Disfuskskoye

Do not dispel our nap. We are at a new line, for death threatens living. We are not scared. We are already

After the explosion in the hellish mine, who excited Rus' (and it is not for nothing that she is called disintegrated, I am afraid), after rallies with riot police, which the people are crowded with might and main, and with the Tuleyev Aman, which is quite the opposite, part of the Russian people (who is tolerated, and who - ...

After the explosion in the hellish mine, who excited Rus' (and it is not for nothing that she is called Discon, I am afraid), after rallies with riot police, which the people are crowded with might and main, and with the Tuleyev Aman, which is quite the opposite, part of the Russian people (who-who is suffering and who the steering wheel) is waiting for the seventeenth year, something like February. Everyone is afraid that our local sumo will resurrect: somewhere it will burst, somewhere it will crack-and it will ride by itself. The anger of the people will shift the mountains, for everything has long been: miners will rise there, there are drivers of the car, and the critical mass, dropping the oil of the oil, against the ruling class will stand with a proud wall: disadvantaged, tags - against the arrogant thieves ... who is afraid of Russian Troubles, who welcomes it. There is nothing more to be consoled, sir, all the ways are blocked ... "Mezhdurechensk, Mezhdurechensk!" - Signed over the network. There are not a bunch of disagreed, dispersed at the moment - here is the intensity of the passions of dangerous, proletarian element! Fronts of indoor peals, mournful crying, mournful laughter and immortal quotes of the milestones of the milestone: patriots of white suit are called to worship the paired power for the hundredth time, which keeps us from the rebellion. “Woe to you who want a rebellion! It will be "Ragnarok!" - They are torn, as if the riot is really not far.

I intend to console you and push a simple speech. They will not hang anyone, they will not burn anything. A beneficial thunderstorm will not cleanse the sky: neither the seventeenth year, nor the followed. Small, rotten - and in the seventeenth year there was something to set on fire, guys, to burn, like in hell! Everything was as a whole - both the capital and the village ... But at first it burned out, and then rotted. Our prism, inaccessible to the ray ...

"Do you want a cataclysm?" -someone will ask. Don't want. I would, maybe, do not mind - to live rotten, the chest is crowded - but, having stamped the homeland, forget to burn it. Do not return the previous force by neither a quarter nor a third. Everyone was overheled for a long time. There was nothing to burn. Do not dispel our nap. We are at a new line, for death threatens living. We are not scared. We are already. The sounds of Leninsky barking the majority recalls: “Here is the wall. She is rotten. " Yes! But rot - the most other thing.

We buried ourselves in this face and rested our heads. To be honest, a quiet dead worse than any alive. Let him be a mediocrity and ignoramus and the paths of his crooked - the living has hope, and the dead - alas. You can do anything - the stubborn spirit will not wake up: at least to hang publicly indignant aloud, at least educate in rods (in fact, children are angry), at least introduce a tax on the air or a fine for a daring look. The briskness of the fish, the memory of the bird, the prospect is short - neither divorce, nor greatness, nor rise, no jerk, no seventeenth, which scares the poor fellow as an opportunity to move from purgatory to a gulag.

There are no conflagrations to you - quiet and nonhumans, to see a wolf. Apocalypse, comrade, also needs to be earned. There will be a peaceful convergence, a centuries-old cycle-for someone pleasure, for whom-on the contrary. All in one universal puddle, the planet is in sight.

And it seems that this is worse than in the seventeenth year.

The poetic evening of Dmitry Bykov and Inna Kabish will be held on Tuesday, May 18, in the Great Hall of the Central House of Artists on Bolshaya Nikitskaya, 53, at 19. 00.