A ticket into useless tears.

I

The most significant and weighty from all of principles and rules, fulfilling into frames of daily being of Tatyana Sergeevna's life, was rather simple irreplacable approach – not to pour useless tears: not to regret without reason, not to gift needless warmth, not to waste inner force and resources and each second and day of own fate spend in frames of unshakable calmness away from disappointment and pains. That's why, according to these laws, the heroine was obstinately moving by path of prudence and mind's brightness, new heights, fresh joys and opened prospects, vast luck, rich chances and brisk startings, deep honest unity and rightful deathless values. Main task, neccesity and target was inalterably included in strong belonging to all true – all frank, perpetual and graceful. To all attainable in dreams and sadly doubtful in being. Such way was taken from far childhood, that's why had influence of gun. Daily time of Tatyana Sergeevna's share was placed in living with own father, who was the only representative and member of accessible human environment. The personality of mother was fixed in memory quite faintly. Years ago she has gone into voyage, in some casual journey abroad, and then forgotten to return. In other things, details and moments life's frames, occasions and events were categorically showing completely average conditions, rather smooth and sufficiently cozy, directly trivial and modest, freed from news, but equipped with soft boredom. The aforementioned lonely father, Sergei Grigorievich, was working as an architect and planner and was a human of great thought, of inner calmness and mind's lightness. Such fact effortlessly explains, why current starting of day's plot has moved ahead in changeless manner – with usual breakfast and long talks. What was especially inspiring – right today was the time of one visit: Evgeny Valentinovich has promised to come in area of noon. Nice priceless person of the last one was serving as most permanent participant of common dialogues and discussions, each time enriched by flawless speech of rare quality and meaning.

"How fine and wonderful to know, that our timid conversations are saved from burden of length's limits. We'll chat till point of prostration." - has responded Tatyana Sergeevna.

"Prostration rarely is real. Such states are equal to pure bliss." - the parent has approvingly shown smile: "You have to eat, cold dish feels dreary."

"I'm not so hungry for food's plenty. I am more hungry for your talks. For worldview and perennial questions. For honest gloom and frank lost hopes..."

"You've get used to so terrible sadness. This is funny for me to behold."

"For me such things are bottomlessly dear. From whole eternity most native, most close, familiar and sweet, much more than joys and noisy parties. Last ones are useless mortal rubbish, boiling purposeless fuss, vain and dead."

"You're so addicted to depression! That looks incredible for thinking, at least, for shy and modest mine."

At here the guest has come in dwelling.

"I send my greetings to your home. To place of peace, tranquility and care."

"Come in. My dad was noticeably missing. Me too – in highest of degrees. We have an omelet and a corn."

"Such matter sounds frighteningly tempting. I am already stepping in."

Vast width of waiting table's surface has filled own space with cherished food. The company has delved in conversation.

"This world is evidently immense, truly huge, broad and scaled - stopless, mad. But what is forceful in its abode, what's stably popular with days, what's full of dominance and power at fleeting stage of being's play? One filth in horribly deep measure, one sorrow, vices and deceit. One dirt, vile soullessness and lowness. Each fact is poisonous and harmful, each step is dangerous or vain. All routes are purposeless and rotten, all fates are meaningless and weak. Any possible choice is initially wrong. You can't be valuable or happy, can't move by path of fruitfulness and joys, of high results and future prudence. What's more, I think you also see it, we live with nothing to recall, to leave in memory as trophy and to encage in care's hugs. From whole hazed period of past we'll never find at least one moment, which we can honestly describe as hopeful, promising and happy. This is scarily sad." - Sergei Grigorievich has drearily complained with sure grief at face's surface.

"The more firm and alive is idea, the less sane is its dominant essence. Mind and madness are friends, twins and partners. At today all is so. This world supports, approves and praises one sickness, uselessness and trash, one flaws, mistakes, defects and losses. Such ones are serving as life's goal, as final fruit of current fashion. These things depict new being's basics, depict new purposes and laws – the very ones, which can't be broken and very ones, which make us dead..." - Yevgeny Valentinovich's sad look has slowly shaken with pale forehead.

"Any truth gets destroyed and forbidden, any rightness gets killed, any hope sinks in dirt."

"Among of powerless and weakened your strength will seem as greatest sin. As well as merciless sobriety for daily drinking part of world. This rule, I guess, is learned by every fool. That's why – don't hesitate, move forward, to best of prospects and results. If world has managed to deceive you, to rid from firmness, will and mind, you'll stay as slave for rest of life, with only right to beg for rescue – the very one, which comes with grave."

"After all, any route is too shaky, any sense is too shy, any hope is too faint, any choice is a source of fresh problems, any trust is a door into pain, in gloom, offenses and despair. From whole immeasurable world, indeed unbounded and immense, we have certainly definite nothing, what will surely keep at right path..."

"Each says - don't colligate your judgments, but please don't separate them too. We forget of world's terrible oneness, of fact of single being's source. It doesn't matter, where you are, in which of irreproachable locations, you'll always have straight thread to hell, to evil's blossoming and darkness, you'll always have some opportunity to perish, to fall from hugs of peace and greatness to pit of pettiness and failures, of hatred, wrongness, sins and scum. It's sad, but nothing is undying. And long close partnership with God is not an end for devil's presence. "

"We're rid of any understanding, of any confidence and faith, we're rid of true  serenity and calmness, of proven fixity of plans and long stability of startings. We're rid of main for new achievements."

"I'll repeat, that each luck is quite windy, each state of pleasure, peace and joy is always frighteningly short. Each step ahead is wholly shaky. All is given to do – just to lose and to suffer, to look at pain and living's wilting and to fade with last rests of torn soul. If you are drowning in vast water, you'll try to grab each thing you see – from freely floating weightless garbage till metal splinters and huge stones. You'll see some hope in any action, in any probable help's source. In such unfortunate conditions, all harm will surely be yours."

"What's more, lost soul gets sadly used to any frames and facts of being, to any hardships, pains and griefs, with great obedience performing deep selfless heroism and trust - the ones, which grow for to be broken."

"This is wrong. We are toys of world's swamp – of devil's hugs and evil's traps. And such fidelity to darkness is much more horrible and awful than any sort of possible betrayal. What's more, it rarely has end. True curse loves habit to be timeless."

"Deep creepy hopelessness... In all..."

"Each case of hopelessness, I'll say, at first is ticket to the hope. It shows initial defects, shows roots and reasons of your problems. Each light, each spark and any flame gets gained most frequently in murk. Each plenty comes to us from void. From hollow emptiness, not less. This world was made of endless abyss, the very one, which seeks for blood, for new of corpses, tragedies and tears. In such deplorable conditions, in narrow cage of pain and gloom, your prospects, strengths, abilities and chances are sadly equal to pure dust. Your daily presence here is torment, it's rid of fullness, weight and sense. What's more all this is fruit of life, of changeless givenness of being – that one, where everything is lost, from hopes till definite vain trifles..."

"And so much marvelous and funny it always is to look at deaths, at people's perishing for something – for rubbish, stupidness and fuss of wholly valueless beginnings, which act as remedy from head."

"The more far is your sit from the stage, the more nice seems the plot of performance. This truth is mercilessly fair. Most of us do not know of world's working, of living's mechanisms and aims. Minds can't think, hearts can't feel. They try to look, but see just nothing."

"This is hard to accept. All is wrong."

"Brain's opportunities, be sure, are rather useless nowadays. Thought is short. Fate's murk is certainly much stronger, world's frames are terribly more firm. Each mind is victim of confusion, of frequent countless mistakes. Each head is field of flaws and errors, of vain and hollow expectations and bitter frightening regrets. The more neat is the boat, the more rough is the sea. The more high is your flight, the more hard comes your fall. Any chance is just flash. Good luck is valuable in time. With any price and any manner."

"Brisk manners also are not helpful, as well as sacrifices' depth. Such ones are sort of wrong rain clouds: stealing sun, they don't give promised freshness, don't leak with downpour till night, just hide bright day and melt in distance. Each case of sacrifice is similar as usual, you get strong pain, but don't approach the goal. And no candles, no game..."

"It shows main rules of human being, shows price and essence of its laws: all you have is your risk. And luck... It comes from any source, from light or darkness – doesn't matter. Whole life is currently a burden, not a gift or a right. True excitement is lie, it's forgivelessly short. Days are fast, life is painfully big. Mind is limp. It's not a dominant beginning – just weak adviser and not more. All we can – just to shy and to suffer. This is path to the hell."

"Even peace is just spring of next wars." - has connected Tatiana Sergeevna: "Each calm is pause before of storm. Each youth is stair into oldness. We have appointed for truth. But do not have its real presence."

"Time is wind - harsh and strong. It sweeps away without traces, destroys and turn your fate in dust." - Sergey Grigorievich has drearily supported.

"This world is figure with no contour, with absent form and blurred face." - Evgeny Valentinovich has sighed in inconsolable despair: "Each love to life gets stopped quite simply – by first betrayal with own death. Modern world is impassable forest, dark and thick, long and wide, where we have accept and endure, to walk and wait and then to cry. "

"And so much meager is existence, so deadly gloomy, vain and lost. Incorrigible lost and distorted. With no of chances to be fixed."

"What for to fix its hopeless abode? On sinking boat, torn sails don't hinder."

"And so sad is reality's going, so unhappy and wrong in own plot. But at the same perplexing time so unbearably true... So weirdly smooth and strangely correct."

"The fact of correctness is not a cause for rightness."

"What for to wait, except of troubles, if every ship is source of holes. If search is reason of new losses."

"Each life gets end by death and only. All of heights, in first turn, lead to fall, to swift returning to the bottom – offensive, grievous and petty after totally useless efforts of climbing up and getting greater. It's deeply terrible to know, to let in mind and to admit, the any being's understanding is just a path in hopelessness and pain, in vast distress and endless torments. New world is feast at foodless table, it's home of aimlessness and flaws, of gloom, omissions and regrets. And even memory is far from being valuable and helpful. Such one is boat without oars, its colors constantly get changed, replaced by more convenient emotions and simply ruthlessly erased."

"But how to cling to better living, to luck, bliss' plenty and success? All other looks as sure rubbish."

"Just go and take all things, new world is place for daily struggle, for getting fed with boiling problems and making everything from pain."

"In endless wars all victories are weightless." - has sighed with wistfulness Tatyana: "Not every struggle brings awards. A match of human has no box, no source of getting any fire. Every ship has to sink, every fate has to fade. All has terms, all has frames. And neither miracle nor accident can save you."

"Each luck is only a guide, not a path or a certain direction. It should be actual and lavish. Otherwise it will stay wholly useless."

"And about our God? What to say of such doubtful object??"

"Our God is exactly not one, on whom it's prudent to rely. Each case of holiness and sainthood is greatly cynical itself – in own hard helplessness and shortness, in pure defenselessness from harm, from evil's tricks and filthy actions. Yes, God is powerful in moments, but devil also is the same, at least in nowadays conditions."

"And human?"

"Human is a shit." 

On this truth's note, have sharply fallen silent. Smooth faceless time has gradually moved and, having passed through pit of noon, attained the area of dinner. Pale dawn has tragically vanished and got replaced by zenith's sun. Away of slightly misted window, has brightly blossomed views of day.

"The season's ending is still warm, but finale point is too near - half of August has flown. And then insistent autumn hardships, long empty days, cold rains and frost... The prospect surely not easy, full of murk, of free pain." - after pause has concluded with gloom rather saddened Sergei Grigorievich: "How is your fortuneless lost wife? Has already returned?"

"Bad, but no. Like yours one day, she's left away, and three last months is stably absent." - Evgeny Valentinovich has yawned and looked at window's gray surface: "All has start, all has end... And summer also is short partner. And then again new slush and darkness, new windy coldness and no sun..."

"Soon life will part with last of pleasures and hearts will frozen in vast pain, whole world will plunge in boundless sorrow and necks will clothed in greedy nooses." - has smiled with tiredness from sadness shy and sleepy Tatyana Sergeevna: "All your talks show one sadness, the very one, I also feel. But soul is seeking for new feelings, for better hopes and brighter days. With inevitable soon winter we will get sated and not once, as well as with hazed and merciless wet autumn. For me it's better to get joy from sweet remains of dying summer."

"Then don't lose time and go to beach – for walk and warming of young bones."

"I have already been at there. Many many of times. This also brings me no joy. I see excess of trudging people, but cannot notice even one, with whom I'll dare on relations. Warm days are empty as all others. As any corner of this world." 

"Whole year futility and longing, whole year one hopelessness and grief." - Evgeny Valentinovich has frozen and slowly lowered his gaze, forlornly pointed in void: "All is wrong."

"Life is stupid." - Sergei Grigorievich has stretched.

"All people – idiots and morons. That's why I'm changelessly alone." - has reported Tatyana Sergeevna: "For me it's definitely better, than in one pair with bastard. I do not want to pour vain tears. Don't want to spoil flawless heart. For me it's worse than a torture."

"It has sense. I support such positions. You have stood at right path."

"I look here only for completeness. For state of happiness and bliss."

"True human happiness, believe, can come from any of locations... Even different clubs are erected - for shameful pleasures and lewd contacts, even agencies work for to couple, to solder losers with each other, even magicians turn to be needful for decent part of such dark matters. The main of things – to stay just happy."

"You'll be eagerly fucked even sober, if you are lucky in love deals, but if you're obviously hopeless, you even drunk will stay unused. I want pure truth, pure doze of blessing. Want all perfectly good. Want high and bottomless emotions, deep endless feelings and tart passions. And people's rubbish show one dirt. They either mock or seek for profit, for some self-interest and all."

"Fate is wall: it's hard to pass through last one's thickness. One is greedily loved by all princes, the other one is driven out by last of vagabonds and freaks. Depends on share and conditions."

"I want here everything, not less."

"It's right, true life is made for better. And nothing else from given prospects can ever satisfy and calm, because of wanting just a little, you'll never cope with getting all."

"In rotten valueless today, in frames of fruitlessness and hatred, we are immeasurably hopeless in any strivings and attempts. We're so much far from being useful, from having aims and building plans. Each fact is doubtful and shaky, each tool is helpless, weak or wrong. Whole path is voyage in deadlock, in restless murk and boiling sorrow, whole term of days is one strange torment, one stopless madness and distress. All nice is surely not near."

"We are hopeless, I know. As well as everything around."

"And this is changeless, what's most awful."

"World's laws are so. We'll never break them."

"I wish I'll elementarily die, just die and finish my past fate, having fallen in peace and forgotten of all."

"But what will wait us after death, except of infinite dark abyss. Who knows, which horrors will be there."

"For me most nice is just to melt, to leave away and hide own trace. I don't demand some other prospects."

"I guess, that fate is not so friendly, such one is merciless in all..."

"You're right. I have to be afraid. But now I'm going to the beach – will let to body part of pleasures – from me myself and warming sand."

"You still has followed my advice. Rest is needed, you know."

"But thoughts will gnaw me even there. At first, deplorable and bad."

"Any thought is an absolute poison. If you'll not own it, you'll be killed."

The lady has quite slowly got up and gone away to free world's vastness. Sad discourse has continued again: "How greatly simple it's to die, to fall in darkness and disasters, how much easy it is, how close... How right is my Tatyana of fate's vainness." - Sergei Grigorievich has stretched.

"Here our essence plays own role. Believe, the number of the steps, which lead to paradise, is definitely equal to steps, which going to the hell. It's more convenient to perish, to move in abysses and murk. From truth all paths take way to lying. The ones, who've mercifully saved you, can soon effortlessly destroy. That's why rely on head and only, on sober will and shining mind, all other cases are pure garbage."

"But wills are different, what's scary, the one is powerful and immense, the other one is breathless, shy and weak, with no ability to help you and with no strength to change life's essence, to shake world's basics, principles and laws. Not each heart has dimensionless fire, not each mind has perpetual force."

"This petty being is undying, you cannot smash it in one day. But into canvas of ideas, in final confident worldview indeed important is one straightness. One hellish firmness and persistence. All other tools don't work at all."

"But solid variant of thinking, holistic, definite and strong, gets promptly killed by one small moment – by high disunity of facts, which gains unsolvably deep conflict."

"Each timeless unity is fake. Such thing is certainly unreal. That's why, in any of next cases, do not combine extremes in couples. It will not feed you with result, as well as will not lead in better."

"The more you know of your fate, the less right are your deeds and decisions."

"This is terribly true. If you are freed from information, from any news of current world, be full of confidence – you're happier than others. What's more, the ones who've seen one lie, will notice truth from any distance."

"Anyway, life is wrong."

"Yes, it surely looks like nightmare. But any globalism is shaky, fragile, impermanent and dead. You have two things – yourself and world. And as you guess, suspect and count, you cannot rescue both of them."

"The first is quite impossible and tricky, the second – meaningless and vain."

"So it is, I confirm."

"What for to look in given void? To seek and wait through murk of days."

"For hem of sweety witch of luck. The more long is your flight, the more utopian is falling. The more firmly you're fixed into happiness, the more faint is your faith into failure. What's true, we live here only once. When life is stopped and left behind, you're unforgivably unable to bring some positive additions in its accomplished earthly plot. You cannot celebrate own burial, it's dreary."

"Sometimes it's so much dangerous to live. At least, with hope or faith in pair. Sometimes you neatly follow for their abyss and, as result, get stuck in pain, in disappointment and darkness. It's greatly frightening to know."

"Hopes' ticket cannot be returned. If it's lost, you will sink into sorrow. If you're allured by happiness and pleasures, you'll never cope for all next path with silent living in their absence. Each one, who've tasted happiness, is burned. For birds of soul, long winglessness is fatal."

"You can innumerably win – each day, each minute and each second, but truly lose - not more once."

"Sometimes you risk is not so harmful. In sure absence of the dishes, the fact of elephant in walls of dishes shop is not a sin or tragic trouble. Each life gets rotten from inside, from depths of killed and spoiled essence. And time rolls further with no pauses. And leads straightforwardly to death. It's nice and priceless to stay out, to be on distance from own life, in such conditions it's less hurting, less wrong and baleful for route."

"I know, but lie is too much perfect, too strict and violently strong, too ruthless to defenseless trustful natures."

"This weakness is a fruit of fear, of inner trembling and perplexing before of measureless fate's monster, which's lots of times exaggerated in own importance, force and scale. It's kind of regular obsession – the one, that definitely kills, submits and fills with boiling doubts, with harsh and bottomless despair and deep tart dreariness and gloom. All being's seriousness, everyone must know, is wholly dummy, blown and faked. It hunts for flaws of your perception, for gaps and holes in puzzled view. And any trust of faith itself is an extensible vast bubble, which's calmly able to envelope each nonsense, baloney and rave. That's why, unlearn to build believings, to get attached by threads of mind, of stupid groundless persuasion. Be firm, reality is fiction, sick strange performance and not more, and any any facts – just requisite and only."

"It's understandable and sober. But anyway it doesn't help, as well as doesn't change your living's essence."

"I know, environment is stronger. You cannot paint it into hope, in brightness, confidence or prudence, it's sad, but everything is wrong."

"What's more, each day this life gets worse..."

"Time's essence never can be changed, it's static, stubborn and immortal. You'll much more easily stop earth, than soak its basics with true weightness. And people also are the same. We have to enter in acceptance of deathless givenness of grief – that one, which never will be ended. And even weapons' full absence is not a guarantee of peace."

"What's more, this life is madly empty, it's vain in everything, in all. In every place and any moment... It's spoiled, barren, crooked and wrong."

"With no of soup salt's mass is useless. Believe, true fullness here is needless, it has no purpose, no aim. We live in dreariest dead swamp. It's too unsuitable for rightness. Today all prospects are just dust, just empty word and nothing extra. Today, where wood is source of ash, where love is reason of rejection, where even mind is smith of fools."

"It's rather difficult to take it, to save own confidence in head."

"The role of fool is curse of smart ones, for ones, who're stupid, it's a gift. And too much easy to succumb. The more sharp is the knife, the more desirable are cuts. Weak soul is ticket to an abyss, to sure bottom of life's course. We are just idiots most often – those ones, who're opened for defeat, who don't see main and stuck in rubbish. The bigger volume has the piece, the more unhurried is eater..."

"It's hard today to trust to best..."

"Each faith is mirror of fate. It can't be good in current horror, such deal is rarity and treasure. Each hope at now is fruit of falsehood, of lack of knowledge or mistake, such ones exist today for dying, for further apathy and pain. And world is even much more static, than any sort of human features. And the more wide is given choice, the more unlucky is path's going. Long reason's dominance is shaky, as well as blossoming of truth. But anyway, we have to notice, all best and fruitful at this planet was made by prevalence of mind."

"I know, but pain still shamelessly increases, still grows and blooms in all own force. And all is doubtful, short-living..."

"All good depends on chance and fortune, on something definitely far. But God is strategist, as known. At least, some people say, it's so."

Meantime, at sunny peaceful beach was calmly reigning lovely comfort – smooth tender warmth was playing with the bodies, free gentle breeze was slowly walking by opened spaces of landscapes and thin neat edge of silent water was keeping minimal waves' pace.

"Nice time, nice day. But I am lonely." - has concluded Tatyana Sergeevna, quite firmly vanishing in thought: "It would be pleasant to get someone, to share warmth and talk at once."

In broad excess of resting people, was noticed fabulous young man with black and curly splendid hair and polar yellow huge hat.

"I'll come. I'll try." - the lady has got up and gone ahead to goal's attaining.

"Hello. I also am alone. And also with a hat on head. But mine is white and slightly smaller."

"Okay, sit down. I'm greeting. I love cute bodies next to me."

"You start with compliments. Well done."

"I do all this in order to get more. All things I do I do on purpose. From what of latitudes you are?"

"From the blossoming neighboring quarter. Not far from here, as you can see."

"This is great. Cool location."

"And you?"

"And I am from 10th district. The one that has been built a year ago. Behind the bridge, if you're informed."

"I know. Quite far. It's almost suburbs. But there it's quieter and more free. And air also is much nicer."

"Here also glorious breathe. Especially in step from opened water."

"For me it's doubtful position. Here there are lots of cars. And people also are more frequent. From times to times you cannot breathe too much."

"These processes take place in everywhere, my area is also not exception. Quite soon it'll also turn in anthill."

"An indelibly vast tendency at now. Which way and manner do you live, how do you build your daily being? Tell all and everything you can."

 "I'm getting learned in local college. Feels bad, but feasible to cope with. In evening – beer, in morning – walk: with aim to get some lustful lady."

"Are there many of their breed?"

"With one of them I'm sitting just right now."

"Well tried. Opinion is spicy."

"You all are made of common crude."

"Each one? Don't think it's greatly stupid?"

"My past experience confirms it. To take, at least, my girlfriend for example. She's also surely pure beast. But I am marvelously greedy and always seek for someone else. For some cute face and tasty body. So what about such a role? From me I promise good foreplay."

"Are you recruiting me as mistress?"

"Right so. Or you see something wrong?"

"Wrong is all. I'm fed up with such miserable prospects."

"Not a grief, not an end. I'll find some other shameless princess. But forms you have are really alluring. I'm disappointed, you do not want to share. That's all, apparently, because of you're a witch."

The lady has persuasively got up and, with no saying any word, directed way again to shy home's shelter: "Still how much petty are new people, how sharply empty, meaningless and crooked, how sadly valueless and barren, how highly primitive in personal requests, how deeply rotten, lost and vain. But I refuse to pay attention, to take some care or concern. It's clearly pointless and silly. What's the main? Not to pour useless tears. And I'll wholeheartedly maintain their certain absence. That's why today without sadness. I know, I'll get my lucky ticket, I'll reach all goals, all better dreams. I'll burn in mutuality of feelings, in tight togetherness and love. I'll know of all – affection, care, passion. I'll be most happy, I just know."

The silhouette has deftly quickened pace and, after couple of smooth minutes, dissolved in little narrow arch. Goodbye, pale views of silent street.  Goodbye, sweet time of cozy walking. One day, we'll gladly meet again.

II

In frame of spacious window is morning. Deep lonely canvas of faint sky, confused and innocently pale, caged by scraps of long thickening clouds, without visibly exposed participation was meekly hiding in hazed curtain of lying down waxy fog. Last heat of swiftly wasted summer, with weary sadness in own tone, has irreversibly submitted to hugs of cold impassive nets of soon oblivion and dying, unwittingly and drearily involving each fleeting minute of world's wilting in washed with tears autumn chill.

From day's beginning woken up and filled with wistfulness and boredom Tatyana Sergeevna is keeping timid contemplation of skimpy latitudes and morbid nature's fading: "Once again midday sickness and languor. Huge swarm of emptiness and weakness, of rotten thoughts and fruitless plans. Persistent tiresome desire to pass through life and die at ease. What nice mental mush... I think, best time to look for noose. How dark are mornings, when you're lonely. For me it's definitely usual, I've got quite used for past vain years, but still feel regular pain's presence. How inexcusable is being, how deeply aimless, dead and wrong. And even radio can't help me, can't kill this bottomless upsetting. But I have need to cheer me up: to take brief voyage to somewhere - to find emotions and new plots and to disperse this dumb dispassion. Well, I'll get dressed and take my path."

Has got dressed.

Full of abruptly sobering dampness chilly worrisome air, unsurely and coyly saturated with shrilly bitterness and sadness, has amply flooded and enshrouded long faceless vastness of nude land with sharp keen fearfulness and silence. Full of hungrily boiling confusion, shyly deserted colorless streets have meekly sunk in reigning sorrow. Deep gloom, diluted by bleak shadows, has hugged pale places with cold pain. Faint timid views, depressed and toneless, have started calling in nowhere. Exhausted featureless horizon has calmly fallen into grief, without slightest of regrets engaging faraway locations in common dreariness and dusk. At every step – stern veil of dying. At every corner – tart despair. In every minute – languid illness. And no free area for hope.

Having looked into grocery's walls, the heroine has sat on spacious bench and, having gradually melt in mild and hospitable warmth, dissolved own mind in widely opened quiet friendly bonds of peaceful atmosphere, completely sodden with nice smell of something yummy, sweet and tasty. At distance are indistinct blurred faces, neat round tables with food's mass, cute muted sounds of swift fuss and broad, persistently stretched freedom. The mood is quite predictably not rotten, but still too far from pure delight, smooth thoughts are stably alienated and delved in boundless prostration. Shy soul is caged by perfect bliss. Saint rare harmony. True beauty.

"It would be great to find some partner. To seek with eyes for someone great. Then fate will surely be flawless. At least, for several next hours."

In around is blossoming pluralism: a lot of people of all types, all sorts, all breeds and styles of fashion are nimbly and wholeheartedly involved in fervid process of food's eating. At one of tables, next to entrance, was quietly sitting in serenity and yearning an unexpectedly romantic, embraced in mystical attractiveness free man, who rather instantly has stolen whole attention and turned in object of sharp need.

"Quite rare variant in our meager region. And also proudly alone. It's too utopian to catch him, but it's the stupidest of sins not to amuse myself with trying." - the lady has persuasively concluded and, having gathered with spirit, without doubts moved ahead.

"My best of possible here greetings! I hope I've met you not in vain. I’m Tanya, and I want to know you, to build relations, unity and amour..."

"I am Yegor, such way they call me, but I am also peaceful to nicknames. What has attracted your lost person into mine, what has convinced you in necessity to come?"

"Your sure loneliness, that's all. What are you doing for to live?"

"Behold this world and always wander – from ones of lands to further others. I am a freely working painter. Am changing areas and places, depicting life and getting joy. That's all, what's making my existence – my evenings, mornings, days and nights. I don't regret about anything I know, do not get puzzled or concerned, just gain experience and pleasure, examine people and conditions, I'm truly opened for excitement, for easy luck and lavish chance. It think it's all about me, what has some value, weight and meaning."

"I have to say - not trivial profession. Quite likely, best of occupations. And how does so rare person perceive the prospect of relations with rather average myself?"

"With greatest zeal and fervent passion."

"Indeed? You really agree? I'm even flattering with cheeks."

"For me it's ordinary matter. Each further episode of traveling through world implies sweet presence of new muse. Without such one in addition, any case can provide only boredom, only sadness and gloom. You'll also be the one of these blessed coquettes, we'll look at miracles, at tangible luck's breathing, at every visibly accessible life's second. And then we'll tragically part, with frankest tears and keen sadness. I'll give you week of being happy, and you will give the same to me. I think, it's highest variant of love, of sudden joy and long recalling. Of short bright minutes in time's river, which are undying in mind's frames, in endless memory of past, so motley, tireless and precious. I remember each girl, each of cases, remember clearly, believe, remember all of those meetings – both faces, smells, details of clothes, remember places, words, confessions. They all are pictured and sold. True priceless art, true holiness, not less. You'll also be immortal on my canvas, I'll be the best from whole your fate. Do you love to feel love?"

"And you so calmly and so boldly and with no presence of conscience can offer me to be you couple and then to part and lose myself? Which sort of problems has your head? I have no need in such a rubbish, you're human waste, low piece of slops, sick nit and never something more." - Tatyana has decisively got up and, having taken route to exit, dissolved away of people's sights.

"Once again one oppressive annoyance in my itself not flawless age. What a kind of society we're having, what a sort of unbearable swamp! I can't accept it, can't excuse. It's lost reality, lost being. Lost aimless universe of filth, of nothing saint and nothing worthy, where my existence looks as torment, as ancient torture over soul. And, alas, no of salvation, of decent reasons to keep fight, to move, to struggle and to blossom, as well as no true desire of to survive and to get saved. On the contrary, time to stop breathing, to become wholly limp, numb and cold and, as result, to disappear. After all, it's explicitly clear, we can't fulfill all our dreams, can't feel heart's gap with love or care, can't get frank mutual response. This world is abode of life's bottom, of worst, what only can be. And not to change it, not to cancel."

Tatyana Sergeevna has silently and ruefully looked up, then monotonously added taken pace and calmly and with longing into pair, kept joyless wandering to home, with inadmissible despair beholding clothed in sorrow sleepy places: "And again back in walls. In pain, oblivion and grayness. Daily life mostly looks as disease. With bunch of useless expectations and endless bitterness of thoughts. And with no purposeful and logical beginnings. It's hard to be a toy of barren dreams, it's truly hopeless, dark and hurting. And not to break it, not to stop, not to run far away and forever."

Encaged by sadness and distress, Tatyana Sergeevna, having lost last shy drops of past ardor, has looked once more at empty yard, then slowly lowered own gaze and dragged in deathless loneliness to home.

III

In thickly hazed and faceless window, forlornly looking through of pain and calmly spreading own gray pictures, is shyly hiding cold bleak town, downtrodden, clouded and somber, with faded pace of going life and long pale veil of dense fog's cover.

Sergei Grigorievich and Yevgeny Valentinovich, this time without of Tatyana, who is unnoticeably absent, are tying regular oppressive conversation.

"How greatly strong and omnipresent is tart deception of life's taste. How madly powerful and cruel in work with trustful seeking souls." - Sergei Grigorievich has sighed with growing longing: "Why all is always just like that, why any hope is just a rubbish, it's strange, perplexing, sad and wrong. Offensive, pitiless and sick.

"Each true delirium is stopless, aggressive, merciless and vast. We all are victims of ideas, of thoughts, intentions, plans and needs. In lost environment of vices, of hollow values and crooked laws, of rotten minds and pain-filled shares, your blooming faith is source of dying, of greedy harm and huge regrets. Don't hope, that mind can broadly help you, it's made most frequently of flaws, of firm mistakes and false conclusions. World’s kindness always is one-sided, short-living, doubtful and short. This being saves, supports and blesses the only ones, who're kissed by luck. In hurried living's competition all fate's encouragement gets given by pure random. They don't award the fastest winner, who has accomplished race the first, do not affirm his hard efforts and even don't award and value the last and poorest of runners, declaring laziness' success. They praise occasional score's places – 37s, 291s, 1443s, indeed appointing their owners as final champions of contest. Each winner here, as you can notice, is child of suddenness and only, what means, that you don't even know – which way to live and whom to be – most frank, sincere and pathetic or most dishonest, vile and low, to be most slow and most sluggish or most persistent, swift and prompt. You can't get victory by struggle, by getting better in own skills, such one can be achieved by luck and only. It's main of principles and rules, you cannot change it, cannot cancel, all you're are able – just to wait. And all of talents are just burden, just purest dust, which's rid of sense. Without lock your key is nothing."

"It's quite unreal to stay calm."

"True calmness is the worst of fellow travelers: it can get lost at every station, but this is also just a fact."

"I think, in grave is sea of calmness."

"I agree, flawless place."

"At first, your life is slave of fortune, and then the very fortune is its slave. All is strange, dark and shaky. You can't rely on something prudent, as well as can't predict next days, can't aptly guess of purposes of being, of true life's reasons and foundations, can't catch main essence of its days."

"Any future is murk, each further second is unknown, each living's moment carries secrets - each part and period of time."

"It's path in sorrow and horror."

"So, sadness is such kind of river, where path to bottom is most nice. Such thing is understandable and easy. In current frames of sick existence, of lost and hopeless being's swamp all ways perform you one direction – to dreary abyss of soul's rotting, to hugs of evil, lie and filth, to prompt and painful decomposing – of values, meanings, aims and truths. All opportunities are fruitless, all tools are ugly, weak and wrong. But mind is not a firewood, it's stove. The one, which calmly burns all sorts of troubles. Do not forget of such great fact."

"But hopes still permanently absent, as well as chances, plans and joys."

"True heights are never visible from bottom. Don't wait for aimfulness from days. In such conditions dreams don't blossom."

"But life is only temporary game..."

"But temporality itself is spring of next eternity, next blooming, of going proudly and far. And only patience can support you."

"Only patience and mind, I agree. And soul most frequently just hinders."

"Soul and mind are not foes, they both are prisoners of fate, where all is made of pure occasion, the very one, which modestly determines – to turn your presence into dust or to delay for few minutes."

And again in inside only sadness.

IV

Along of shyly frozen street, completely desolate and faceless, forlorn to yearn in pain and slush of cold, depressed and dreary season, is weakly dragging through of bleakness faint timid silhouette of wandering ahead, engaged in thinking and distress dispirited and quiet Tatyana Sergeevna, indifferently smoothly contemplating free space of vastnesses' encircling, dissolved in tearful languid river of static hopelessness and murk. Lost mood is patient, coy and passive, slow pace of gait is leisurely relaxed, and mind is cleaned from slops of joy and plunged in tragedy of shadowy prostration. Meek soul is staying wholly limp, confused and opened for oppression. And blooming apathy is obstinate as never.

"Today I've fallen into anxiety, in horror. Autumn days make me dead, they're built of gradual extinction, of grayness, withering and longing.In such a time you're truly broken, upset, downtrodden and perplexed, involved in inner decomposing, in getting pensive, wretched and sullen, in hurting losing of past self." - has humbly sighed sad dismal lady, numbly staring in strengthening dusk, encaged remains of thinning foliage: "I have to find some decent place. Then I'll enforce me to get pleasure."

The role of suitable location was given to occasional small bar, quite scanty, featureless and slummy, reliably hidden from pedestrians and views in tight and weighty stony arch as inconspicuous addition to its unfriendly breathless hugs.

In the midst of smoke-filled tiny hall, dedicated in absolute longing, are standing clumsy, as life's burden, exhausted tables and low stools, steadfastly plunged with askew legs in worn and doleful floor surface. Completely moderate shy holes of narrow windows' expanses, with productivity of cripples, are showing silent somber light, appended infirm and feeble lamps, attractive as a pair of rat eyeballs. In thick and static air's mass, persistently and broadly reigned around, is slowly hanging fetid smell, of course, entirely expected and rather relevant for local filthy frames.

"Pretty dungeons, I'll say, flawless horror. It's not a sin at here to die." - has shyly sighed dejected lady without slightest shade of hope and proceeded to examine disgusting muzzles of few visitors of chambers. Imputed choice is surely not great: fat ugly faces and graceless grotty bodies and faceless shadow of waiter as pure ghost.

"What a desolate deserted desert, best abode for decomposing soulless wretchers, true church of vice and deathless pain. And no right person for to choose."

So, having waited for next minute and chosen tolerable man, sad lady's soul has managed with confusion and she has moved to build acquaintance.

"Let me join your life this nice time..."

"What a sheep do I see? I calmly drink my glass of vodka, and you – lost trash and piece of bottom, are clearly trying to disturb it! You think I really need a woman? I have no work for half of year, I hate myself, my wife and childs, I love to drink, that's all I'm made for, and you, dull scarecrow, disorders. You want be beaten in your face? Get off, until I didn't smash it."

"Fantastic scoundrel and nit, offcutted sediment of filth, most perfect incarnate of slag, of purest idiot and shit, but nowadays, what's truly awful, a half of country is like that. But no reason for my sadness. What's the main? - not to pour useless tears. And now it's time to go to home. At there it's season of deep dialogues, the ones, I greatly wish to heed."

And indeed, in apartment are talkings: Sergei Grigorievich and Evgeny Valentinovich, in changeless tandem, share thoughts: "This world is made of vast deception, of maddest falsehood and betrayal, of endless evil, dirt and sins. And the more popular is route, the more often it leads to omissions, to huge regrets and strongest pain. Why logic's voice is so much weak? Why all is purposeless and mindless, why road is path to death?"- Sergei Grigorievich has yawned.

"Any logic has sense for itself, not for boiling surrounding madness. Mind's fire never burns for fools. It's wholly aimless and unneeded."

"It's deeply scare and exhausting to look at storm of people's madness, to see this swarm of stupid deeds, of wrongness, vices and deception. And so uncomfortable feeling takes place in worn and hurted soul, it starts to seem, that brain is wholly needless, that its presence today is a sin, that all you do is deeply vain as well as anything you cherish, that you're an an idiot, a fool."

"Each doubt by itself is two-way ticket: either straightly to God, or directly to devil. The last of variants, of course, in much more frequent. True evil is too powerful, too stubborn. Its nets are almost everywhere, you cannot cancel them, can't kill."

"All is drearily wrong and deceptive, all is crooked, dead and lost..."

"It's hard to guess, where you are moving, both God and devil look the same. But kind of difference still presents. God's essence never can be hazed, it never brings you hesitation, it's always totally transparent and understandable for head, what is, apparently, most excellent of features."

"But who of them is more important? If God is rid of any rights."

"True God is independent on the devil: the last one's force has danger just for human, for our shaky earthly fates."

"And people, I remember, are pure rubbish..."

"So it is. And poison is not poisoner's sweet fetish, but just a tool of his shy work. Believe in thought, in rightness' blooming, in better days and greater times. But ones, who faith at here in darkness, are also certainly not mad – in current days this hopeless world is fullest prototype of hell. "

"And no confidence, no strength."

"I know, no peace, no mind, no firmness."

"We ourselves are slaves of life, of endless heresy and falsehood."

"This life is close to touching of hedgehog. It can't be cozy or secure. Moreover, threads of plans are weak. Each chance is dust, is doze of nothing, of pure void. White canvas is not equal to next painting, it cannot promise masterpiece, can't bring huge influence in drawing, as well as plans can't gain fulfillment, it's just impossible and funny. And we are stupid, if can dream."

"And so much easy to get lost, to die and simply disappear. Especially at right and decent path..."

"The more high is your inner uniqueness, the more fragile is route of fate. True greatness is an abode of deceit. The more exalted is the sphere, the more sophisticated, deep and saint, the more it's stuffed with cynicism and evil. Triumph of fate is victory of human, even if over this very fate. In school of life the time of death is nothing more than end of lesson."

"Eh, life is chase for empty abyss, for wholly fruitless breathless void... Where your horse race takes place without horses. Mind and soul are not friends and not lovers. And any flame of heart's efforts can warm one vacuum and only."

"Each bonfire of life gives birth exclusively to ashes, to smoke of hopes and nothing more."

"World's creator was mad, this is clear. The match is equally strong source of flame for candle and for fire. Both ugliness and happiness and pain are fruits of life and its beginnings."

"World maker weeps, regrets and squeals."

"How close these statements are to me, to my own thoughts about being." - has joined to discussion shy Tatyana: "All is wrong, vain and terribly stupid, useless, broken and killed. No inner clarity, no firmness, no right goals, no decent startings or rich chances. One pain, stagnation, aimlessness and shit – at every step and in each corner."

In role of shit, of course, was breed of humans.

"I repeat it each day." - Evgeny Valentinovich has stretched: "Being's frames look as hell. All is filthy and crooked, lost and barren. At here all confidence is foggy, short-living, pointless and weak. Each day performs one dirt and madness, one vices, errors, losses, sins. And only grave can fill with calmness, can save and cover with true bliss. All is primitive, wretched and deceptive, all is killed – all we have."

"I do not faith in something after death, but even nothing is still nice than this world."

"Yes, every finish tastes quite sweety."

"Believe, this life is worst of tortures." - has coyly commented Tatyana.

"I know. I definitely know."

At here dark thoughts were slowly ended.

V

Dim standard quarters of pale town, exposing yearning length, are powerlessly plunged in dreary fading, encaged by growing river of full silence, unhurriedly and fearfully extended by numb and scanty darkened places - oppressed, dispassionate and cold, limped from greedily countless rains and firmly chained in faceless fog, in autumn pain and sharpened devastation. Along of wet uneven pavement is quietly dragging step by step bleak vague silhouette of wandering Tatyana, attentively and timidly observing vast wilted latitudes, undressed by gloomy season: "What a reality indeed, annoyance, worthlessness and hatred, disgust, strong agony and troubles. This world is variant of hell, of fatal swamp, distressed and broken and opened for one problems and defeats. And life is simple, if to learn – as well as nuclear reactor. Luck and chance aren't my friends. One bitter abyss is my partner. Without passions, joys and rights. What for to live, for what to cling? If all, what's given – bunch of flaws, of heavy losses and omissions. And again I'm completely alone – at dark stage of world's funeral circus."

The heroine has quickened taken pace and, with pure absence of mood's brightness, trudged further, melting into distance among of houses and murk. The walk has slowly continued and soon got frozen at cute building of friendly spacious cafe, this time much nicer and much larger and in addition decorated with fresh long ribbons and balloons, explainable by very simple reason - it was first day from start of its existing.

Approached this marvelous location Tatyana Sergeevna has sharply stepped without doubts in calling into idleness vast walls. Amid of motley vivid looks of tartly colored interior's expanses, in strong excess of briskly screaming tones, is crowding flock of cheerful people, attracted by bold marketing inside. Pot-bellied lampshade under ceiling is looking endlessly appalling, of course, it's inappropriate at all, but by unknown hidden reasons still fixed at own ill-faded place. In distance, at the end of wall, is meekly standing carved oak statue and lifeless worn acacia in pot. In the space of the bar are swiftly swarming two tall waiters, with all possible strengths persistently and obstinately trying to grab attention of the crowd. Quite soon from abyss of glad faces has rather suddenly appeared quite young and accurate thinned boyfriend, in long tailcoat and in gloves: "I think to celebrate this evening with your person, to discuss our lives and hearts' harmony."

Having caught this great phrase, the heroine, with zealous attention, has promptly nodded and proceeded to understanding of his words.

"If you'll let me, of course, I'll stay here. We'll talk of everything and all. At first, about of each other, about path of next relations, of feeling, prospects and best dreams." 

"I agree. Start describing yourself."

"Well, I am sitting next to you. You can see, who I am, with your eyes."

"I need details, need your fate's plot."

"If about myself and my share - I'm from Altai and work as locksmith. It's strange to see a locksmith in tailcoat. But I am also kind of human."

"My dad is architect, I'm perfectly accustomed to be respectful to hard labor."

"It's nice. All good take roots from understanding. And now report me of yourself."

"I'm rather modest as all others - I study my first year as a linguist. Madly boring and trivial constancy. As well as any other being." 

"Do you want something else? Some fun or pluralism of perospects?"

"I want full comfort and true feelings, fixed vast stability of route and broad embodiment of dreams."

"This is cute. Let's order fish? It's, maybe, tasty."

"Rather hard to refuse."

"Well, that's wonderful. Waiter!" - has called the hero with briskness: "Give me fish."

The order was quite quickly brought and the course of discussion was strengthened.

"I'm just trying to find some intimacy, some doze of happiness and love." - has carefully sighed exhausted lady.

"Please, go on, I just heed."

"I look for miracle, but sadly cannot meet it."

"Okay, okay."

"But I am looking anyway... Of course, without of result. All I see – dead thick walls of tart longing, of sorrow, aimlessness and fuss."

"Well, go on, I just heed."

"I am looking, am stubbornly trying, am neatly seeking for good chance."

"You are priceless, believe. Success to you. Success and patience. Forgive me later, if you'll can. I hope you have enough of wallet." - the hero has quite abruptly got up and deftly rushed to space of exit.

"Wow, this is true obscurantist! What a fool still I am. He has listened and left. And now I have to pay for my great stupidity and for his fucking eaten fish. Lost bitchy idiot, real monster."

"Madam, a young man was with you." - has unexpectedly turned waiter.

"He was sitting, but what?"

"The police now is looking for his person. They say, that he has stolen a tailcoat. Directly from the atelier across."

"What a..." - the poor lady sadly sighed : "He has eaten the fish. And I'm having to pay. Invite the police to my table, I'll describe him by signs."

And now, after giving full description, Tatyana Sergeevna has leaned back in her chair and closed eyes: "Despair. Longing. Failure. Shit. Incredibly rich pessimism, dramatic. And again into emptiness back. What for do I exist in current hell? In pain, oppression and murk's blooming. What for to be? Why not to die? All is wrong, world is lost. Damn it. Fuck it."

The heroine has sadly sighed again and, having coped with flock of hardships, moved forward in new searching of own partner. This time among of empty street.

And trick has turned to be successful.

At small and featureless gray arch was noticed strong and slender stranger with thin briefcase and roll of papers.

"I want to stop you, to make mine." - without modesty has chattered girl's voice: "I really need a pair and right now."

"What a wonderful race. I have to run till final ribbon, till sure finish line, not less. Who you are? What is the name of such a coquette?"

"Tatiana ... Tatiana Sergeevna."

"And I'm Gennady Olegovich. But you can easily call Gena. Where from did you come and appear?"

"From emptiness and hopelessness of life. Now I beg – take my hand. I want be needful, want be yours."

"Already taking. Let's go up."

"Yes, let's. And I'll tell everything of me."

And again dreary story of torments, of dismal share and deceit.

The hero has sighed and hugged the lady: "And I'm geologist. I also always wander. Just like you, but by countries and fossils. Come to me, I have wine."

"I don't drink..."

"This is great, I'll get more."

"Then it's fine, let's keep route."

The route has slowly continued and led to small and modest building.

"And here my beautiful sweet home. Wholly scanty, but really cozy."

"Lead me up. I am aimed to be yours."

"Let's go, the stairs are at place."

"I would be going even by mine field."

"You are quite desperate, I'll say."

"Day is so. Not too much generous in love."

"Now is evening. And very soon - the time of night."

"Our time. The best one for adventures."

"You parents will apparently be worried..."

"I'll go back at midnight. So, we have just an hour."

"Then sit and I will get my mug."

"Tell me all."

"What do you want at first to hear?"

"Of you. Your personal life story."

"Then I start. As you can see, I'm wanderer by lands. I ride, do work and go back. I work - with hummer, map and glass. And then I'm writing a report. We have enough of useless papers. Describe each single tiny stone, take few picture and many times measure. But my profession seems me great. It always brings us something new. New landscape, sound of wind and pure freedom."

"And I am a linguist. More precisely, a student at this moment. La soledad es peor que la muerte."

"What a funny word mash. What does this cacophony mean?"

"It says, that loneliness is terribler than death."

"I agree. Where you've find such reflections?"

"From fate. From canvas of lost being."

"How deeply you live. It's very fine, that such of thoughts are still existing into minds. What else can you report to my shy person?"

"I'll report that I am pleased with acquaintance and that I certainly want more."

"Good deed. The closer is your soul, the much it's better."

"Not only soul... My body also wants be wanted."

"You are great. Great and funny. Very rare today, I will say."

"I'm wholly average, just absolutely lonely."

"You believe into fate?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, me too."

"Priceless thing."

"Let's be cheered."

"I'll try my best, if I will manage."

"Well, it's endlessly nice. Do not forget, that sadness is huge vice."

"Vice-filled girls get more easily loved."

"Prudent step."

"You have considered me cunning? Not feeble-minded, primitive and stupid. This is really strange."

"Should I think otherwise?"

"If to judge by all other, then - yes."

"We are unique. Remember this as firmest statement and be entirely relax. I have finished my wine. The dial shows me time if midnight. It seems, that someone will be scolded."

"They will not scold me, I'm assured, - just understand and nothing more."

"True understanding is soul's honey. Compassion – soil of heart's bloom."

"I'll come to you tomorrow again. You'll allow?"

"Can I refuse? But do not come in early morning, I have to sleep for sober mind."

"I'll come to you in afternoon's late finish. I go to university in morning. When I'll get free – I'll rush back here."

"Don't fall in madness. I am not an idol."

"Are you talking of wine?"

"And of face. A week as I'm not shaved, the clothes is shabby, the haircut is also far not neat."

"It doesn't matter for my person."

"Then I will wait you with whole heart."

"And I will come, as I have promised."

"See you tomorrow, my joy. Run away."

"Goodbye, my dear no-idol."

Tatiana has deliberately winked and briskly walked by way to home.

VI

At round face of small wristwatches has shyly frozen early evening. On meekly waiting for delaying, but frankly promised loving visit outworn unremarkable porch has tranquilly and timidly appeared the very needful blurred girlish figure.

"Here I am. Meet me, take."

"I am already passionately waiting. And even am quite worried inside."

"Till huge goosebumps and trembling into elbows?"

"Till highest measure and degree of possible for heart anticipation."

"What a sweet lovely fact."

"Come in, let's spice this fact with flavor."

"Yes, gladly. Very very well."

"Oh, you my precious wonderful invention."

And again conversation and wine.

"They haven't killed you yesterday for lateness?"

"As you can see, I'm quite alive. They've shown compassion and forgiven."

"Then broadcast me your talks."

"With greatest ardor and vase zeal." - has charmingly and adorably smiled pleased vivid lady and started to describe her day's details.

"Nice pretty manner of existing. Insistent study every moment and full devotion to its depths, what else can cope with being better. Each lesson – sea of information." - has fervidly recalled excited Gena: "You are great, it's sure feat to work so hard. Not everyone fulfill own tasks so neatly."

"For me it's certain source of joy. I really live my studing routine. Otherwise I would skip every lesson."

"What a crazily ardent tenacity! I'm fond of having pet like you."

"I want to be here every evening.."

"Then I'll perceive these joint moments as best of periods and times. In our sinful petty world such common comport is true treasure."

"How tempting you are..."

"You too, my honey piece of heaven. But I have news I have to say – week later I am going into voyage in Philipsburg to island of St. Martin. For half of month - in winds and cruel coldness."

"What is there?"

"Again my work. This time exploring of relief. Then month of rest and new hazed route."

"How destructively tragic it is, how greatly bitter, inconsolable and painful for acceptance by breakable soul."

"This is life. The very one, which I have chosen. It's highly dark to be apart, but good adventures never harm you. We have no reasons to be sad."

"Is it dangerous there?"

"Most far north. Extremely difficult conditions. But death can find at any step."

"You plunge myself in paranoia..."

"It's not for long. For two weeks only. And again to breath together. Again in frames of your sweet bonds."

"Then do not waste so precious time and let's devote own passion to each other."

"And you are stubborn sort of human. In good way, do not doubt."

"What for to hesitate at now? I believe into feelings much more than into mind or brain's convulsions."

"Unique significant position. In any aspects weighty as an elephant."

"That's truly wonderful opinion. Let's mix emotions, flesh and shame."

"What a paradise, yeah. Then let's delve into bliss. Till highest peaks of carnal pleasure and most incredible of dreams!"

"What an excessive storm of boldness? Let's start from hugging me at first. And then in sinful tart impudence, but now with innocent shy tenderness and care."

"Then yourself take control of permitted."

"We have boundaries, don't shy, but let's preserve plain principle of smoothness."

"I'm not in hurry, all is well."

"Then begin. Console my delicate awaitings."

"I flamingly agree. Your crazy harmony is priceless."

"Come on, endow me with impressions." - Tatyana has decisively got up and, after taking half of step and sure killing of own shyness, succumbed mighty rule of lewd intentions. Having instantly tightly united by unlimited sweetness of kiss, the heroes have let their thoughts away and calmly sunk in hot and pleasant. The lady has got filled with heavy lust and with deep eagerness and favor proceeded to perversity of wishes. Having promptly and endlessly melted in fervid feast of blooming flesh, young lovers have exuberantly twisted in firm embraces of keen contact. Tatiana, who has entered in courage, has spreaded thirsty piquant body in front of reciprocal neat attempts and, having finally caught madness, the one, which has removed all frames, moved apart her admirable legs and opened secret yummy zones for getting brightest type of bliss: "Taste me there, absorb my lavishly wet sweetness."

Gennady has unhurriedly got down in nice aroma of alluring slippy dews and zealously deepened in fresh flesh, nimbly smelling her blossoming incense of amply leaking sacred places of selflessly accessible girl's crotch.

"You are so wonderful, delicious and honey!"

"Don't stop, I order, keep your going."

"Don't be afraid, I'll never dare anymore."

"I'm getting definitely better! Speed up, I pray you, please speed up!"

"Just as you wish." - the hero has increased in taken pace and monolithically merged with moisty body. The tone of moans has turned in clear scream.

"More, more, more! And strictly with no slowing and no pauses. I'm craved as never in such times."

And again rhythm has added own deftness. And again fast repeat of sweet slidings and loud sea of trembling notes. And now, few tender movements later, hot action has attained own final and finished with immaculate release.

"Don't go away, please cherish minute more." - the lady has exhaustedly exhaled: "Oh yes, uniquely darling languor. What a pricelessly marvelous miracle - sex! And then my lot of degustation - I'm greatly hungry for you too. Come on andtake my throat by force. And do it roughly, I am begging."

"Without even a chance to take a breathe?"

"Without, yes! Like that and only!"

"Prepare suitable position and do not wriggle, my saint witch."

"Already ready. Act, my boy! In wildest way and rudest manner."

"Then get own pleasure and endure."

And again flaming violent contact with huge denouement in sweet mouth.

"I have eaten you too." - thin squeaky voice has coyly squeaked: "You are great. You've brought me pleasure. I am immensely good. Thank you, baby."

"You're incredible too."

"I agree, you're the same."

"Will you feed me again? I've got addicted to this taste."

"Yes, come on. I’m just flooding with rivers – in madly zealous excess."

"Oh, beauty. Feed me, my lewd dream."

And again vast palette of sweet sounds and identical flavorous tastes. And then short parting till tomorrow, till new fantastic holy times of blooming juicy bodies' dishing.

VII

And now, sweet weeks of contacts later, has come the time of trip to Philipsburg. They've decided to part in quick manner – with no sayings of goodbyes, but with firm promise to be waiting. The hero has departed with north steamer and got lost in blue waves of sea abyss. And poor troublesome Tatiana has stayed entirely alone – among of strictness of landscape and in tight unity with anguish. The mood has fallen deeply down and then completely disappeared, as well as partner vague look. And even dearest and joyful university, which was most favorite of places, was now giving zero warmth. All has suddenly faded and wilted, has lost own color, sense and taste. All, what was needful and important, has gone away without warning, having slowly replaced by pain's presence, by dreary thoughts and changeless gloom. Yes, pain... First time completely real.

"How bitter it is, how hard. As if my heart was torn away and its previous freed hollow space was filled with sharpened broken glass. First time in life I frankly cry. And these aren't vain and useless tears. All heat of our trembling souls, all love, affection and devotion, all this is so much far in current moment. All flawless happiness, all bliss – all of this is away. Those days I've understood, what heaven means – true heaven, priceless, saint and endless. I can't describe how sweet it was, how greatly blissful in inside. And now all instantly has flooded. And not to hide from sufferings and murk. Without him my life is bottom. With only fleetingness, harsh pettiness and morons. With fuss, betrayals and tart lie. Strong ugly cynicism and losses. How good was then, and how bad now. I know sometimes we have to pay. To pay for every tiny moment, for even spark in living's night. What else I definitely know – without him I'll simply die. I'll not survive in separation. And all I want – just be together, be needed, cherished and beloved. And here... Here rubbish and decay. Lost soulless worthlessness of crowd. Of empty idiots and bitches. I believe, I'll be never forgotten and will never return to past life. But what to wait for beings abyss... El destino no honra la eternidad ni las leyes."

VIII

Through boiling sadness of landscapes, depressed as fate and inner world, among of featureless surrounding of alleys, in sharp and tragic disbelief in any blooming, is slowly trampling own shy route engaged in dreariness Tatiana - again to sacred lover's door. Mood is crashed. Eyes are filled with deep grief, gait is limp. And again shabby entrance is closed.

"Again I've lost my fight with being. What a nightmarish changeless fixity of pain. And where is hidden torments' ending? I was seeking for miracle here... And now I'm weeping with large tears. And these hard tears are not vain. It means, I have to pour them down. Eh, fate, you have imputed my a little... Imputed and again returned to murk. But I have hope and I will wait. And once again will bloom and blossom. Once again will be brighter than sun. But at now... At now, viscous tart grief. That's all. That's all, what's mercifully given."

Having promptly got lost into apathy and succumbed to distressed autumn chill, the heroine has melted in oblivion and then quite hurriedly got carried by its bonds. Till blurred best. Till righteous moment.

IX

All can happen in world - both great pain and its sharp happy finish. Just so in one of silent evenings, having passed through of couple of weeks, cracked fate has gifted time of rescue - indeed incredible and truly long-awaited saint precious meeting still has happened: in shy response on timid knock smooth steps have catiously stretched and door has gradually opened.

"Gena! God! My impossible joy! I'm so happy, so much grateful again. How are you? With what news?"

"With good ones, nice as long outlines of sea. My duty has been finally accomplished, and now I'm here for whole next month. But at first, what's not new, I have to write a lot of papers. Suitcase is full of mined for journey stones – and I have to describe every feature. And then again in next blessed lands. Did you miss me, my soul?"

"With ample tears each of days. I've been unable to find place, to put myself away from sorrow. I've almost died in my heart's torments, was thinking only of you."

"Don’t fall in sadness anymore. It's wrong and needless for my cutie. Have I sprouted in you so much hard?" 

"Till bones of skeleton, not less."

"You are crazy at times. Look at nail onto wall - take off your skirt and hang it up. At now I'll heal you from your griefs – in most straight and efficient manner."

"I'm so happy to do all you want."

"Take off your clothes and kill own anguish. You are sitting with me. Take off your hellish aimless skirt, take off all parts of underwear. You're with me, as before."

"I'm taking off, I'll take right now. Okay, already taken off."

"Well, it's wonderful step. You're not a pair for depression, be glad and glorious – as goddess."

Tatiana has removed remains of clothes and meekly and diligently bent down: "Such way it's better, I am guessing? All is opened for view."

"You are my angel. Let me in."

"Just come, I've spread all hidden spaces."

And again flawless unity's act. And again filled with love conversation.

"And how much frequently are happening such journeys?"

"You know - six times each single year. Quite uneasy, of course. But I've got used to such a matter. Year ago, what's most weird, I've met my birthday into journey – 25th, by the way. In foreign my holiday was going. They didn't let me, scary creatures."

"It's hard for, it's bottomlessly heavy. I have been going here each day."

"I've infected your heart as a plague. This is horribly wrong. Wrong and mindless. And now I'll take you once again."

"I agree, take me all. I was waiting, was missing, wanting as true drug. I hope, your soul can understand this..." - shy shaky voice has broken into cry.

"Don't cry, my marvelous and sweety. You are mad in your love. Let me deep in yourself, kill this pain."

And again perfect boundless contact. And again pleasant talk.

"Please, promise, that you'll surely come back – each time time and every single journey. That you will never give me up."

"If I'll not die, I’ll certainly return. Do not worry, my joy, don't be dark. Each parting is just voyage and not more. It's not a tragedy or trouble."

"For me, it's purest hellish grief. I'm so afraid of losing your saint presence."

"Don't be afraid, my priceless cutie, just be entirely with me. Don't think of gloom of inner losses."

"I've just fallen in love too much hard and now cannot be alone."

"You're not alone, my lovely baby. Come again to my careful bonds."

"Have decided to drink all my juices?" - the lady has returned in healthy smile.

"You are laughing again. This is nice. I know, your juices have no limits."

"I am going, my heart."

"We need one happiness, remember."

And again magic glorious act. And again its haphazard repeating.

X

It so happens at here that after autumn goes winter. Or spring. Or even blooming summer. In our case one frowning autumn has changed on similar one. Full year of mutual relations, of fervid meetings and dark partings, has rather hurriedly passed by and brought quite short important lesson - what it really means to await. The lesson wholly painful and exhausting and, what's most sad, quite frequently repeating. And now round solemn date - 12 months of life together. Tatiana's soul is gathering for love. Sergei Grigorievich is sitting and beholding: "Once again to Gennady till morning?"

"Yes, again. Today is anniversary, what's awesome."

"Then best of my congratulations."

"Of course, I know, you're also glad."

"But why he doesn't come to us? I've not been seen him for half year. How is that?"

"He was promising me. But, probably, was frighteningly busy. You know – long journeys, me and papers."

"I do not like these hellish journeys. Such context seems for me not good."

"I hate them too! Till dreary shouts and vast tears."

"It breaks you unity, your spirit. I once again invite him to my work. They pay a lot in our sphere. Plain builder can afford a car in terms of only two years and with no changing daily life."

"I know, I'll say. I hope he will agree. He truly loves his restless job – new stones, old maps, and soil cuts. He is discoverer and dreamer. You cannot blame him for such choice. As well as can't reproach me for my tears. "

"I do not reproach, just pay compassion. What's new university and books?"

"Todo esta completamente es genial!"

"I did not understand at all, but I'll pretend, that I have heeded – for to look smarter in your eyes."

"I was repeat this short phrase a lot of times."

"And I was stubbornly repeating of materials' form and resistance. But you'll unlikely write me formulas of this."

"Again eternal misfortune: each one can study something own. One-sidedness is similar to poison."

"I agree. It can kill."

"I ran away – goodbye, till morning!"

"Don't forget of being smart."

XI

In tight captivity of hope and tender hugs, after multiple sex, are meekly lying two of bodies. Tatiana looks at faceless ceiling. Gennady looks at pale Tatiana.

"You're going overseas again?"

"Yes, I'm going, you're right – after couple of days. This time to north. In far ice abyss"

Tatyana has involuntarily limped: "For how long?"

"Two weeks, as always, you're aware."

"I will wait – every countless minute!"

"And me too. Don't be sad. Let's repeat our bodily joy?"

"Let's repeat! I will wait - every moment, every breath and each step. I... I'll..."

"Don't Cry."

"I bottomlessly love you. Please, know it. I love you! Love too much."

"You are my angel, let's build passion. Don't cry, my dear priceless pet."

"I'll try, but barely will cope."

"Do not be sad."

And again flaming idyll of contact and trembling farewell phrases. And again new inglorious parting.

XII

How long does two weeks always last? About 14 equal days. But it's in theory and only. In fact, it goes differently, freely. First month has passed, then passed the second, then one month more. But Gena didn't come from voyage. Worn door was statically empty, collecting dust and threads of cobweb. The porch has grown with rare moss. And shutters slowly have weaned from any glow into house. Completely faded, shriveled Tatyana has finally got rid of any strengths. Her days have turned in sure torture, and life has turned in purest dust. The university, so loved by her before, was very promptly given up, long vacant days at first were filled sewing, which soon was drearily replaced by ceiling's viewing. Brisk flawless silhouette has darkened, got stooped and absolutely weak. Dejected look has lost last beauty, dim eyes have sunk in endless sorrow, fresh blush of cheeks has tracelessly removed, and heart has overgrown with immense sadness. Her fate has powerlessly stopped, unable to get used to loss of meaning. And now, resting onto bed, she was helplessly looked in dusk and slowly trying to restore sweet frames of past.

"What for this all? What for and why? This world has warmed me for a moment and sharply frozen for whole life. Why should I try or be at all? For this depressing aimless routine? All best is definitely over. All is finished and smashed. Who I am here and now? Lost petty likeness of myself... I've been so boundlessly blooming, so highly burning into love, so frankly rushing and awaiting. I'm timeless prisoner of love, of those precious tender moments. All time I have been keeping faith. All time was trying to stay stronger. Where is my miracle right now? Where is Gena? Where is he? Where he has disappeared? No news at all for all the term. He's perhaps far in hugs of ice and whitish bear gnaws his bones, but he already does not feel. Or maybe drowned in one of seas. Has got stumbled on rock and gone down. Or maybe... Does it really matter? All is broken at now. All is lost. And no meaning, no reasons. Only calling of grave. That is all. I've stopped to faith in paradise, in God. At now I'm absolutely finished. And that is all. I know, that's all..."

Thick clouds have got stretched in window's frame, perplexedly beholding through of grayness. Landscape has wrapped oneself in fog. Cold nature has dissolved in growing fading. The life has visibly got stopped, as if indeed so clearly understanding till every tiny shy detail.

AFTERWORD:

What do you know of geography? If you have unlearned it, then a lot. Can you find north on map? Will you find it? I am assured you will fail. In some strange miraculous way earth's north has meekly got located into wholly non-northern latitudes. Into city Tambov, where our wanderer Gennady was freely building own quiet days and where before he calmly found the second one of his two wives, who have been knowing sure nothing of the first one and even less of sudden far Tatyana. Eh, globe, you're truly ugly thing. Both modern transport been invented and any variants of personal connection, but it's still greatly easy to get hidden. And what can our globe to do with such lost creatures – to bury them in own vast ground, having got only drearily filled with worthless litter of their corpses, not deserving its righteous soil. And Gennady... But what's with Gennady. Again drinks wine and stays unshaven. Again tastes girls, but only others. No one of genocides can crush such breed of people.

******************************************************

A barefoot and hunchy beggar is walking near of cemetery wall.

"Oh, true, sadness, true grief. I had no food for two last days. God have to help me, I'm believing. At least with tiny crumb in mouth. Although... I think I've found where to profit. Thank you, God, for your deeds. There is one grave behind of fence. Suicidal, they say. I even frankly do not know - to pray or not for her salvation. There always lays some food and flowers. Either candy or loaf. I have to find it for my sake."

After quarter of permanent searching, he has weakly sunk down at gray plate: "<Vosnetsova Tatyana Sergeevna. Twenty-one years old.> Sadness, grief... Bless her, God! Or not to bless..."

Has delved in temporary thoughts.

"Let God will choose it by himself. He knows much better, I don't doubt. And thanks you, God, for helping me - the bread is lying and I'm pleased... Still, bless her, Lord, if you exist. And thanks once more for this bread piece."

The barefoot has eaten shy God's gift and, after pause, his silhouette has left, having slowly melted with time in hazy darkening sunset, the very one, which hugs whole world - with any latitudes and places, where surely there are both farest north and so not similar Tambov and even, probably, true love, which, seems, is not for all, as you could notice...