PAIN.
The cradle is my heart...
Eh, gentlemen! I'll try to do without swearing. What is a mat?
Emotions and nothing more. I recently got a new press for the Spectrum.
I got it, read it, thought about it.
My hands are still shaking, either from hatred or from
masturbation. Like a dog that barks at me from all sides. What
here to say gentlemen. Let's take, for example, a publication like
psychosis and what we see.
FUCK TO ACTION
They love me, that means a lot. Oh, sorry, Mr. Editor, but
would you allow me to ask you a question. Well, for example, why
on the pages of your publication you beautifully covered me, and in soap
are you sending an apology? And who are you calling there? What about me?
is it? ACTION=SLIP, but SLIP=ACTION. Simple formula, easy
remember. My first name, my second surname.
Since 1999 I have been bathing in hatred and drinking the dirt that you
so you water your E-PAPER generously. Do you know the fable about how
the artist painted a picture for forest animals. Honey for one, honey for the other
nut, but in the end insanity.
The most important thing, gentlemen, remember once and for all, I’m not trying
show off your awesomeness. I'm not trying to get fucked! I'm just doing
games. I do them, one after another. Because in my life,
There is nothing in my head except for thoughts. This is drama, period.
My PAIN is the scourge that drives me forward. I don't put before
yourselfthe goal is to make a super game, but still, if you want, know -
all three parts of the Empire were made only so that at least
one person in this world has read my novel. Stupid but
sincere. So, these games are just a pathetic addition to my
writing.
By the way, today, after half a month, I saw
FREED! The way she smiled cost me another
depression. And you FUCK me! If only you knew how petty this is
compared to this...
Games, novels, paintings, music, medicine, what else? What do I need
do to convey to at least one living being that little bit
information that I have. Maybe I don't have enough yet
strength to create something worthwhile. But I am aware of my creativity
potential. There are worse games than mine, but you don’t swear at them, but
I take this as gratitude.
WHO CAN'T CREATE
HE CAN CRITICIZE.
Actually, what pushed me to continue writing this section was
not at all the attention of the public to my works. And three factors
happened in two days. You already know about the first and second. Now
- theater of the absurd.
I'm not a misanthrope. And sometimes I give money to the homeless, and ride on
I allow myself. But sometimes there is a desire to resurrect Andrei Chikotila from
dead.
I go to work with this black diplomat. I have them there
cassettes, disks, documents, house keys, hairspray, gel and
personal letters. Lots of letters! Lots of personal letters!And for this
no one stole it, I leave the diplomat in the office of the authorities. Oh
Now I know, bosses are people too!
I’m standing, making something out of dough (I’m a pastry chef), and it’s coming down here
such a pretty girl, 28 years old and like in a fairy tale
attacks me with kisses. Interesting of course, but only
not for me. Sorry, but drunk women, even if I’m not beautiful
I love it. Moreover, I don’t like them when my heart is busy. I explain
to her that she is unworthy of her attention and is trying to dodge
another kiss.
She leaves calling me a fool. After a while I look
People walk around me, smiling at me, it’s strange. I can't
understand whether I have paranoia or... schizophrenia. Here
The administrator (also a woman, about thirty) comes down and
says. - Do you seriously not have a girlfriend?
I shake my head. My thoughts are spinning, I can’t understand what
happened. And that woman who tried to kiss me, how
turned out to be the boss of this satanic place. I don't know what
happened, but in the end she threw a knife at me and in anger
shouted that I was scum! Complete insanity! Just like in the movies!
Then she calmed down and said a sacramental phrase, -
You think you're smart, but death will level us all anyway!
I don’t know what to think; in life I’m a silent person. King
silence. Only if I get drunk can I become talkative, otherwise
silence. I'm not with anyonedidn't talk about anything. And I like these phrases
they throw, and knives too.
In the morning everything became clear. When I opened my briefcase, everything was there
was upside down. They didn't take my keys or documents. But
the letters were stolen. This was a shock to me. The thief was a genius.
Brilliant in the purpose of what was stolen, and not in the technique of mastery. This
explained everything.
People, I love you, but that doesn’t stop me from hating you sometimes.
The letters were personal. I kept them as a memory. It would be better if they stole it
documents or keys. The thief does not even understand what he has done.
Stole the most valuable things just to make everyone have fun
Why do they have such a fool working here?
I just can't live in this world. THE WORLD IS A CELL, WE ARE IN IT
LIKE SCORPIO IN A JAR.
And today I met, among other things, FREED! This
it's not fair, I'm ready to believe in rock, in fate, oh mommies, I
fatalist.
So this is the cradle of my heart!
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