Do you remember, Lord, in the K-th region I called you with a mortal voice, and many looked at your stars, and vomited with tears without a breath? and there were birch trees with birches, surrounding me as if I were dead. Why didn’t you breathe me in, Lord? late August or the edge of autumn? keep my fate silent. how long wander around your bombed churches, these assholes should cry out their souls, that they read us now, that they abandoned us read us? We are alone with you, Lord.

there is gray ice on the Black River - April, Lenten, pre-Easter. I fall into the Friday people - once in the station air the voice of mothers fell like that, calling out from the darkness of the yard their sleepy children, but deeply succumbing. factory morning whistle sounds in me as if through water - God must say so through a long yawn. and the wind carries snow dust over the shallow Funnel.

punch me in the face - I’ll soon be thirty-two. It's high time to hang myself. or at least give birth to someone. and I live falling in love with trees. I look at the blue northern dawn - yours, St. Petersburg, seasonal profile. and I alternate potatoes with buckwheat already 4 years. I live and not I suppose I will live. let yourself. Is there a way for me? tell me, Lord, are you one or many? Or is that something we can’t talk about? but this is so - for lovers of witticisms.

A woman is a lyre, giving her secrets to those who can play. Honore de Balzac Lerysol A woman is a lyre giving her secrets to the one who can play. Honore de Balzac Unusual in the jungle in the summer, soaring... Monkeys jump among the vines, maneuvering among traffic jams... So many different wayward local species: carefree macaques, excited chimpanzees, loose orangutans, masculine gorillas. Locked in the embrace of boundaries and the inability to fly uncontrollably.

In America, in the Rocky Mountains, <...> in a bar there was a sign above the piano: “Don’t shoot the pianist - he’s doing everything he can.” O. Wilde Of course, nothing can spoil Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov. From the very first bars of this opera you are immersed in the unsightly reality of the early 17th century. It’s impossible to be on the sidelines: it seems that all the heroes are by no means riding white horses, but you inevitably get involved in their fate, get used to their roles.

Before the writer and revolutionary Victor Serge was expelled from the USSR in 1936, all his manuscripts were confiscated, and much was lost forever. The publishing house of the bookstore "Tsiolkovsky" published a small book , which included the story "The White Sea" and poems translated by Yu. Guseva, which he later managed to restore from memory. Below is an excerpt from the story. (In 2017, Tsiolkovsky released V. Serge’s novel “When There Is No Forgiveness” ). There was no horizon.

the person is untalented and vulgar. but sometimes he, frying dumplings, suddenly it will look like a crucifix, before whom they kneel. a man washes his socks, and then looks out the window, composing unearthly poems, that they will die along with him for fun. only this is a rhyme - they will die, will perish, bend, scatter, disappear.