RETURN

< Tim Skorenko



With well-known paintings of the white squares of the crossword, with shabby pages with tapestries on the gray walls down to the new France, Henry the Fourth, and looking grimly, in what has become the country. He sees anarchy, vulgarity, denunciations's slander, he sees not what I would like - and this is a signal to in order to return back to Europe, squeezing the steel fist of merchants and money-changers, heavy stupnёy pressed to the ground presidents and ministers bone steel crushing teeth - to return to Paris. In Copenhagen. In Westminster. In Sorrento. Back to where you expected for a long time.

And you come back, my friend, you're quite forward in a dozen other cities, excluding Moscow: appeal to you rattling trams and night death bogged down in stone driveways lions, you expect a sad caryatids bearing brunt of centuries on the fragile shoulders. Once your name lit up in the announcements and credits, whether the good is now known for his answer. When you were just a pawn on the chess dish sad soldier with a tin leg, then you could stay in the warmth and comfort, sit on the trophy grub - but you would be different. And you managed to become a true legend in the object of worship, the better bomb to the masses. Come back to St. Petersburg. In Bratislava. In Reykjavik. In Sorrento. You need not just anywhere, my friend, but here and now.

And you go back, darlings working-class suburbs of the marble bathrooms - in shacks, where they came from, from the world of selling love and flattery calculated back to the crumbling komyam barren land. Here the starry sky - could not as an industrial center, this complex woman, resistant to your money, and this is priceless, so, brothers, is priceless, it is worth to fall to their elegant chiseled legs. The road back is not worth a penny, a dime or a shot in the air, no view of Venus in furs - return to Marseille. In Bujumbura. In Tiraspol. In Sorrento. The road is free, the weather is extremely quiet.

And I'm not going back. Nowhere, never, nowhere. At the cries of Joe Blow answer: you can not. The plague and leprosy - more useful than the common cold; enemies are undoubtedly more important than even friends. I'd rather have done a new beautiful mistakes, I'll do something wrong, and, of course, wrong, will go through a hundred Gunib, Jinzhou and Shipok - always lose and I will, as before, a fool, and the word of their exchanged for bread and water, to place the stove on someone's laugh track, the fact that every morning - different weather, the grass in January and in July - the silver snow. And Life crawls along the line involute hand, wherever you look - everywhere grow the city. I'm going to Bangkok. In Tehran. Honiara. In Sorrento. I have not been there - so go there

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