-- Hey, Hey, dzhonik Wake up!— I shook zulaikha, shaking the whole body. I jumped up from the ground as if stung, falling from sleep, it hurts tresnuvshij head on the tree trunk, where, and what?
I do not know.
When I Wake up, I ask myself, for all is not clear in this life — I'm where now?! I in this reality? or in a new Show already?
Where differently arranged there life...
Everyone is happy, no envy between people there are no rich and no poor.
And always beardless Okudzhava, who died in 1977.
Clarinet broken, dented pipe,
Bassoon, like the old staff, defaced,
The drum seams was falling apart...
But the clarinet player is handsome as hell!
The flutist, as a young Prince, elegant...
But no. The harsh reality remains, will not Devas.
Why is it so...
After all, I know — it should be any different.
And this reality is just a dream...
Sleep. Where I just go somewhere.
Just go and all.
Along the rest.
Suddenly the rear catches Ilgiz.
— Want to smoke?
— Come on. Only you died there.
Ilgiz pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes with the filter:
It's not important, brother. Here you go.
I take one cigarette, not to give away.
Patted his pockets in search of matches, yeah I do not have them.
Partner got out the old petrol lighter, clicking the wheel, carved fire vitelec, lit it himself and held me.
— Here, John.
Touching the end of the cigarette with the yellow flame of the lighter, I draw, again, and again. But the fire goes out, for some reason
Ilgiz fervently laughs, serket again with the wheel:
— Come on!
Come on, so come on. I am once again trying to light it, poking the tip of the cigarette straight into the flickering flame of the lighter in the hand of the partner.
With all the dope tightening heat, flame, or there is something else.
Does not work! Damn it! What's that?!
The flame goes out and goes out. Ilgiz once dissolves in the mist
And then you realize that all of this is unrealistic.
Sometimes, I envy the irreversibility of death. Certainty, and in a moment of weakness I try to drive these thoughts— thought zulaikha, sharing their innermost wisdom.— We will never understand this, dzhonik.
It is positively something left from Velandia.
From horrible insomnia, got some firewood, lit a small campfire.
In the sheath of the knife is mounted a flint, and with a knife and carved flint sparks into the dust of wood, and ignited.
Then we sat her near the fire, under the old tree, listening to the silent words of the night silence.
Somehow it was okay just to sit and be silent, about everything.
I do not know.
When I Wake up, I ask myself, for all is not clear in this life — I'm where now?! I in this reality? or in a new Show already?
Where differently arranged there life...
Everyone is happy, no envy between people there are no rich and no poor.
And always beardless Okudzhava, who died in 1977.
Clarinet broken, dented pipe,
Bassoon, like the old staff, defaced,
The drum seams was falling apart...
But the clarinet player is handsome as hell!
The flutist, as a young Prince, elegant...
But no. The harsh reality remains, will not Devas.
Why is it so...
After all, I know — it should be any different.
And this reality is just a dream...
Sleep. Where I just go somewhere.
Just go and all.
Along the rest.
Suddenly the rear catches Ilgiz.
— Want to smoke?
— Come on. Only you died there.
Ilgiz pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes with the filter:
It's not important, brother. Here you go.
I take one cigarette, not to give away.
Patted his pockets in search of matches, yeah I do not have them.
Partner got out the old petrol lighter, clicking the wheel, carved fire vitelec, lit it himself and held me.
— Here, John.
Touching the end of the cigarette with the yellow flame of the lighter, I draw, again, and again. But the fire goes out, for some reason
Ilgiz fervently laughs, serket again with the wheel:
— Come on!
Come on, so come on. I am once again trying to light it, poking the tip of the cigarette straight into the flickering flame of the lighter in the hand of the partner.
With all the dope tightening heat, flame, or there is something else.
Does not work! Damn it! What's that?!
The flame goes out and goes out. Ilgiz once dissolves in the mist
And then you realize that all of this is unrealistic.
Sometimes, I envy the irreversibility of death. Certainty, and in a moment of weakness I try to drive these thoughts— thought zulaikha, sharing their innermost wisdom.— We will never understand this, dzhonik.
It is positively something left from Velandia.
From horrible insomnia, got some firewood, lit a small campfire.
In the sheath of the knife is mounted a flint, and with a knife and carved flint sparks into the dust of wood, and ignited.
Then we sat her near the fire, under the old tree, listening to the silent words of the night silence.
Somehow it was okay just to sit and be silent, about everything.
