Transit

What other finals could we wish ourselves?

The shabby pack was embarrassed: she so wanted - when, when the example of Nazarbayev learned the Russian satrap! Tatar-Mongolia of the farewell knock of horseshoes waited ... But I would have asked for a little-at least for twenty years.

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Naturally, I'm not talking about pensions: think, also prestige! You can’t seduce anyone with these fresh mudders.

I like to think about the future, about the sweet volume, beyond which Russian Judas will not be comfortable;

About the future, secretly preparing a surprise for neighbors, the surroundings when you pretend to be a monster of my homeland, - and we, after rotting and cutting, renouncements, rags and a baptist, see it in the true image, and with it at the same time.

It is painful to think about old age: a sour, muddy suspension ... I don’t know if I will stay alive, I don’t know if I will stay here - but all its vile charms, grunts, futility, kuter, inserting joints and jaws are crazy in advance. Not life, but continuous bald spots, ruins, Schumer and Akkad ... But how will we be comforted, what sunset are being prepared for us! What a compensation for weakness will seem to be a spring news! The voice of the mind is not at all, there is a chance of goodbye goodbye. Pretty Chukchitsky frost, let's forget the triumph of the vulgarity: the happy old age of Chukovsky, and Oxman, and Marshak! Bastards with burned faces will disappear like snakes in oats*. Not everyone, of course, survived. But not all died out either. But by the way, in such a glee you forgive both meanness and lies: of course, stupid, insidious, but still it could have been worse! They could not have mercy on anyone, they could catch on the border, they could continue to rape the unfortunate mother-mother, and then drive it by the nose, not believing in the upcoming revenge ...

There are no winners in the fatherland, there are only forgiven ones.

Spit on any manuals, on our flabby bodies: yes, old age shines funny for us. More generous than youth was. Of course, slightly fussy ... It’s not for nothing that he was sipping in a gap, floundered in rotting of the tide: finally came a tide. To see the triumph of justice - I do not know the result of the Holy; To leave the gloom and bring out the grown up children with him, to see how Sannikov’s once **, the clearance among eternal ice, hug a briefly exiles (and take them there again), leave discord and complaints and live in modest works - what other finals could we wish ourselves? And someone says in bursting, barely unclenching the mouth: thanks to the comrade for our happy hundred ...

And if everything will be dead now, like some steppes, and the rhyme “here is you-the thaw” our general will decorate the path, then death will seem like a vacation to us. O Temple on blood and bones! We will joyfully mention the offspring of our last sorry. The living envy the fallen - after all, he leaves the prison!

It turns out that it is so, otherwise - we will say thanks to him.

• “And politely sting like snakes in oats” (Pasternak).

** see "Sannikov Earth."