations."
"Where then to look for happiness at here? If only hopelessness is given."
"True hopelessness is talisman of freedom: the fact of equal wrongness of all actions gifts firmly independent from your will full impossibility of correctness and rightness, what automatically means strict inability of not to be mistaken and at the same haphazard time detaches your tired seeking soul from any variant or kind of past responsibility for choice, as well as for its fruits and future effects."
"Anyway such of thoughts do not warm."
"Mind's tricks are not a tool for world's reflection. Any thoughts are not more than a run: with its relevant use you can calmly escape from some danger, with wrong one – can get hastily lost. Every thinking's result is always unpredictable and vague. You cannot dream too nice in bad reality."
"I do not dream at all, even faultily, vainly."
"It depends on the world. World is also a tool, which like a sharpened iron cutter, correcting silhouette of form, adjusts the essence of your mind. Sometimes it sadly overdoes and leaves from person only shavings, and sometime even shies of slight touch."
"Not easy to be loved by life."
"The taste of life is understandable in full palette and only, full and wholly complete. It's like an eating of huge cake: eat only cream, and your opinion of product will be false."
"Some unlucky of us have no piece of this excellent “cake”, no crumb."
"Don't think of them. Each compassion for saddest of losers is always balanced by great hatred for the best of superior winners."
"So much sad to be found as looser."
"Sad for you, not for others."
"It's even sadder from this fact. Feels as torturing funeral ceremony – of you yourself."
"One long way or another – all we will be in grave. Any live is just keen expectation - for best of thoughts and for sweet tender warmth. We do not need in presence of true light, we have a need in chance to buy a lantern, we need to hope."
"You keep walking like that, but then get only own death."
"It shows the irony of being. The dress of loosers, by the way, gets put on bodies of the winners."
"It's regrettable, painful and wrecking."
"For us and only, not for world. World's aim comes down to performance, which never has some weightful intermissions, as well as never cares of the number of own endless and motley spectators."
"It's so easy to fall from an optimist to most hopeless and gloomy tragedian. From blooming body to numb corpse. Line is rarely smooth."
"And it really happens like that: if some limit is reached, boiling point is passed, then you will no longer be a liquid, you'll vapor. Or ice."
"It's completely oppressive."
"As a fact, no matter at all, how bright are you mixed fervent thoughts, the city gets remarkable from station, and life by presence of pure values. The world, which's rid of ideals and chances, is a hell."
"Ours one?"
"Whose one else? Or you've been dragged in some of others? This poor world is just a hell, at least in frames of sober understanding. If yours is different, it's trouble."
"No anguish – no life..."
"It concerns not one fate. Please note, that people joint together not by one presence of umbrella itself, but by its lucky combination with hard rain, which builds umbrella's relevance and prudence. Any meaning and probable sense depends, at first, on universe's laws, of thin features of being around. Our share is role of a mirror, which one according to world's picture, looks more crooked and uneven or more flat and more smooth."
"I am still worried of people, not of them in straight sense, but of fact of connection with such ones... It is believed that all communications just enrich you, but is it evidently so? After all, it quite seems to be true, but sometimes such vain deal is so low, so disgusting."
"Here I have to correct your position, not the contacting process itself makes you better, but your future conclusions. People themselves, like their thoughts, are just rubbish. As well as temporal modernity and frames. Choose most stable of truths, catch not branches, but trunk: people aren't a shepherd, they are sheeps."
"Into powerless terms of modernity, at here I'll instantly agree. People's presence is simply unbearable."
"It's pointed by uselessness of last ones. We have morons and freaks, no geniuses, no valuable examples."
"So it is..."
"So it is... The most valuable thing, that they have at today is their bodies: you look at bodies and get bliss, you want at least to f*ck their flesh, to gift them pleasure, tenderness and love, but they say you few words, and you immediately start to rush away – as from powerful fresh radiation."
"It makes you time from time so much deceived, so much fooled."
"All deception at here - child of trust. Be more sober and strict - not without some rescuing skepticism. Sometimes measurelessly useful. And don't be guided by surrounding. All is only relative, all is fruit of some fake. Any heights, which are taken from bottom, never serve as reliable Olympus."
"Into abyss of lie, real truth cann't be even imagined... As well as usefulness or love..."
"But you can try. After all, looking only at ovals, it is still possible to fancy perfect circle. But, alas, lie is everywhere. Any average local politician lies much more than the last mad sectarian. That's why between truth and lies is step, and between of true world and of thought – sure abyss."
"What for to be? What to search and wish?"
"What are we truly waiting for? We yearn for only one point – the one of total no return. We yearn for chance to save achieved. What's given, by the way, too rare."
"No path, no escape."
"At here, I can't console your soul. In current world all paths are sickly wrong. Especially for ones, who aren't too lucky. Apparently, we need some kind of personal for success, some inner magnetism of last one. Without bait your fishing rod is similarly useless both in a sea, and in a puddle – you will not catch significantly much."
"Why do we look for some new searchings, gain endless thirst for doubtful strivings and always rush from place to place? We also permanently ask for constant help. It's out of some healthy explanation."
"It's so much customary here among of people: it is believed, that thorns of misbeliefs should be setted by suitable specialis. That's why we seek for skillful priests, psychologists, sectarians and others, we ardently desire to repent. Because of out of repenting you cannot sin as forceful as before. And this is really huge problem."
"After all, once again no ideals."
"Each ideal is kind of rueful key - to non-existent painful lock. Such ones are not in sphere of demand. We need something more cheep and more simple. Just like birds: all they want – just some food from their pointed beak and warmth from their colorful feathers, other trades do not count."
"World is surely wretched..."
"This world is miserable, we know, but don't judge tools, just criticize their goals. And such ones are entirely blurred. Don't rely onto people, trust here exclusively to senses and ideas, each of us will one day disappear, as well as any fruits of life, but ideas will stay, will survive. Even world will assuredly perish, but it will not be overly difficult to reproduce such one more time – again with similar achievements and mistakes. And, no doubts, with similar people."
"How to live in such frames?"
"Live just smartly and no way else: for sweet drinks – you have a mouth, for bitter ones – a garbage bucket, all is scarily simple. And remember one thing, sky doesn't send short roads for true far-walkers."
"Why we have been created here at all... Why does reality have need in our presence..."
"Just think too longer, if can't guess... Ursa Major, as fact, has also kind of stars-made ladle, why does it need this vain acquirement? We have own life, one day it has been given – what for, nobody has informed."
"Where to find that sole path to the better? How to pass with its marvelous route? What does it need?"
"Exaggerate your personal demands. Having bought only weak tiny raft, you'll never rush in real abyss; as well as, having bought long large frigate, you'll never go to little river."
"All my demands are absolutely equal to ones, which have a legless man, who has come in shoe store..."
"This is terribly bad. Even scarily close to true tragedy."
"I frankly do my possible and best for to hammer all useful in head. Maybe, life is indeed slightly deeper."
"People shove tensored pieces of flesh in each other and call this act as passion and high ecstasy, and you're still having any doubts in hard simplicity of world, just like an idiot, not less... Excuse, if sounds too much rude."
"Apparently, I really am stupid. I'll even tranquilly agree."
"Mind is useless today, hidden, vague. Each fool is fool in everywhere, but each smart is smart one just in company, in tight surrounding of ones, who have admitted him as smart. Gain conclusions yourself."
"Anyway time is passing... Slowly going away..."
"Time is only a source, the one, which fills your mind with inner essence. And its precious and limited volume is also fruit of single bare luck."
"What's most valuable here? In this painful and mad temporality."
"Reason's presence. It's not easy to catch it and keep. And mind itself, as fact, is kind of currency, with which one you can freely acquire just anything: faked vain friendship, or hollow respect, soulless sex or false hurting devotion – choose and taste, any poisons are opened. Just don't forget to pay with mind, the rest is not essential at now."
"What an aim has this boundless world? Does it keep some assignment?"
"I have a sensual perception of the universe: any life boils at here just for feelings – for to experience you're loved, to get involved in pride and hatred, to come filled with true pleasure and pain, this is all..."
"But why each memory collects most wrong and nasty? From all diverse and bright expressions."
"Each memory is similar to wall: it holds all rusty nails as well as normal. And normal " nails " at here are much more rare..."
"In my soul, storm and calm are in pair – at first, my boats don't want to sail, then such ones are already at bottom."
"You can't roll up from obliquely placed lower surface, I completely agree. But you shouldn’t lose strength of your hope. Believe in correctness, in power of right actions. Any thought, having come in appropriate head, can effortlessly change all world's history, give it only a chance. Deadly terrible thing, by the way. Just as time."
"Breath blows dust, wind blows small broken branches, decent hurricane - logs, and time blows centuries and nations."
"Total truth. So it is, I agree. Angry fate, as a rule, never flattens own person with ground: it makes a pit and smashes him with its bottom."
"Scary thing. Where to run this merciless givenness..."
"Warm yourself with all reachable fires. Be in sweet tender terms both with life and with death at one time."
"All brings one darkness and confusion. Probabilities theory hurts..."
"Come on, there is no kind of such theories, there is only visible being, strange reality's frames, past and future, which, by the way, have equally happened, only one hasn’t reached you at now, and other one already has dissolved. And if to say about present, such a time is not more than a pure mental fiction at all. All had been properly accepted long ago – of course, without of your will, it was incredible before – before of first appearance of matter, before of space and starting of the time. If you will seriously think, it will be funny: the fate of universe is scheduled for all times, for many trillions of years, each day you peacefully get up and go to local stop of trams under gray, rain-filled sky or white sun, slowly delving in average waiting and not paying some extra attention. But even long before of creation of dinosaurs, it was clearly planned, which of routes should appear, what a place you should get, which ones of passengers with countless motley fates should be there with you, and even how many scratches should shyly shine at one or other window. And each of them had to live from the very first far ancestor exactly with the fate he really lived, had to go through all wars, epidemics and etc, had to have just exactly those terms and acquaintances, just those marriages, that really were made... After all, the same trams had to be, at least, simply invented. What was the probability in hazed Paleolithic era, that you will heed at now to my words? And right now, at this moment in my life. Every breath, every yours inhalation, every sound and moment are programmed, are predestined in accurate way. It's predetermined by the very world's essence, by invisible body of reason, which substantiates the properties of matter, the principles of feelings, mind and thought, and the results of any actions. And you say rambling words of some theories... "
"I know, that any being's evil into absence of kindness will blossom, will get brightened and smooth, get whitewashed, but will not kindness fade in evil's absence?"
"This question has been often asked to people - for example, by devil. Now also by you."
"Oh, my life..."
"Life's not a waltz: at first you spin, then fall in friendship - it doesn’t work in such a way. For everything and all you have to pay. At first you dance, then sadly fix your sole."
"There are two of glasses: in one is life, into other one – worst slops, the glasses are quite different, but essence is the same."
"Well said, no words for to add."
"How to find here own personal happiness? Once again nobody will answer..."
"It's not so difficult to find it, but much more difficult to gain and to preserve. Soul's happiness is surely not foliage: it will not get renewed with every season. But indeed how to meet it at first..."
"It smashes all inwardness of heart."
"Such position is average foolishness. Just total foolishness and sin. Don't succumb to life's troubles. Remember one – when you're surrendering, you weapon lies down among with honor. Be more strong, more resistant."
"No resist, only sadness. All is distant and constantly blurred. Both no joys and no values."
"All we have – just one role, so temporary, breakable and short. I've also been in any of conditions, the one I'll say – don't try the clothes of God's, such ones will always stay too big – will slide away one day and you'll get naked."
"I agree, we are pawns. And main madness of this is the fact, that we, so pointless and weak, so sharply miserable and helpless, so much hardly depend on each other opinions, that we indeed rely on someone's telling – on tellings of identically vain, vain and surely hollow people, hotly looking for lavish approval and greatly shying of each negative recall. It's so boundlessly mindless and hurting."
"If you really want to reduce your silly fear of condemnation, first of all do the same with the similar loving of praise. Step away from opinion's factor. Raise your personal single position and follow its only rightful path."
"It's not so easy to adhere this..."
"I agree. Onto dark black background you will not write with innocent white paint. But don't give up. At least, by weight of fuss."
"I will honestly try..."
"We were planning to go to some place – to dining house, I remember. Just for to drink some fresh tart kvass, as befits to well spending of summer. Is it time for to move?"
"Come on. It's really best moment."
Have unhurriedly gone.

III
At deceptively friendly wide window, is carelessly staying into silence calmly wistful and meekly serene Margarita Yegorovna, habitually bored and expectedly sad – collects vain thoughts and shyly builds conclusions.
"One new morning again. And again so endlessly empty. Motley tireless city and persistently permanent loneliness. But wished is totally another – directly tangible and firm justification, full bunch of purposes and values, clear, bold and absolutely opened. I want true happiness, true heaven. Not ephemeral, not amorphous, but wholly real and accessible, the one as I remember from my childhood, the one as then  in dear native village, and even now at this time it's so alive in memory and feelings. I accept only such keen fulfillment of what we call as happiness of soul. The most complete, immortal, pure and tender, unbounded and bottomlessly deep, hotly trembling and ardently tart, majestic, precious and holy. So much bright, so distinct are these recollections. Till most small of details."
Here it has sure sense to report, that depicted above flawless case had shyly taken own place into far early childhood - at summer rest in native parents' village. In very one, where had been timidly and calmly situated the very alliance of two devoted souls - Fyodor Mikhailovich and Maria Stepanovna, who were a local loving couple, that time already surely not young and by dark will of bitter living stigmas sadly childless. They've met each other rather late and almost never were in parting. For blurred memory of Margarita Yegorovna, this greatly close strong union of hearts has turned out to be an indelible example of true fidelity and highest human pureness.
"I remember those days as if last ones are going right now." - has quietly sighed Margarita Yegorovna: "Both their old porch with monotonous green paint above of logs and inspiredly careless faces, and filled with inner depths incomparably bottomless eyes, and excitedly tender embraces, and permeating in any of gestures devotion, keenly sodden with endless affection, and frank, captivatingly sweet warmth. Nothing else stays here so much close to true miracle, nothing else brings so genuine harmony, wholly selfless and saint, mildly tart and entirely flawless. And I don't want for me myself any other tie-ups and relations. I only honestly believe in holy chance to get devoted to my partner – completely, ardently and freely, giving all of myself till last drop to reciprocal priceless feeling of enormously measureless unity, where you have only one mutuality with no edge between of loving souls. I want clear happiness and peace, blissful flowering trust and tranquility, firm understanding and broad balance - both in spirit's and body's requests, into all. I want pure paradise, not less. And not in empty sky, but in arms of one loves you. I want this limit of connection. Till sure ecstasy, till falling into abyss. In modest happiness – the best of all locations."
The lady, tired and oppressed, has calmly lowered her gaze and then thoughtfully sighed: "Will I ever be living like this, will it really work..."
Margarita Yegorovna has slowly got up and looked at graphical wall clocks: "Yes, besides it's my time to get ready..."
Has begun to get dressed.
Planned path was absolutely simple and full of useless triviality - to her old friend, Elvira Antonovna, firmly constant for many of years, a bright and briskly vivid lady, initiative and naturally insistent.
Margarita Yegorovna has quietly clicked with key, gently pulled own closed door and then actively stepped down the stairs.
In outside is staying peaceful calmness. Summer's heat is welcomingly temperate. Hazed outlines are lazily chaotic. Weary world is assuredly quiet, unnaturally waxy and insipid, surrounded by sleepy washy haze of nondescript thick whitish fog. Wide distances are colorless and wistful. Mellow trees are submissively teeming with foliage. Sky is lonely and sad. Pedestrians are absolutely rare. Mood is faint and oppressed, slightly brightened by stable indifference. One gray couple of blocks, and at following next wide crossroad, right at traffic light's pillar, has quite predictably got reachable for view swift, nimble figure of eccentric brazen lady, calmly stomping at occupied place and attentively waiting for someone.
"You have finally come!" - she has turned to approached Margarita Yegorovna, who has cheerfully greeted her friend: "Why again so late?"
"I do not hurry anywhere..."
"Very vain. So, let's go to cafe, we'll at least have some rest for a little."
"Yes, let's move."
Promptly chosen cafe is pleasantly not crowded and free, atmosphere is teasingly sweet and seductively charming, lovely seasoned with caressing drowsiness and alluringly playful romance. Lonely tables are heaped into center. Glad and motionless faces of visitors are uniformly featureless and steady, fresh and lavishly filled with serenity. Air is thick.
"Well, tell me, how are you living?" - Elvira Antonovna has started: "I'm waiting for some tearful loving story."
"Nothing new... I still wait. Wait and hope. And get will-lessly used to habitual emptiness."
"You are hopelessly stupid. You could many of times very easily find someone temporary. Could use some person for own profit. Lots of men are forgivelessly free."
"All this is tasteless, hollow and shameful. I want attachment, depth and mutuality, thin graceful unity and harmony of hearts, but not one ordinary smiling dummy mask."
"And what does all your sacred essence bring? Which ones of immense benefits and pleasures? Equal emptiness, packed in nice cover. No offense, you are awfully stupid. There is no reciprocity here, except of useless barren one you have yourself imprudently imagined. You are not of this world, if you're so eager to believe in fairy tales. I feel really scary for you. I elementarily beg, don't live so fruitlessly and vainly. You have to change all kinds of things, to choose more profitful of matters. To have own man is utterly important. With his reliable constant presence it's more convenient to flirt and sin with others."
"You cannot breathe with vacuum for long, there's no truer truth. I don't plan to play role of small coin, don't want to get devalued with own soul. Broken heart, after all, is too far from being promptly and properly fixed."
"What's wrong with you... I cannot guess. Human heart – is it really a treasure? Such hearts are shown in millions of copies. We even transplant this vain rubbish to each other. You act as if you live here for one day: no bold inventiveness, no actual dexterity. You need to be more serious, more active. You cannot heed one simple thing – not even seeking, you'll not find."
"All depends on what for you are seeking, I already am sated with vanity. It's certainly a choice, which's not for me."
"And what is surely not vanity in world? High words, moonlit of loving nights and common walks in hugs of flaming feelings? All this will fade, will one a day come down to nothing and worn out. You have to be more sober and far-sighted, be more brainy and smart and not to gain your silly childish dreams. Shy away of such purposeless matters."
"Is modest wish of happiness a whim?"
"Again your happiness. But what it really is? Are you acquainted with its presence?"
"I truly faith, that I'm acquainted."
"You will again retell your childhood's stories? It's simply funny to perceive them."
"But anyway for all my life I've never seen some frankly deeper ones."
"If you'll not try, you'll remain till own death with one emptiness. How many times did I call you to go to some disco or to visit flight school for guys' picking... And you refuse from all of my proposals."
"It's against of my will."
"Drop your baloney, beg you, you're not a queen of moral power. Don't try to look so much sophisticated and do not bend your hollow reckless line."
"I'm a fruit of my will..."
"Stop it, kill. We will go for a walk at this weekends. And don't deny. Don't even dare. So, have you understood this time?"
The lady has got sunk in hesitations.
"I do not hear your sure answer."
"Okay, let's try your blurred offer."
"Really so? Did it really happen? You've stopped your previous behavior? You're no more a mindless child?"
"Sometimes I need to be again a child. At least, for not to feel life's hopelessness and troubles."
"What a kind of a personal curse? Stop being weird! You're frighteningly strange, Margot. Very strange, after all, very very."
"I'm wholly ordinary, simple..."
"Then give up with unhealthy beginnings. Is it clear to you?"
"Clear, clear it's... But..."
"No but. I forbid."
"I will try..."
Meanwhile the order has been given. The ladies have proceeded to the eating.
Margarita Yegorovna has dejectedly frozen and unhappily sighed: "What for all startings and adventures... Why do I need this empty fuss... I'm not accustomed to such living, why they can't understand... They force to act, to move and seek. This is bottomless immense nightmare. Just pure nightmare and not less. What the world truly is... It seems to be so huge and complex, but at the same deceptive time so hardly primitive and useless. And no choice except of pain."

IV
Into small cozy room are huddling two its temperate inhabitants – one firmly permanent, Savely Semyonovich, and second one - his visitor and fellow, Alexey Borisovich. Calm plain interior is passionless and simple, things and furniture – shamelessly modest, but dialogue rather vivid and intensive.
"How are you breathing with your being?" - Alexey Borisovich has ardently encouraged sleepy friend: "How is your inner mental abyss?"
"It lives quite suitable and peaceful – in short frameworks of daily fuss, but soul again is far from grace. I look at world and what I see – one problems, losses and destruction. My heart gets hurted each life's second, my mind is worn, exhausted, crashed, lost in heavy deep hopelessness, mortified."
"There's no other way. Comfort is given only for body. For soul and spirit only worries and pains."
"All happiness is only a ghost, you'll never finish roads to such a treasure." - Saveliy Semyonovich has slowly continued: "I sincerely try not to fall into sadness, to believe in all good and to trust to humanity, to rely on few ones of its members."
"It's entirely vain. Most of people today are just broken. You have to drive their breed away. Drive or beat. The more skillful and deft you're in low and cunning, the more worthless and false you're in frankness. And narrow way of compromises is at all choice of headless, remember. Mind's eclipse is a show, that kills. Pain is greedy for soul, mistakes – for thinking and decisions. Wrong step can happen only once: it's truly possible to make successful jump over hurriedly widening abyss, but in forward and only direction - with no provided road back."
"It drives in weakness and distress, in sadness, torturings and thoughts, deep undeniable despair and oppression, regrets, despondence, doubts and desolation. And no person is a helper, no single human from whole world."
"Each human serves as kind of some container, which gets filled first of all with thick dirt."
"Sometimes I try to live and dream, to stay calm, nicely cheerful and aimed, but it lasts sadly short. All current goals come down to simple finish, to prompt quiet end and lucky peaceful death."
"At here be burned before of coming fire is rare happiness, I know."
"It's too sad ... Life is bright, full of ways and seductive ideas, even honestly lavish and hopeful, but all chances are far, are not yours..."
"In row of beads most valuable is thread: no matter, how much gifted is your fate, indeed important is its outcome and only. Each way can lots of times get lost, get simply interrupted and destroyed. For every smart all given is just dust, for mad – great luck and immense treasure. Don't rush to thank your blooming share, its awards can effortlessly turn into curse. It's just being, not more."
"How to be calm?"
"I justify my path by heavy role – I think I'm center of this universe. All human history is done for sake of me, of my priceless and excellent life. And if whole world had been waiting for time of my birth, then I'll also agree to stay glad and alive and to wait."
"How dashing you are... My mind is not enough for such conclusions."
"Cute praise. Sometimes I'm looking at my head, and so huge it's, so great, I even shy to stay without crown."
"Firm conceit is the best of salvations. But around again total chaos, dullness, haste and oppression. All is utterly vain."
"All anger of each cinema director comes here from modest actor's lips. God does not talk with people face to face. He do it by the voices of life's people, by fate's events and share's route."
"We need to have some kind of balance - between of opened facts and tools and given people, contacts and relations - for to be correctly perceived and understood, to get located at right place, to stay preserved and calmly saved, developed and endowed by sure use."
"So it is, you can live good smart life as a fool, as well as can complete vain stupid share in smart manner. Most of us take here emptiness, rubbish, it's hurting, sad, it makes whole mind upset."
"It's choice of person, not of rightness, not of proper world's plot. This life was made for being happy, for mutuality and love. But in practice... Damnation."
"Sadly true, they do not even look for frank love, don't even try to find its presence, initially seeking for those one who'll simply hate them not so hard than all others. They are hopeless and dead."
"They even boast of their patience, of firm forgivingness of countless betrayals and of masking own obvious hatred. What's wrong with most of modern people?"
"New society is crooked. Crooked and spoiled. It deserves only one - enforced and broad extermination. As well as harmful dangerous insects. I frankly hate and fervently deny our modern request for sick humanism, it's so impractical and mindless, so much stupid and vain. Don't gain compassion or weak pity, such way was made for bringing pain, not for anything else. People are pests for each other, it's evident. If you know some unbearable person, total traitor and scum, low betrayer and nit, why not to kill him, not to smash? It's sad, that we've refused from past aggression... I'm most pacific and peace-loving, so heed my words as huge grotesque, but time from time I seriously fall in pure surprise, why don't we use smart violence as tool."
"People are rubbish today, I agree. I want to come to hospital's threshold and imploringly beggingly say: <My friends, please, amputate my head, it greatly interferes to live in world of mindless, I'll even pay you with all my purse.> I only am afraid, that they'll refuse."
"If they'll agree, invite me too. And now I've suddenly remembered, that I've been planning path to local tavern. It's a kind of my daily tradition, the one, which's not so easy to give up..."

V
In bewitched by calm morning vast room, pretty, free and devoid of routine, has serenely and sweetly awakened detached from fuss and peacefully relaxed Margarita Yegorovna, who has slowly got up and sat down on bed, shyly drooping her meek sleepy gaze and dissolving in doleful thoughts.
"It's funny for majority of people, that I'm honestly waiting for happiness, for full and clear understanding and sincerely coveted love, that I believe that every human union should be just mutual and only, that I don't know what it means to stay glad through lie, to call alien muzzle beloved, that I can't be indifferent, cold or unfaithful. But people they deny such kind of feelings, they deny any kindness and ardor and always mock at pure and high. They don't admit fidelity and frankness, do not appreciate affection, don't wait for infinite togetherness of hearts, don't think, that keen responsiveness for partner is strict necessity for everyone and all. Their souls don't need a soul in pair, they need a doll, a pretty hollow ghost. And green bills in successful addition. What do I do among of them in this endless and bottomless emptiness... What a joy can it bring? What will work as my next guiding star? Who will answer... Life moves on, gives new days, but not for prospects, not for good. World is dark. Bitter, painful. No bright fate, no hope. Only waiting and changeless oblivion. Why I live... No one knows. One deathless sorrow is my friend, one hurting silence in response."
The lady has got up and obediently frozen at window, tightly filled with pale thickening fog. Behind familiar old frame stay faceless sleepy town's expanses. Above of grayness of terrain, are humbly huddling in forlornness slow disconnected  static clouds, calmly scattered by boundless heaven, neatly wrapped in a veil of shy haze. Into distance are waiting for better weightless contours of vague landscapes, smoothed and seasoned by river of silence, of languid bottomless oblivion. World is careless, faithful to fatigue, habitually dispassionate and drowsy. Usual morning, not more.
Margarita Yegorovna has sweetly yawned and imposingly moved to the mirror:
"Again I contemplate my look... Again I gift whole charm to one myself, as I am only one at all the planet. I have no one, no one single soul, for to share my world and affection... All is vain, no weight , no usefulness. World is seemingly bottomless, immense, but I'm alone, I'm totally forgotten. I ask for happiness, but hear one endless silence. As if they all themselves don't have that cherished key. They say that I am waiting here for miracle, but what else me to wait for... If you don't wait, if you don't try, then your fate has no sense, one dead abyss. Yes, all hopes are just dust. But if you'll have no hope at all, then nothing will preserve your perished share. With no hope – one longing, death. Not nice without light, not sweet. So bitter from reality inside. You look at people, and it's scary - to become one of them, to get mixed with sick crowd, disappearing in soulless horde, into cynical, dreary deception. Rafting through by the river of hopelessness, you cannot meet bright tender glow. In emptiness, you have one pain and sorrow. Whole tragedy of being lies on surface. It's so much torturing to think, what will wait. What will come from the future, pain and horror, I guess. And in now one absolute vacuum, darkness, sad constancy of static killing emptiness. Life's voyage moves exclusively to bottom. And this burden of being is endless. Mind is useless today, spirit too. What's around, I ask? What is given? Amid delirium of heads and in the middle of their madness. We do not want to build own heaven, we only optimize past hell, converting it in tolerable form. Our world is entirely lost. And me too. Opened voids are stronger. I'll never find myself in good. All my fate is one immense disaster. Grief and pain. And impossible bottomless longing. "
Margarita Yegorovna has quite indifferently stepped aside and sadly looked around bedroom: "Just me and walls. No prospect at all. Life-affirming conditions, supporting. I'm so glad, so decisively cheerful... I'm happy only when I sleep."

VI
At enveloped by thin faceless haze, foggy window are quietly sitting two of people – already known for us Savely Semyonovich and his permanent changeless companion, Alexei Borisovich. As usual, talk concerns their shares.
"Why this world is so terribly vain? Where to look here for shadow of logic?" - Saveliy Semyonovich has slowly proceeded to the discourse.
"Any logic itself works as abruptly limited blanket: it cannot cover all the being, can't show assured omnipresence. Its shy existence is quite modest. Such bliss is opened only for few."
"What's the role of the world? If it's rubbish and waste in all spheres."
"To decompose oneself on tiny parts and get transformed in dust and vain sad memories. It's the only evident version."
"Where is happiness here, where it hides? Is it utopia, dead fiction?"
"In fact, we all are moving to its abode, to purest happiness and only, but some of us by leading forward lane, and some by sad oncoming one."
"This is strictly unbearable, awful. It's a hell, a scary kind of creepy prison."
"But so it's only for you, for other ones it's paradise and pleasure. They are not worried, that ship of life is sinking, they much more concerned, that at this time doesn't play some appropriate music. And you can't even guess and pretend, how rare today is mind's clearness. Such a truth puts in pain. And, after all, it's not a madness to say, that black in fact is white, a madness is to heed to these weird words and to be eager to agree."
"Vain present, what's indeed most sad, is a fruit of dissolved stupid past. If you both fall asleep and wake up only during of day, you will surely think, that there is no night at whole planet. Humanity today is simply rid - of any right on possible normality, all universe been built in total horror, in marshy swamp, that's truly killing."
"And it gets pleasure from such state. Till endless shivering and bliss. Crooked mirror is salvation for all freaks. Each rotten poor world gives a chance to own worthless lost members to become stably equal with normal. And, what's more painful and disgusting, to get not rarely more lucky and successful. Moral rubbish is free, it's broadly ready for new wars, for harmful and pernicious beginnings, for nasty ways through others pain and unfair and low enrichment. Wet floor is fried for slipy shoes. Go and try and you'll surely perish."
"It's too easy to dead, to give up and fall down in omissions, in deep pit of hard grief and despair. Even being most right and the smartest."
"Defeat concerns not meaning or idea, not truth itself, but only changable obtainer, only passing and movable holder, whose share never been important."
"What will save us from murk, from thick boundless wrongness and loses. From time of barely done birth till the purposeless point of coffin, we're plunged in hopelessness and darkness, in stupid sufferings and painful decomposing, that's all what's generously given, all what's gifted from fate."
"Head's flaws get healed by gun and only. All truly possible salvation and whole help can come today from you yourself and only. You have to seek for chances in own depths, in personal abilities and features. In long efforts and aimed beginnings. In inner force and perceived past experience. It's not an anchor sinks your boat, but attached to its board fixing cable. You can survive in everywhere, the only thing to want and try."
"How to learn to such luck... On flat road, any pits seem impossible, on bumpy one - smooth canvas seems a myth. We have no of encouraging tools in whole present. Being living like others, you'll die, you'll simply rot and mixed with fuss. How else can you accomplish your existing, if your deeds and supporting behavior come down to commonly admitted narrow patterns, if thoughts are evidently barren, cheep and meager inside, plain, defective, with no exit, no weight..."
"You can't be God, it's sure fact, as well as can't be Caesar or Salieri, but you can easily fulfill his modest role, can solve his tasks and do his functions. Believe in usefulness of head. In decent mission and wide route. Move stubbornly and stoplessly to goals appreciate pointed prospects. Be more sharp in new wishings and strivings. Spirit's volume is bottomless, immense, its vital strength is limitless and fairy, indeed immortal, saint and omnipotent. Keep sober role, protect last vanishing remains of priceless warming faith in better. Each sinless breeze can unexpectedly transform in fatal hurricane, in most cruel of possible winds. Each thought, with proper application, is capable to knock aside all world, all course and line of century and time. It's far above of any of beginnings. That's why, in pair with idea, you'll never die with faded eyes."
"You've said a lot and done it well. So, I have to support every phrase. But not a person was created for a thought, but a thought was invented for person. It endows both with aim and direction, corrects life's path and leads to new intentions. And what's shockingly more, we never generate own thoughts, we only scoop them from around, from very essence of this world, absorbing and embodying being's patterns. We are transmitters of eternity and heaven – fate by fate, way by way. From first one till invisible latest."
"That's whole pain of this life. Of purpose, soldered to person, of hurting thinking and wrong will, of all given and vexingly stolen."
"And nothing equal for each share."
"All rules are abruptly divided in two types: for smart of persons and for fools. Such ones have different of paths... Smart ones keep seeking for attainments, and fools refuse from treasures, laid in hands."
"It's oppressively true... After all, fools are worse than plague. Whole world is made of their breed. Such fact perplexes and kicks out, bends down by heaviness of doom. They admire with shit, with disgustness. As last of stumps, with no head at all."
"It shows whole essence of fools' minds: they collect others stupid ideas and then perform them as own wisdom. Nothing shocking or new."
"And they also, as we, strive for ideals..."
"They search most lost of their tribe. Just remember and add to beliefs, a lot of sages are considered as idiots, a lot, but not each one of them, but almost every noticeable moron is assuredly mentioned as sage."
"And what's more terrible and tragic, that smart people are food for oblivion, for oppression and slow decomposing, it's tormentingly sad."
"So it is, too much winged reachless people, who have luckily learned how to fly, will be surely sorely blamed in scary inability to crawl. It's new reality of humans, all traditions are made of pure madness."
"There is nothing to build or to cherish..."
"You can't transform own hopelessness in hope, it's just infeasible, unreal. If you are building anything from trouble, you'll get exclusively new trouble as result. All outlets and rescues are in person: in surrounding grief and stagnation, in devastation and distress the only possible salvation hides inside, in you yourself, in thinking's pit and abyss of reflections. And, what's nice, it makes sense: the course of life, as all we know, repeats the outlines of chosen worldview."
"At here I cannot disagree. But mind's presence is sad: self-consciousness behaves as heavy anchor – while of flawless protection from madness, it totally deprives of glad emotions."
"Such ones are inappropriate, excessive. And, by the way, it's certainly for better: getting freed from all vain, from superfluous and redundant, you're automatically getting what you need. Having come truly smart, you'll abolish all hopes and whole optimism, having canceled past pointless intentions and having left one faith in blurred fortune, much more accessible then simplest of shy dreams. Do not deny and plunge in doubts, each one is equaled with a match: one will luckily lit tiny cigar, and other one with similar success will calmly organize huge town's fire. And this timid and miserable choice has been never depending on human."
"But sometimes we're mistaken on purpose, with efforts of own crooked sinful hands creating all fresh problems and next hardships."
"It's also part of daily life: true fan of thorns is totally indifferent to buds, delights are alien to freaks. Modern human reminds sheet of cardboard with neatly cutted needed figure: you see its shape, its outlines and sizes, you understand the aim it should determine, but the very firm figure is absent, only emptiness filling its gap. New human made of shit and void. Each teacher has to be ahead of taming students, he's just obliged to keep such state. And what's why, right according to this, all ones, who teach downtrodden us to sacrifice at ease with all we have, themselves have nothing for to lose. And you'll exchange all miracles on dust – pedagogics is majorly stronger."
"Having coupled own mind with delusions, throw yourself to trash can. Such truth is deathless and eternal."
"You can sculpt and erect kind of aimlessness' monument even right now. And even purified clear meaning in own essence is muddy, hazed and nasty thing, it stays here understandable not always. Any meaning itself is a sort of cute target: you want to hit it so much, that fall in shiver, and then with trembling hands you miss. But if to be most primitive in words and to expound in simplest explanations, the meaning is your modest right to go ahead through being's forest, not counting its trees with your sick forehead. "
"Is way to lose own path at all..."
"It shows whole trap of social swamp. It's not a grief or dead offense to fall down at smooth beautiful floor. You can easily go ahead, you can luckily move with most flawless success, but it's quite nice for you at least to fall. And you agree and greedily lose balance. And keep in mind, each abyss looks seductive, it's totally harmonious and graceful, laconic, sweet and full of tempting elegance. Besides vast dozens of companions around. People are hopeless at here, clothed in weakness, packed in veil of distressing obscurity. All way of human evolution has turned out to be just a fiction, hollow emptied farce, they had invented more fast vehicles, but at the same painstaking time had lost right path and suitable direction..."
"What's more sad, being damages best of own people."
"The same hawk feed himself with fresh flesh, not with wastes. Most precious, valuable and sacred gets destroyed in first turn – sincere soul and charming bodies. World's mediocrity is purely unkillable, wrapped in initial unbreakable protection, to itself, be informed, it's not harmful."
"I am really frightened and scared with so immense amount of people..."
"We have too much of people, I admit it. Such fact upsets and fills with pain, but such excess is absolutely useless, whole force of their countless ensemble comes down to plain exorbitance of fiction, it does not give them greatness or perfection, as well as doesn't gift justification: a ton of ants will never gather into elephant, it's doubtless. All curse of people hides in them themselves. What human role here actually is? Forlorn, tormented by reality, dishonored and hammered by past – a doll, a dummy, faceless phantom, dead mortal freak, ill shadow, not more. New society is mad, tightly brainless, ridiculous and rid of any aim. The number of involved in circus actors can't change the type of showing play, excess of people doesn't make them humans."
"But looking long at stumbling ones, you yourself can forget how to walk..."
"At here takes place mind's abrupt imperfection, creeping greedily out of brain. True fruits of knowledge always are excessive, they're given into permanent abundance, that's why such ones not always can stay positive: some of randomly gaining conclusions can be harmfully pestilent, fatal. Sometimes new truths oppress and break. And you can't influence, you have just to endure."
"No joy, no shade of serenity. Abyss."
"So it is. Having broken in parts any square, you'll never gather its fresh splinters into circle. Life's vanity can't serve as source of happiness. It does not happen here such way. But selectivity, as rule, provides salvation - the plot of fate is surely bilingual: both God and devil read you kind of text, the only question whom you listen. The thing, which's hoop for skinny person, is just a ring for amply plump. The thing, which's an infinity for fool, is just a moment for a smart one. The space of room is determined by size of inhabitant."
"I agree. But anyway futility is stronger."
"Weed plant will calmly grow with no soil – in total vacuum will rise. It's guilt of freaks, but not of being. If you've stopped to believe into heaven, it's not a reason to greet hell."
"But too easy it is to give up, to mistaken."
"But fuss is matter of life's suburbs, not of middle of world, look at the same rotating wheel – its center all the time is fully motionless, it's spinning only at own place, not describing long tiresome routes, with the life all the same: truly weighty and purposeful spheres will remain monumental forever - all century invariably original, all time completely innocent and static, real greatness is freed - from events, mortal passions and hurry, it's constantly devoted to perfection, the only valuable and frankly omnipotent... And indestructible by rubbishy society."
"Life is angry today."
"You say right. Just look at beggars and sick lepers, who has made them like this? Our life. And it can easily repeat such things with you – as well as can endow you with great money. All depends on one shy timid luck."
"Right here I eagerly confirm – vast vagueness is all we truly have."
"Most high complexity of any of devices doesn't mean any scale of true usefulness. The world is just excessively structured, just excessively plunged into technical blooming, that is all. And if to say of suitable ideas, among such ones stays vacuum and only. With admixture of apathy and shit."
"So, having decently succeeded into death, you can at all forget of any future. If you're going to perish, you're corpse."
"It's sad, but smelting is most merciless of actions, most violent of processes and deeds, it's not accustomed to show pity, not used to feel remorse or kind of guilt, such one if freed from any care: both an angular piece of material and a cute graceful figure or statue will equally dissolve and disappear, will get hurriedly smashed by high temperature – with no trace and no of remains. With person's perishing and dying, with inner breaking all is just the same – such things can occur only once, they hurting irrevocably and deadly, with most unbearable result, which hits immediately, sharply and forever. We're made of bitterness and errors. Any share and life is a short and despotical matter. All its luck is not more than a ghost, a tiny flash, indistinct, faint and meager. We live in horror, into murk, thick and endless inside, dark and painful– from far birth and till placing in coffin."
"Each step is point of despair."
"I know, but essence hides too deeper. Any prison in obvious practice is frightening and scary not by cell, but by length of imputed imprisonment. In fact, it's absolutely vain and unimportant, how hard is your life, how sad and piteous conditions does it have, indeed significant is only one thing - your chance of getting rid of living problems, of finding decent exit and salvation."
"It's greatly difficult at now to survive, no matter how strong you're with your soul."
"It's quite disastrous and appalling. You cannot live without reason. Main horror and nightmare of your being is laying into only one fact – if fact, that all the time you persistently try to stay saved, to attain any rescue. You neatly hide from pains and dangers, research new ways of how to survive – for unbearably long hopeless time, and as a poisonous result, having lost past control for a while, for only a little modest moment, you yourself go to grief and collapse all your share. Don't give up, don't succumb to environment. Forget of all except of you. Whole world is not on object for excitement, it's just a stage, which's close to garbage can in right perception. Indeed remarkable and valuable for soul are only rare individuals and prospects – if all of flowers will die, you will mourn not for weeds, but for best of the roses."
"No matter, how hard you try, you cannot change lost world around, deception and dishonor are immortal."
"The better is the actor, the more disgusting are his roles. It's main point of confusion, slightest weakness of faith under force of huge doubts turns all plans into junk."
"Life is shit or much worse."
"Life is life. Don''t look at stone, which's under water: you'll never see it's surface from aside, just dive and say hello to damaged spine from its appalling crackling sound."
"The more you're trying to compete with given share, the more promptly it turns you in dust."
"In games with God, the winner is one devil. You can't cross life with help of feet."
"Heaven's frankness is utterly cunning..."
"All ones, who don't believe in sweet and tasty lie, calmly get bitter one, but again it's not truth. Cynicism is basis of world's  nature. For the sake of nefarious goal, of most soulless and ugly beginning, you'll never get plain offer of to kill. For the sake of such rubbishy goal, you'll get offer to gift a salvation. You'll be surely trapped by high purpose. You'll be trapped and agree on an error. Remember, evil comes with calmness, not with hurry or storm."
"Human's role is offensively small. Small and useless."
"A person here is just a tiny screw. But each screw is completely specific, even partly not equal to others – one of them serves as useless addition, and other one supports and holds whole system. Any eagerness, striving or ardor is nothing more than sign of harsh naivety: the louder is praised the breed of winners, the harder will be beaten losers' flock. All gracefully and beautifully fallen and all crookedly and uglily risen are neatly balanced, as a rule. And climb too high is mindless risk. When they're stopping to hate you, they begins to prepare for your burring. The more essential you are, the more awful will seem life's conditions."
"It's hard to fit to our time. Hard and utterly lonely. And even harder to be pure."
"Noticed well. Smart thought today is like a ball: you throw it, but no one can catch. People are aimless, their most favorite program today is white noise. And don't be zealous, it fruitless: active ones dead in violent storm, passive ones – at calm shallow. The greatest helplessness inhabits heads and hearts."
"Initiative all times was just a rubbish, at here I eagerly confirm. Strong desire to eat today is just a reason to be poisoned."
"This lost world can't be changed. As well as can't be changed each share's route. Crowd around is dead. Their skillful madness can't be fixed, can't be properly cured or corrected. You can't meet truth in swamp of lie. Dirt, pain, futility and vainness are immortal, omnipotent in damaging power, they beat without any rules, without chances on recovery and saving."
"All what life truly is – just source of grief and paranoia..."
"It's quite easy for us to give up. But peace, which met you after storm, is a hundred times sweeter than honey. Each pause is just a reason for to move."
"You cannot find a lot in our being. Can't find right course and can't affirm oneself."
"The relevance of one or other note is determined by one single melody, it changes and turns, and you have to support correspondence. so where the tune will turn, you will play with that part. But do not rush to build predictions: foresightness also is not sweet. The thicker is the covering of veil, the more tender are fogs for perception, sobriety is a painful, hurting thing, as well as presence of pure mind. Even thoughts can deliver one torments. What's more each decent understanding of all better begins from checking of the limits of all worst. The main gift from the life is its absence."
"But how to become life's owner..."
"But what for? All the owners of life do not matter, essential are only creators, primordial and main organizers are, and temporary holders not in count. Such ones are just a source for human humus, food for worms and not more. But stay aside, keep aimfulness and calmness, be more high and more strong – the further is your goal, the closer are your tools. Strive to top, to life's peak."
"Any peak is entirely lonely – it's always bordered by emptiness and only."
"So it ruefully is... Having luckily turned into human, be ready to endure lots of monkeys. Among of brilliant ideas and beginnings, the most important of all thing is not to get seduced by petty purpose. And if you'll cope in proper manner, then all next road to greatness will be free. Be more fervent in dreams. The more than sea of possibilities is only the ocean of wishes. While fools save doubts what to do with tools, smart ones enjoy with taste of goal."
"With fish-net, full of fish, main thing is not forget to pull..."
"I confirm, so it really is. It's truly helpful and important to do just few quite simple things – to keep perseverance of own mind and to shy of extremes. After all, all is terribly easy: any hasty and will-less agreemen is a sign of soon stupid defeat, every questionless, steely denial is a marker of prompt skillful winning. Be patient, world is such a place, where all, who are afraid of fire, get a flood into role of replacement."
"For to go faster, I am sure, the world will start to drop own speed. How much I agree with your words..."
"You have to be more brave and more heroic. Don't live with emptiness, just die, but with idea."
"Nice position, I like. The thicker is the lie, the more willingly people consume it. Most of them have no aim for to live for. This is painfully sad and completely oppressive."
"More sad that nothing can be changed. You can turn all the earth, but all will stay in similar disorder."
"With realizing of the life, your optimism will lose all types of hope."
"The peak of pessimism is called as realism. After all, having seen cherished essence, you do not want to see at all. The highest bogey hides in truth."
"Once again I agree. Naive ones wait for spring, prudent ones wait for autumn, most far-sighted wait only for death... Any greatness is myth..."
"With greatness, main is not to lose connection: if you're climbing at rock you can equally fall or get filled with tart glory. And reality goes ahead. Burning circus, as all we're informed, is not not a course for stopping cheerful play."
"Current play... How to guess, what it is..."
"But for what? Trust to rules of the game is a weakness of losers. Full ignorance of road is an excellent guide."
"But random also is too shaky. After all, having lost inner compass, tear fate's map and stop way."
"We have no roads for such one. And we have no need in such madness. Don't save this world. It's pointless to rescue breathless corpse."
"The role of human is a curse."
"It doesn't matter more than nothing. The gait depends on given road, and not of efforts of walker's feet."
"We have lots of pedestrians here... Lost and useless."
"And lots of routes, do not forget. And all unsuitable and worthless. World's maker wasn't jeweler."
"How has made us? What for? How to guess and to stay with cold head."
"Good mind's machine can calmly cope with any information.."
"But which a way... And how to do it..."
"Which way to realize, that world is faked? That it's primitive matrix and only. How to destroy the universe in brain? In childhood you was scared by some nonsense – by bedside monster or the same. And you've been ardently believing. Santa Claus was seeming quite real. Then your childhood has suddenly ended and such fears, of course, have also deftly disappeared. Then you have got acquainted with religion and learned some truth about God. Then, if you've gone to study science, you've meekly fall in atheism's division, having lost faith in God. But even if you are most stubborn skeptic, you anyway believe in world itself. In fact that, it has myriads of peopl, that they really live here and die, get sick and suffer into torments, make mistakes, hate and ask for forgiving, you believe into history's way, believe in far antiquity and future, believe, that at medieval executions have been cutted away real heads. And finally, you think that you is you. You believe that all things you remember had place indeed with you yourself, that each of day has really been real and no moment of your fate has been implanted in your mind and has been surely existing. You believe into naked information. You do not even know who've produced it. True God controls both saint and evil. He himself richly sins and forgives own omissions. All of facts are just parts of one plan. Humans' god is just local performer. As well as devil, by the way. True creator is greatly above. Destroy all patterns, that you know. Any sciences work right because now it's needful such way, it's needful for initial beginning. If such one will lose love to the world – no single scheme will show you truth, all of atoms will helplessly crumble and whole space will just collapse in seed. Be sure, genuine Creator can't be known. We say of world, reality and God. All this vain fuss is temporary matter. Only truth can be permanent here. The one, which, by the way, stays always absent. "
"I need to visit any God – have some questions from now."
"Than bring me mirror – I will show."
"Your self-esteem supports as doping. It's much brighter than lamp."
"Gain some similar one and get joy."
"Will you share with seeds?"
"I'll even tell most proper type of watering."
"Priceless offer, I'm glad."

VII
Onto liquidly purple dawn sky are thoughtfully and carefully flaunting first timid rays of pale and sleepy sun. Blissful silence of innocent morning, caressing area with paints, is meekly listening to moveless outlines. Thin gentle fog is gradually growing faintly white. Margarita Yegorovna is greeting starting of new day - drinks tea and fills with sharp anticipation - Elvira Antonovna, new trouble, is promissing to come in few of minutes. Such fact, most threatening and awful, has made the lady noticeably nervous and filled with permanent alert – do not wait something good from adventures. Time also flows with no zeal, inert mood stays in frames of weak languor, and rambling flocks of pensive thoughts get submissively mixed with each other, intertwining in weird combinations, full of doubts and firm hesitation. And finally the knock in hated door.
"Open gate. I have come! In early morning, as I love."
"Okay. Step in."
"Why damned you once again is so sad? Has woken up without sun? Cheer up! We have a lot of things for to commit. And you support habitual refusing. Don't show your babyish part of person. You're tons of years not a child."
"Okay, I'll try to come to terms with such a burden."
"Where are you going to go - to have rest or to delve into grief? Catch a shame from my side. Where have you taken such a sadness? Like a corpse. I so much times have fed you with advices – you need to have more fun inside, more smile at face and so on. No even shadow of result... But now I'll break this static state: let's shake own bunches of emotions – for not to lose from memory these times. Why are you silent as a stone? As if you're seriously dumb."
"What can I say, I don't resist."
"Are you normal or not? I call your person to cheer up, and you're against of such an offer."
"I agree. It's okay."
"Then get ready for storm!"
"Where are the coordinates of last one?"
"You will see. Just get ready."
"I'll get." - Margarita Yegorovna has reluctantly moved to the chest and begun to put on future outfit.
"Have you bought some new clothes?" - has asked Elvira Antonovna. Margarita Yegorovna has nodded.
"And now do some brisk makeup. And we'll go."
"You know, I'm not in friendship with makeup."
"You are strange. More than many of others. Okay, let's go - the route is promising and dazzling."
"Where are you going me to drag?"
"I feel, you'll never stop protest to my beginnings. We move to safe and lucky places with short pleasant kind of road. To recreation country house, to Yeniseevka, which's near of Crimson Hill, remarkable by bridges, made of oak. You certainly should know those locations."
"I do not even heard of such a place. I've never been in there for all my life."
"Then it's time for first visit. In love newcomers have a luck."
"So, luck - it's not about me."
"Once again you are falling in mourning, once again melancholy and only."
"Do not try to console my depression, with me it vice versa kills last mood."
"You are hopeless, I see. We are riding to joy, and you sing tragic melodies and get dressed into sorrow."
"Happy notes do not cling to my fate – to dark and desolately mortal."
"You're foolish head - yourself is moving to despair. All my efforts as water into river – flow away and dissolve."
"Is it right and indeed smartly sensible - to involve me each time to some matters, to promise help to my ill-fated fate?"
"I care of your share so neatly with so keen kindness and control. I'm not a stone, as you see, I can't permit for you to lose your chances. Who you are, after all? With nothing suitable inside and with no hope. As if damned."
"Maybe so, I don't know. But I live as I can. And it's barely aimful to change me."
"What are you doing with your share? Fate will stop, you will die – life is deft."
"I agree, death is kind of sweet gift for my being." 
"Perfect mood for a walk."
Both ladies suddenly fall silent, slowly looked at each other - first one bewilderedly, shyly and forlornly, and second one - appraisingly and sternly, and with no big participation both of then has unluckily trudged into voyage.
Quiet street is deserted and static. Pale houses are modest and indistinct. Friendly weather is pleasantly peaceful. Smooth landscape is expectedly calm and restrained. An ordinary truth of usual summer.
So, having languidly exchanged gray city's suburbs, the heroines have gone on bending path and freely left behind of shoulders the last inhabited massif. At this time, trickless route of these wandering travelers has breathlessly and helplessly got stuck at mournful faceless square of bus stop - the place of finish point of their going.
In around is steadily staying wide keen serenity of dominant oblivion – most distant quarter of the city. Old road is practically wild – no high-rise building for a mile in both directions.
"Now 35th will dock at our side, and we'll happily move into ride. One hour more, and we'll arrive." - has delightedly told leading lady to her pensive and silent companion.
After tiresome pause of observing, have unhurriedly fallen in waiting. Twenty minutes of time, and white cumbersome bus with large scalloped black numbers 35 "Yeniseevka - center" has appeared from blurred horizon.
"Get in. Be deft." - has commanded in briskly abrupt manner Elvira Antonovna and the starting of trip has been calmly announced.
Into wide and impressively thick hazy window has lazily begun to stretch own boundless vastness friendly temperate summer landscape – neatly plowed crumbly arables, tartly green monotonous plains and richly motley splendid lawns, amply filled with high blossoming herbs. Pure grace and absolute enjoyment, the very apogee of pleasure for soul's depths. Best treatment from distress and devastation. Great flawless beauty – bliss and gladness. In perfect bottomless degree. Charming rustle of wheels is sedulously caressing ears, smell of freshness and dew is alluringly blowing with hope, and tranquil soul is gradually delving into harmony, enveloping both purposes and feelings. Faultless excellence, marvelous abyss.
Three static quarters of an hour have passed, and breathless wanderer – worn bus – has turned to small and pretty house, drowned in foliage, and opened iron shutters of own doors. The ladies have relaxedly gone out.
By sides is picturesquely staying native nature, indestructible freedom of wind and vast emptiness – no single soul, no face or voice. Onto building resting estate are hanging huge wine-colored letters: the recreation center "Place of Miracles".
"Lovely sign... Sweety view." - Margarita Yegorovna has lamentably sighed: "Far from truth, by the way."
"Stop keeping sullen, break it down, all will come, all will be. Let's just go."
At territory everything is quiet, under wide yellow canopy – few grouped in pairs tennis tables, in shade of thickets – old oak benches and long stone paths with neatly painted borders. Atmosphere is mildly welcoming. Even close in some way to sky's abode. At reception is cute pretty girl, and all of her, of course, maintains traditions – in thoughtless head no shade of slightest knowledge of current state with free for settling rooms, at dolly face – tart permanence of smile.
Both guests have introduced own floated persons. Having furtively winked, lounging worker has moved for fresh schedule, then has started to check. Then has written new visitors' names. Then has held the appropriate keys.
Now up the stairs few of floors.
The room itself is stunningly ascetic – small bed and shameless naked air, nothing fussy and vain.
"We'll eat in local dining room and will wait for upcoming of evening – time of recklessly passionate heat. Priceless matter it is, I will tell, - to please at once both soul and body." - Elvira Antonovna has playfully and frivolously yawned in habitual indolent manner.
"I feel no drop of aspiration for such deeds, feel no inward desire... For me it's not a feast, but dreary plague."
"You are mindless, I guess. Come on, let's at least eat some food from their kitchen."
"Well, let's take such a risk..."
In sleepy eatery is staying lifeless quietness, late visitors are eminently rare, modest tables are free, food distribution also empty. At wide clean windows – flower pots. In lonely and pathetic atmosphere – deep thick oblivion, despondency and sadness. Enormously viscous and lavish. But in soul – endless hopelessness, gloom.
Margarita Yegorovna, having got slightly lost for short time, has indifferently settled herself at most near of sits and left the content of own breakfast at Elvira Antonovna's choice. Last one has taken pilaf and pancakes and, having luckily returned, has begun to sing praises to cooks:
"Let's eat, let's taste. Be sure, it is most excellent of dainties. And table setting also rather nice."
"Okay, I'll try to cope without overeating."
"Do it hard, with whole will – prepare flesh for soon adventures. We will move right to great."
"But will reach only bottom, I feel. It's too mad to rely on good luck."
"So having primarily killed all better chances, you will find only murk."
"I can't believe in other state, I bathe in sorrow all life. Only pain nowadays is my partner, only grief."
"You even do not need a reason for your mourning - start crying right whenever you desire. Even paradise cannot console you. You yourself do not know what you want."
"I know what I want. But, trouble, nobody offer..."
"Have you fed your sad belly? Let's take route to the beach, maybe we'll even find some nice fellows. It will be glorious, I know."
Having pushed chairs back under table, have drowsily begun to step own way.
The length of distance to the water is not long – short fifty meters of thin grove and sand vastness is reached. Calm peaceful features are indistinct. Air is pure. Deep height is pristinely transparent. Space of sky, wholly pale in zenith, in unison with faceless whitish sun is silently and shyly alienated and mystically dreamily forlorn. Lines of contours are meekly laconic, smooth landscape is perplexedly dull, warmly cozily languid and blissful. Tart midday melancholy – surely in peak. Rare colors are also restrained, affectionate and friendlily welcoming. Time is wordless and sad.
Not tall pier has huge yellow umbrella, under which there is some glad company.
"Take off your clothes, and I will visit those guests." - has here informed Elvira Antonovna and assuredly moved in straightforward direction.
"All repeats once again. Each one is looking for adventures, and I'm predictably alone..." - Margarita Yegorovna has sighed and dejectedly given herself to moveless visual surveillance of action. Easy plot did not make any waiting – seduced by craving for unknown Elvira Antonovna has masterfully joined resting community and then briskly returned – not alone: by both of her amorous hands, we keeping two philistine guys, quite average, but bodily textured and stylishly and boldly outfitted in beach-riotous prurient clothes:
"Here I'm bringing you excellent catch:two great companions - best eagles! Remember, one of them is mine."
Margarita Yegorovna had reluctantly raised pensive gaze and, supporting own usual fearfulness, has hesitantly stretched in feeble voice: "I greet you, unfamiliar new faces."
"She is good... I'll leave this devil for myself. It's such a kind of woman breed, who wear kindness as own clothes." - has instantly concluded in response one of new carnal seekers.
"I have no questions, she is yours." - has given personal permission Elvira Antonovna.
"Well, my keen beauty, what's your name?"
"Margarita Yegorovna ..." - the lady has downtroddenly replied.
"She is Marguerite, Daisy." - has briskly integrated Elvira Antonovna, representing her fortunless friend.
"Charming consonance. Eloquent." - has picked up nimble walker.
"Then retire with her far in passion." - has interrupted Elvira Antonovna, having here once again reconnected to dialogue.
"We're dissolving right now." - the seducer has cunningly winked and, having given weighty hand to own new darling, slowly dragged by coastline, neatly hugging vast surface of water.
"Tell me now of yourself."
"With whom I talk?" - has coldly asked Margarita Yegorovna, who has already partially removed from involvement in course of discussion.
"If it matters, I am Nikolai. Nikolai Valentinovich. If you need my full naming."
"Well, I've heeded, okay. Where are you from?"
"Not from abyss. From city."
"Quite respectable fact, I can say. One minus – not unique. Our city is big."
"World is also not small."
"Yes, not small, but not bottomless too – only crowds and fuss. City also is kind of anthill. It is uncomfortable here in modern times."
"It's vain to feed own head with nostalgia, live for forthcoming, for next days."
"What will wait in last one? There are enough of trifles even now, but what significant will happen into future?"
"In the present, I'll say, I haven't fucked you yet, but at tonight... Maybe, all will take place. It's explanation for past question. Have my words impregnated your brain?"
"You've started with vulgarity, okay. I see, you're going to go far."
"Not deeper than yours nature will allow."
"Good passage, but with no intrigue."
"I love your genuine straightforwardness and promptness, not frequent kind of inner boldness. Here I'll console your hungry essence – I will be generous in pleasures. So, consider this case for true personal luck - fall in ardor. If you need some surprises, I'll give. We can easily make a sweet trio - my amigo Mishka, the very one who has been grabbed by your brisk friend, will be excellent helper in lustful, he like such marvelous adventures. Will your scarecrow let him to us? Maybe even will join herself. You will study each other more tightly. And we will rapturously look."
"Tempting rubbish for somebody else, but not for me, I'll disappoint. I don't need such a dirt. Exchange of personal fate's weightness on scholastic and heartless intimacy is not looking as precious prospect. For me myself, polygamy is sign of mind's absence, of sure imbecility of human. Thought and flesh are entirely bottomless, having changed them on shallow of rakishness, of vain licentiousness and lewdness, you'll lose whole depth of admiration, such one will wretchedly come down to simple mating. You have no inner fire into soul, if you call it as true conflagration. I don't appreciate such trash, dismiss.my person from this scum. Without me commit your sickness. You can seduce my “scarecrow”, as you've described her – she's not a mountain, and you are not a climber."
"You'll stay with no dick forever..."
"And I will certainly express no faint regret."
"You are kind of unsociable shit. You are stubbornly mumble some wisdoms, as if you really are smart. If you don't need in fuck – roll out, don't poop in mind, I will easily find someone else. For me you are not more than speaking meat."
"Well, I've heard. Here we'll go apart. Good luck in dirty expectations." - Margarita Yegorovna has assuredly turned and sadly walked away from nasty tempter:
"What a rubbish in heads nowadays, what a dust... How can they live in such a manner? All their life, all period of being - what does it have inside of years? Why is it based on total filth? Do they have any kind of true purpose? I am waiting for happiness here. I frankly and sincerely believe. With all my mind I clearly know my wishes and live today by cherished expectation of grace and warmth, of something really better. I'm not afraid to be deceived. What's more, I have no faith at all – nor to deserted days, nor to short blurred chance, nor to stigma or fate. Last one is painted not with oil – with loud tears, pain and human blood. But even if all really is so – is it cause for to stop? To kill seeking for tart, matchless passion? There is no need in skills, if you are rotting. I understand, it's difficult and hard to treat own life another, than it treats you. I admit sure hopelessness, losses. I feel world's death, but try keep resistance. The stone of sadness falls at whole your being – at heart, at mind, at daily deeds. It's a pity to look at reality. Thoughts' evolution ends with one despair, with cognition of emptiness, murk. What else is left to us in actuality. If everywhere – abode of the Hell. Low pettiness is called today as smartness, soulless meanness - as love, cruelty – as strongness and foresightness. The world is surely ridiculous and ugly, it's entirely wretched. Wretched and lost. Where is nothing to wait for at here. And Elvira Antonovna is probably in best and flawless mood. In evening she will go to the disco. In depths of sharp unbridledness and sins. Why do I need to follow her vain person? For a what? What a huge brainless whim... To see vile faces and amuse them. I have to keep my path away. And not to meet with such a friend in future. To forget her at all."
Margarita Yegorovna has deftly made her route through gap in fence and gone in straight direction to bus stop: "Take me back, 35th. Take forever."

VIII
And again conversation of two. Savely Semyonovich effortlessly begins:
"How stupid and vain is the world, how much full of unbearable recklessness. Local people are ready for all – for any mindlessness, atrocity and fuss, if last ones are both horrible and dumb. Why everything is accurately so?"
"It's the only possible way. Any lie, tartly seasoned with legend, is much nicer, than absolute truth. For flock of mad society all is so. Nothing else can console their strivings. So, be careful, strained – if you look at those ones, who are falling, you will identically fall at one of days, don't forget. " - Alexey Borisovich has observantly told.
"And it's even more sad and dramatic, that most right and most beautiful shares get most pernicious of facts and situations."
"Decent feet never get suitful paths. This world encourages one uselessness and void. Strong heartlessness and mental devastation. You cannot bloom in swamp, it's changeless."
"How to survive in such nightmare?"
"It’s not easy, I know. And what's painful, it's needless. But be, at least, more careful and prudent. Carrying thin crystal ball, at first, don’t dance. It's main of truths."
"But awareness also destroys - each apathy is road to mistakes. And people kill, deject and puzzle – they don't reach for their perfect foundations, they support only ugliness, rave."
"Each one, who has betrayed with lantern, will never look at any stars. World is lost in itself, people too: after killing all weeds, you cannot get a rose from nowhere."
"It's sure ragedy, nightmare. No happiness here, no gladness."
"True happiness is similar to rainbow: it appears with rain of illusions and for sadly short time. As replacement of longing..."
"Incoherence is mother of the world."
"Incoherence is sign of soon strong changes. Main thing is to resist till very end. The narrower are paths, the angrier are borders."
"Such a pain into soul..."
"It's a fruit of keen mind and reflections: any crack into heart splits whole being."
"Where to look for true calmness..."
"In your own righteousness and pureness. In holistic self-confidence. Having opened own casino, you will not care of your bets. Speak behalf of the world, be most significant from all its countless members. In such parameters you'll have no useless questions. And shy of people, they are harmful. All connection with wolves is given only in role of helpless sheep. Be able to avoid such vain cases."
"It’s so much easy to get used to inconsolable lost being — to be like those, who have fallen."
"I cannot argue - it's too easy. For bird, who has no wings, even cage will be something as sky."
"I want to be concurrent with my better, want cherished miracle of luck, but can't find..."
"You seek for happiness, it's good: each flame of miracle is dish for ones, who're hungry."
"We're waiting for some miracles, and miracles are waiting in response. And both we wait..."
"We have no choice in given frames. Initiative is absolutely fruitless. With opened cards, the swindler is defenseless."
"Be strong, each light is sort of darkness."
"Gift more freedom for brain, for decisions."
"You can't change world by understanding."
"I completely agree. Both minds and souls are rid of power. The world itself is definitely dead. Having started with clearest emptiness, you'll never finish with completeness..."
"You cannot draw right circles by square templates..."
"Once again I agree..."
"After all, world surely stronger, it so certainly can kill each one of us..."
"So it is. We've been raised for to perish."
"Sometimes you feel yourself so stupid, you trust to life, to love, to luck. Trust and fail. Time by time."
"So any honesty in fact is nothing more than an example of naivety and only. Believe, that you can fall in love with anyone – completely, irrevocably and firmly, and no matter how petty is your partner, how disgusting and low, you will adore your companion with hunger. It's quite clear with stars: it doesn't matter how weak is light of star, important is exclusively the distance, nearby feeble star will look more bright and hot as hell, as well as close and needful person. You can simply burn out in flame, in endless fire of own feeling, it's more than abyss, more than pit. Fear the ones, who are near - stranger ones will dissolve, but native ones will stuck inside of heart. And the last one is right as perfume: you open it, and it lose smell and tartness."
"If you admit close ones as friends, than consider that snakes are great pets..."
"You see this correctly, I even am surprised. All hopes are lost in our souls. In our personal demands and inner strivings. In force of aims and depth of gaining wishes. That's why, remember for all being – in any floating at boat send praises only to oars."
"Fatalism nowadays is undying..."
"And besides, it's so awfully cruel. The more bright is your life, the more dark is its death."
"And you are nothing, when you've died."
"So it works at the earth, that the only role of the losers - to give all victories to winners and retreat. As well as role of all defenseless is to amuse the ones, who're armed. And that is why, don't ask for help from weaklings, human breed is not source of protection, their helpless flock can only is only calmly drown and quietly call your fate to common bottom. Don't crawl for lost civilization, follow towering God."
"But we get used to such a crawling..."
"If your feet have got friends with the music, dance until you will fall. It's unkillable here, everlasting. And if to say about others – most of them have no things for to risk, have no sadness from death or own wilting. Torn sail is not a grief on sinking boat."
"I agree. Never clean sinking liner... Maintain own unity with death."
"And never go to storm without boat. Be prepared for grief. After all, night is scary for those who're not familiar with dawn. Strengthen soul. You can't become a winner with no fight."
"But world is so, that no of good ideas will ever meet true followers' excess."
"In the hungry years, by the way, each undertaker, I assure, is ready to get dead himself for only to extract some money."
"And the living hell is our local universal and is still enveloped in total satire."
"Exactly so, I will confirm. Any tragedy, viewed from far sits, one a time inexorably turns into comedy."
"And kindness here, in world of evil, is as rain over dryness of desert..."
"I know, in ocean of being, saved ones cannot be counted by reason of their absence, and drowned ones by the reason of countlessness. Look at world, each its member will die, each one without of exception, the only moment and thing - will they have time to bloom into years. To bloom and to get filled with fake of happiness, then to step into grave. And even if you've saved yourself and rescued – before of next upcoming death, then you are also not a chosen of fate, but just an idiot, protected by occasion."
"I know, desire to be saved, is not a property of life ..."
"So it is. Love of life gets destroyed first of all by mind's presence. Among of buffoonery, aimlessness, you can be nothing more than a pawn. You are controlled by threads your emotions, by getting truthless information, by all depending not on you. You can't be late in walk to abyss. You will be surely in time. In spite of timeliness is only a moment."
"So annoying to be nobody, to lose and lose from day to day."
"It's also temporary, vain. After all, any horror of frosts is actual exclusively in time until of gathering of harvest. We're afraid not to have useful time, afraid to stay away from plan's fulfillment."
"Long life is nice exclusively with purpose, with light ahead and wish to be. Such conditions are utterly rare. Today we hasten to nowhere."
"And we'll certainly be there in time."
"We all are promptly decomposing... Wholeheartedly, devotedly and brightly, with kind of flame and scary morbid passion."
"And what's remarkable, it's absolutely right. Last chords should sound loudly and lively. The more thin are the strings of your nature, the more tuneful and keen are their tragical notes of life's melody. Don't forget of this pitiless rule."
"After all, in the midst of world's horror, all chances lead to equal endless murk."
"So it is. Death of lie, misbeliefs and deception, doesn't bring any shadow of truth. Each lie at here gets killed today by one – by skilled and dexterous changing on another. And truth is elementarily absent, it's sadly far from actual conditions."
"The world has surely transformed in dreary circus."
"With no essence in inside, all what really leaves to vain cover is to get weaker and to rot. For our universe it's also stably fair."
"And no small place, no tiny moment for soul's weightness, for honest step and sinless route."
"So it's made - any highness' attainment is similar to climbing by long ladder: if its parts are improperly fixed, you'll never climb too far with whole persistence. No matter, how much stubbornly you try – for every cup of vast ambitions this world has heavy hammer of annoyance."
"That's why all sanity is also rather pointless. Today it's rid of fruitful application."
"New barren world is absolutely mad. In aimless frames each sense is strictly worthless. The parachute of mind and understanding in airless space of brainlessness is useless."
"Do we have any chance on some changes?"
"I do not know such vain trifles... But  anyway no things can live forever. And insanity too. After all, alpine skis work in hills, at plains such ones are wholly useless. One day we have to meet mind's blooming. We have to overthrow both fuss and gloom. Vile power is a temporary trouble, a short omission and not more. I'll add, that most of dinosaurs were thinking that sun's light has also been created just for them. They have failed with such thesis."
"I cannot guess, what's good, and what's pernicious."
"Collecting fruits and picking spikelets, look, please, - who've sowed their tiny grains. Only goals and intentions take matter. are important. You can easily keep blissful task, but move straightforwardly to hell. Don't be afraid to be too cruel – God's hatred is much better and forgivable, than devil's love and preservation."
"All is killed, all is dead – any plans, any roads, any actions."
"It's also nice. Both tranquil peace and tireless despair are also parts of common dish. Anyway all will lead in one tragedy."
"World's maker have to be quite handy."
"That's why don't trust to will of being. After all, ears aren't equal to eyes, as well as feelings to mind's power. Impression – partner of deception. Keep coldness, firmness and uniqueness, do not get weak, don't stay idle. Build all best, go ahead."
"All I build is just pain."
"All good gets birth by naked luck, not by flock of free tools and decision, not by course of gray days and vain meetings. But luck is also sort of dust. In evolution of the buildings the highest level, what's most dreary, is occupied by absolute ruins. Last station for each human is graveyard."
"It definitely hurts and puts in torments."
"Fate is huge, but still quite manageable, opened for control. We obey ourselves, we accept harmful rules of playing – you cannot go with straight direction by sharply winding twisty road."
"What's the main?"
"The main is not to lose yourself. Not to surrender to sick routine and not to bend with deathless soul. Not to get sold to devil's abode. Continuously stubbornly remember, it is impossible to stir own shit in cup and then to drink clean tasty water. Having lost human honor, you cannot get a spare one. Even if everybodies betrayed you, main thing is not to act in their manner. Betraying, you betray at first yourself, your soul, which falls that time in abyss. It's difficult to differ from own flock, I admit such a pain. But crown of universe is person. Excess of people's population is rather breakable short thing. One strong and merciless pandemic - and it's fixed: no enemies, no kings or venal presidents."
"So it is. All is shaky. Sometimes long years pass as day..."
"One day, which's spent with use and purpose, is much more valuable and nice than worthless century of fuss. And current ideals are equal to nightmare. But still you have no reason to give up. The more submissive is your head, the more frequently will it be beaten. With full indifference your path will roll to hell."
"Not to find inner bliss."
"Think more aptly at here. Having sadly succumbed to the routine, you'll never leave its endless frames. After all, the more nice is the night, the more hateful is dawn. Getting used to life's shit is most awful. You will have no escape from its poisonous abode. But bright experience is always undeniable. Each one, who've felt the height of sky, will never crawl for all next being. But with no confidence in personal beginnings all will be frighteningly foggy till life's end. Most firm of boundaries and limits are modestly located into heads. With opened mind, all chances are in hands."
"I agree, having nimbly escaped from the chase, the main of things, what's greatly strange, is not to find, that no one has been chasing. Extremely much depends on single head, you're wholly right."
"And never be afraid of storms and troubles, go through them with no pain. To fail is much more worse, than to die. As well as whip in holy hands is much nicer than sweets into devil's."
"But sometimes, what's most bad, we are stumbling at obvious finish, when all hardships have passed."
"The closer is your target, the weaker are your hands. Each way to miracles has lots of forks to hell."
"It's regrettable, sad. And nothing helpful can be done. You can't build greatness from its splinters."
"Real troubles and griefs never leave your forever. The more quiet is each dormant volcano, the more merciless, awful and scary will be felt its surprising awakening. But still act and persist, rush to goals and keep rescuing promptness, I just beg - don't give up, don't get lost. And, going up by others' heads, do not forget main deal – to save your own. Crown yourself and despise all around. All scales are usually deceptive. You cannot heal and turn in dust all universal pains and sorrows. Love yourself, don't get perplexed by alien omissions. And do not trust to anyone you know. Remember zealously one - well-hidden devil, freed from checking, can be perceived as doubtless God for completely unlimited time."
"And so it perishably is - the highest devil's strength and talent is his ability to act as pristine God. It doesn't matter what we feel. All is fog, all is lie. Degrees are powerless today. As well as past experience and will."
"From ant to elephant all difference in ego."
"Trouble here."
"Such thing is popular today. Main plus of any known poison hides in fact, that its dangerous eating does not require presence of companion. Life's shit is permanent damnation. And inner peace... It's pure utopia most often."
"Each second – soil for despair..."
"Pain is fuel of thought. Main grows in sufferings, in abyss."
"I'm neatly suffering from birth... This earthly world, forlorn and aimless, it's so much alien, so nasty and disgusting."
"Each foreign land depends on geographic. All heart's affinity is fruit of living course. Close yourself from the world, change soul's lock and go up. Drive away doubtful guests. Fight, resist, kill mistakes. We never stumble by the mountains. True greatness can't be wrong or harmful. Don't be afraid of something high. And don't allow to be with something shallowed. You can calmly forgive any enemy, but only if last one is a corpse. Each fear works as treatment from mind's presence. Remember, winners can't be judged, but this is only a half of prudent statement, the second part informs of more – of fact, that losers in response are firmly rid of every chance on any own justification."
"And what you'll say about beauty?"
"For me it's fake of real greatness."
"And sex is fake of real love?"
"Maybe, yes. Sex is a derivative of last one. It's also kind of precious pearl. And each splinter of miracle is already huge trinket."
"We look for more, but live among of rubbish: world causes absolute rejection, people - hatred, and God... God – compassion. Nothing good. Nothing high. No even matter who you are..."
"We all are dying, don't forget."
"How long will it go?"
"Who will guess... Time will tell."

IX
Well-performed, silent morning has quietly filled mild peaceful atmosphere of timid, shyly sad and sleepy bedroom of similarly idle and relaxed Margarita Yegorovna. Lonely dim weightless rays have cautiously crawled by modest things, attentively and curiously studying inconspicuous moderate furniture. Monotonous time has effortlessly stepped into narrow bounds of habitual tender oblivion. New day has started own beginning.
Outside of hazed colorless window, the misty expanse of the sky is timidly and wearily melting. In gloomy depths of faceless corners are idly creeping shapeless hadows. Time from time, with sufficiently ample tenacity, is faintly shining smoothly tinted floor. At spacious and sweetly cozy bed is lying into lovely lounging harmony its incessantly pensive inhabitant. Is still loafingly sleeping. But this is strictly not for long – one minute more, and Margarita Yegorovna, having shyly and sluggishly yawned into warm satisfaction, has coyly stretched herself and cutely shivered:
"One new morning again. New thoughts and previous old troubles. The same vain deeds and changeless barren goals. Freedom's spectrum is short, sadly meager and far, it's forever remote, strictly closed and appallingly hidden. Lost world is not a source of rich variety. It's surely not bottomless, I know. And the longer you live in life's abode, the more strong is your inner rejection. World's coldness kills, exhausts and hurts. Time of festive extinction is scary, greatly rueful and dead. And indeed most unbearably awful is not people's and souls' extinction, much more tragic and sick is broad extinction of the world - of very principles of being, of very meanings and foundations, of very essence of each human, of any fate with whole its daily presence, of every particle of good. There are no people at all, only madmen and herods around, hollow idiots, jesters and liars, freaks and cynics, last shit, that's all our undying society. Their idols are including one rough tyrants, they understand one pain and doom of grief. The path of world is terribly disastrous, it's filled with only one shame, with dumb confusion and omissions. This can't be healed, diluted or improved. Gilded sand of all their pure and sinless promises – in next development is average deceit, useless dust and vain valueless rubbish. But we mindlessly trust so evident poison. We'll never fall in sanity, in joy. Such ones are temporary, lifeless. The only thing, which's absolutely changeless, is time of grave in final of each path. Being's storm doesn't care – ones will die, other ones will replenish their absence. Updates are stopless and eternal. Life is a sort of endless abyss, where people cannot float, can only sink. Human journey is dark, attached to painful burden of oppression. Situation is sad - we have two sides of hopelessness' conditions: first - reality's emptiness and second - aimlessness of hopes. All we can differ from each other is one degree of torments and humility. Vain years first, then visit to the coffin. And days of sufferings within of birth and death. Drop own luck, it will never be found. If meaninglessness has entered your heart, your mind and plans, then hands are free, untied for madness. And all will crumble - step by step. Mental gap will be surely added by moral briskness, body's lust, feeling's weakness and low demands. And fate... It cannot be controlled or understood. So, what it is, if not a bottom... After all, any kind of activity is short straight way to personal defeat. And the stronger is zeal, the more tragic and dark are its outcomes. This world is merciless to perfect. There are no ways, no rights for breathless soul. If you have no path, then get relaxed and go to nowhere. No matter, how you rejoice with small details, totality determines own plot's moving. You can't save happiness at here – can get seduced and disappointed, that's all. World is boundlessly poor. It's current state is helplessly absurd, unjustified and obviously harmful, wholly aimless and hurtingly stupid. Modern frames look as tree with no roots. The source of productivity is vacuum, full emptiness, which gives all kinds of things and equally consumes all types of facts and strivings. For sufferers it's offered at here to get learned how to love all own sufferings; for ones, who patiently endure, is given scary fear of pain's increasing. Vast rampage of realities is stronger. We have to suffer and lose. Even God has dissolved last of hopes. No light here, no aim, no miracle, no chances, no faith, no tangible prospects. Only madness and dirt. And my soul in this abyss..."
The lady has got up, caught up with window and leaned with elbows on its frame. Outside, as each time, daily life, meager breathing of purposeless routine, deep emptiness and languid blissful murk with snow-white flocks of tiny clouds in dim height, with boring veil of faceless fog, long straight horizon, rid of features, full of bottomless cloying severity andindifferent  typically buildings. At left side – dark smooth roofs. At right one - endless thinning expanse of cold latitudes. Depressed and wilted urban space, old familiar views - completely deserted and gloomy, drowned in tearful rains and unfixably drowsy. That's whole world's picture for both eyes.
Margarita Yegorovna has lovely shrugged her shoulders and then longingly sighed: "Where are true ideals and meanings? Where I am in life's cage? With only emptiness around. So much familiar for years. Too hard to be all time alone... And no luck will ever help. Except of fortuneless myself, no one will comfort me or heal."
The lady has obediently sat down right in front of wide mirror and gently risen with her hand by piquant hips.
"Again I coyly share my quiet warmth with lost and irreparable myself. And every time like that and only."
Margarita Yegorovna has slowly spread her thirsty legs and, having dexterously gone down with deft finger to own personal charms, has totally relied on dreams' abundance and on promptness of primitive movements.
"So much good... So much insanely pleasant. How nice, how hot it's inside. As in stove. Priceless bliss is this bodily joy. Much better than each paradise and heaven."
Keen rakishness has timidly continued. Concerned lustfulness and lewdness lecherous lady has nimbly put her other hand behind and then cravingly shifted by back: "I want in all of given ways, in all my entrances and inputs. I so much love this simultaneity of pushing."
Margarita Yegorovna has impudently sharpened the speed and, having skillfully achieved own suffocation, has involuntarily fallen into groans.
"Oh, I'm melting, I'm flowing. Bring the bucket to me." - the lady has chaotically trembled and, having gone through frenzy of convulsions, with deep relief and satisfaction has slowed down and then leaned back in relaxation, serenely and wholeheartedly devoting to pleasant process of self-tasting: "So sweet and yummy are my juices – as if not part of flesh, but honey! And after all, what an awful injustice - so tasty slit and so alone obtainer. Console exclusively myself. But it also has weight - you shamelessly amuse your tired body, and your soul gets so bright, so exalted. Flesh and spirit, I see, are insensibly secretly soldered. Let's I'll do it once more... I love myself, I want myself, it' rescues."
And again tart repeatinf of pleasures.

X
And again lonely featureless room. Savely Semyonovich is purposelessly sitting with no company, reading one of the books - the monologue of someone from dark forces.
"I clearly remember how someone has told at process of creation of the world, that it will never die and fall apart, will never disappear with no traces. Such a nonsense it was, such a shit. And now this person stands on knees – right here. You was a fool for all your being... Kill him now and then put his vain skull on my shelf - as talisman of brainlessness and madness. You even now wait for help from darkness, but you are secretly devoted to the light. Heed in mind, you have sins before devil, and he does not forgive them as God. Burn his flash! I am tired of him, I'm bored."
"My hero has got mortified, it's sad. Now no interest to read. But still I have to occupy myself. Aleksey Borisovich will come here only by noon." - Saveliy Semyonovich has pensively concluded and continued  painstaking plot's going. In such a ways have passed two hours and quarter. And then the bell.
"Here I'm holding my promised shy visit."
"I see clearly. Come in, we'll greatly sit."
"We will sit, if you will not fall down. There are some news. Not good for our friendship."
"What a thing? Someone died?"
"Not so sad, but not cheerful meanwhile."
"I'm surprised."
"I myself am quite shocked. I am moving to neighboring city – I'll have my marriage at there. I have not told to you in time, but, believe me, all this not by reason of fear or distrust, but by cause of my personal doubts. We can easily cope with each alien fate, but with own we are weak."
"All you previous life has been spent into bars..."
"I've met my love directly there. So, you scold them too vain. Please, don’t smash me with dirt. We mustn't get apart, I beg. I will give you address. We'll send countless letters, I'm sure. I'll even pay most recent visit - as soon as I will buy some car. Therefore, don't curse me as a traitor. I'll prove myself and my fidelity. Gift me chance, give me time."
"I'm not angry at all. And even not in hurry to be broken. Letters also are great. In them sometimes my thoughts are even deeper. I'm also not afraid of being alone. I will go to your bar with my sadness, will support your past duty. But honestly I am catching love more simple - I read smart books, and then I write my number and leave two tiny letters "S"- Savely Semyonovich. And also leave man's sign – as maximum of needful information. But nobody calls..."
"They have some problems with connection... Do not be sad. I faith, you also will be happy."
"Life tells me opposite. Just firmly screams inside of soul."
"Do not listen then. For any shouts of absurdity, we boldly have huge gag of logic. I will report you  now all details, and then we'll go to drink fresh kvass - in my bar, by the way. You will keep my past changeless continuity. And it's forbidden not to visit its saint abode."
"Priceless. Deal."
Have sat slowly down. Then brought tart pickles and dense honey. Laid out the remains of dainty cakes.
The conversation has gone on.

XI
One new morning again, but now gloomy and unfriendly, impassive, colorless and sad. Cheerless end of September. Margarita Yegorovna has already got up. And by reason – at today is her birthday. 25 useless years. Even essence of date is quite weighty. And not to celebrate is sin. The heroine is looking into distance and measuredly gathering with thoughts.
"Once again my vain birthday – new aimless year, which's spent with emptiness and pain. Why am I here? For what of prospects? Each day I hammer this dark question in myself. I have my life, but life has no reason. I truly live, but cannot find myself. What a bottomless curse? They have no need in my shy presence... They live in swamp and keep quite happy. They have benefits, no goals. Only helplessness, murk and oppression. Hollow days, boring past, poisoned future. We have no water in life's river. And planet spins, transforms, moves forward, accelerating and replacing times and fates, ripping ones and producing new others. Days, like pages, pass back, melt and fade. Fragile reality gets crashed by force of madness, by stable worthlessness and sins. Deception, torments and disorder gain own volume. It's difficult to stay completely sober, to reach own aimfulness and blooming. We live in peace, which's close to worst of wars. And no light, no helpful point. Truth's wall is bitter, painful, wrecking, but wall of fuss is obviously poorer. No matter, how strong you are. Strength of weakness is immensely higher. We adapt own shy ways to world's flaws, we can't be saved or properly corrected. I'm greatly scared for myself. I try and rush. But all is vain. Once again and again. In midst of shadows, by the way, no sun will rise, no heat will warmth. I look at people – they are lost. I want to cry each single second. I feel own incompleteness, wrongness. Feel own discordance with their breed. Feel opportunity to change my stupid being and awful inability to do it. And others do not care, pass as rainbow. We have not only right to build low lawlessness, but also right to choose and think. They have preferred to take the first. But I can't, can't agree to get parted with mind. Life's sense is locked, access is rare. And it's the saddest of all things. I’m a loser, I know. The one, who is unlucky into everything. I don't expect and do not wish. I admit given facts and get older. I'm child of loneliness, of grief. And no holiday will help. Wretched ones do not need them."
Margarita Yegorovna has faintly raised her sullen lifeless gaze and slowly looked around sides: "So huge room, so small me me... So disappointingly painful harsh injustice. Immense one. Dark and frightening, dead. You pay attention to this world, and joys completely disappear - with last weak drops of self-control in sad addition. It's hard not to become a soulless corpse, not to get burned with no purpose. Without finding, ripening and feelings. How much simple it is - to wait and not to get, to believe with all heart, but be wholly deceived, to glorify environment and world and to stay fully lost and defeated. Each luck is casino, I know: you are informed – you'll be deceived, but anyway you want to check. All is vain. Humility is shameful, self-confidence is stupid. You can't rely on anything you have, as well as can't predict next fate's direction. And nothing will prevent world's ruination or even drop its mindless speed. All are lost, all are surely helplessly spoiled. And no chances, no paths. You can't create rich life on barren lands. Can't find true flame in breathless heart. The time, where optimism of plans comes down to absence of death's wishing, is greatly far from love to own existence. As well as far from cheerful expectations. No place, no corner for happiness. Many facts, many deed, but no use. Best soil here is one, which's shyly moisten by sinless blood and perished dreams. Life is mad. All access to its long contemplation is not a gift and not a prudent source. Too much of sacrifice and pain, of endless hardships and disasters. It gains intention to get lost – if all broad universe is hell. Only shouts are quieter and oppression, apparently, weaker. You can't be comforted today, as well as can't be truly rescued. What infinite do really we have? Only memory, thoughts. The memory of finished distant past, of best and coyly of oneself. Does world's past ever die? Does everything in world just disappear? Does true happiness die? As the only essential thing in frames of aimless routine and ashes. I know, that life gets ended in deception. That faith is child of weakness and naivety. But how much, damn all, I want to trust, to believe in all best and in happiness. On tiny chance and vague opportunity. And fate is no longer than a moment: it will fly far away, will get burned and dissolved. As life itself. As time and poor me. Just as me, just as purposeless me."
Margarita Yegorovna has humbly and dispassionately sighed, wiped off own inadvertent tear, with guilt got frozen at cupboard: "I have to read some tranquil book... I had been doing it quite frequently in youth, had been leaving my number on page... Had been waiting for calls. And sometimes had been calling myself. But all of them, as I remember, had been already occupied by others. Not a fate. Not a luck." The heroine has briefly looked at shelf and pulled out small volume of poetry.
"Let's read some page."
66th.
"Don't ask, who gifts me sweets and flowers
I've bought them yesterday myself
You have been feeding me with cunnings
And I've been sending all my best..."
"Even here only sadness. As well as deep inside in mood." - Margarita Yegorovna has dejectedly sighed and leaned back in mixed thoughts: "So, what is love? How it can be explained or perceived... For me this propertydepends on past experience. Love is close to transparency: if you've never seen glass or smooth surface of water, then you'll never imagine such quality. That's why it's useless to describe. For ones, who love, this thing is simple, for ones, who have just parody, it's hidden. I believe that it's wholly impossible to keep silence, but love, impossible to hide it or to mask. We never lie of own love in frames of negative degree. We don't say “I don’t love”, when we're loving. But vice versa it may happen. World itself is too far from sincerity, it's close to money, craziness and dirt. To deep personal pettiness, sins and oppression. Born at first, then grow up, then start rotting. That's whole width of suggested realities. What is love... Where it is..."
In identical sad meditations, has flown away whole rest of day. The sun has quietly disappeared. Lifeless evening has spread own thick darkness. Margarita Yegorovna has reluctantly risen, put on her hat and trudged by empty street - for short walk and back home.
"What a filthy and marvelous weather... Exactly marvelous and filthy at one time – as well as policy, for accurate example. So cold in inside, so dark... And no people around. One dumb lanterns with yellow eyes. What a curious bastards they are..., Are staring aptly at my face without blinking. And I am even not undressed. There is nothing to look. But even if whole world will look, I will not stop. Now I'll sit at this avenue and will start my self-pleasing – why not. I am tired of everything here. All foundations and wrong. All is source of one pain and oblivion. No matter stand you or keep rushing."
Margarita Yegorovna has waved annoyedly her hand, got deep breath and dejectedly wandered back.

XII
In mixed with colorless depression, pacifyingly enveloped tender haze, are sleeping long and featureless surroundings – with thick dumb clouds, shy gray sky and faceless and dispassionate environment of meager outskirts and silent barren pictures of merciless and endless devastation, symmetrically added by quick fading, impenetrable, mourning tart darkness and pale and nebulous sunset, sunk in bliss of fixed shadows of alleys, so much shamelessly naked by wind. Whole world is poured with dying, landscape is plain, unfriendly, chilled and weak.
Perplexed and sullen Savely Semyonovich is calmly walking by cold street, contemplating lost gloomy surroundings and tormenting own mind with dark thought. "How wrong have I been, believing that captivity of loneliness will never be too torturing and painful, how much I've been greatly mistaken. With what I live – with couple of short papers, even howl time from time as a wolf - from oblivion, sadness and torments. Alienation is hard. Person needs person's presence. Understanding is gift, best of treasures. Even bar has got closed. Two times I've managed to go there. Apparently, it really had been built for Alexei Borisovich and only... And now emptiness and murk... I can't recover from these hardships, can't get suddenly healed – in my loneliness. Sadness."
The hero has turned back, exchanged two pairs of calm blocks, then stepped by porch and looked around: "Maple leaves, smooth huge puddles and silence. And hopelessness in every part of space. Even here in this air. In my mind. In lost thoughts, into heart. Omnipresently, hopelessly, deadly... With no finish and no pause..."
Now to home. Once again to new letters.


AFTERWORD:
And again calm dispassionate birthday. Margarita Yegorovna is 49 years old. It already is evening – room is dark, cake is finished, light ishelplessly weak. The day is surely completed. Symbolism is respected.
The lady stands in front of mirror, neatly studying with eyes own inconsolable external evolution:
"Well, thank you, fire of emotions, you've left one ashes from my life. I was looking for happiness here, dreaming, waiting... What did you do with me, my fate? How soberly remember I that summer, that village with true happiness' example... And now? What is shyly left? I'm still alive, but surely exhausted. What do I obviously have? What a kind of own world? Someones die in big cities from boredom, someones in little modest towns, some in unloved cold reciprocity, some into loneliness and hopes. Just think more deeply – all is aimless. The staircase of mind is far not easy. Not all will get completeness on your stairs. One deception on them, one mistakes. My whole existence has transformed in single tears, in endless helplessness and pain. Next length of life is evidently meager. I definitely will not fly to joys. There are no miracles here - in my universe. Too much late. All is ended. And will barely have some improvements. I've been waiting for dreams. Now I stand into void. I'm switched off, rid of essence. We cannot even guess, which things will wait. You look for hope, believe, build prospects. But all breaks down and go to bottom. Sometimes life's route is greatly dark. What can I do in current time - to finish fate and close wet eyes... Now doors are opened for oblivion and only. It has got ended – my vain life. Has just passed. No one will help, no force will return into youth. Expensive price for hollow dreams. And no light, as well as no chances. You can't be late to own grave. My next future is short – rather good: all torments and omissions not eternal."
Margarita Yegorovna has sighed and looked at silhouette of book at window's frame: "I have been thinking for whole day – what I've forgotten to commit... To visit library. I've finally remembered. I had strong ghost of imperfection by this cause. Well, at least some clear progress. My memory is luckily repaired. In ancient times I had been seeking for free numbers and had been writing my own one. Nobody has called. Let's check this book, as hundreds others. Maybe, fate will be mild."
The heroine has taken book in hands and purposefully looked at yellow pages. And it's really great: on greasy cover - two twisted letters "S" and clearly visible small number with gender icon – male in our case.
"And this is truly entertaining. What to do? Maybe, dare and call... Just right now. Mistaken lifes should also have some purpose."
The lady has got up and rushed to phone, but then stopped and despairingly waved with her hands: "Ugh, the phone does not work! Once again I've forgotten. All is usually wrong. Not a fate."
Margarita Yegorovna has perplexedly put useless book and, having parted with last hopes, turned off the light and moved to bed.
Not a fate, not a luck.