Shipwreck

I - a walking graveyard of hopes.

Yesterday my mother went to the dentist, boring pastime I can tell you, but nothing can be done, and promised to go, that's descended. Waiting for her half an hour, bored, thinking, walking in circles, even started reading Vogue in the waiting room, "the way primerzky Journal." After the reception, and went to sit in a cafe in Clover, Mom to celebrate, I finally figured out with his main "problem", has decided to treat yourself to a gourmet, well, I'm bored again. Here noticed at some distance from a girl, she was sitting as I am with my mother, as I understood, and in the same boredlook looking than yourself to take the next half hour. Our eyes met, and sheunderstands the eye looked at me, then my mother, and smiled. Ten minutes later, they left the door she looked at me and winked once dejected, I never understood what it meant, but felt a little sad, she was gone, and I have missed about half an hour, while my mom was eating, and praised this cafe and Japanese cuisine. Then we went home. It was nice to come home.

Favorite music is playing, in some moments of life, a person needs to drink, but he does not know. I need to drink at all times. And I know that. I was unbearable to look at everyone around me is unbearable to listen to their voices, and especially the words of a thin squeak desperate happiness, the creaking of the glass inconsistent speed piletom nails, ugly, but at the same time familiar. You hate him, but he is always with you.
The only company that does not push to the surface of my need to drink, it's me and leaves. I leaf. I mudflats. Yailist. Damn, annoying. Even their divorce on paper, can cause nausea. Although, perhaps, his in particular. Too many people today are unhappy. Too many people have to say. I choose to remain silent. Shut up and kill themselves with something more worthwhile than a nagging neighbor on the desk, on the ward, couch, bed, life, death, or any other place of all this fucking garbage.
The line often goes beyond what I want to say I'm probably a lot to say, just the bottom line is that nobody needs it, you know, I bet if I wrote a post about shit, missed it as well as post about friendship, love, caring and family.
Shit and friendship, and family shit, shit, friendship, family, shit, and would have missed all this together, very symbolic.
Nobody wants to read all those "true life" that so many bahvalyatsya, but if I say Beigbeder has written a book and call it crap. I think it would be a five-digit circulation. A sales… and even more.
Actually what I mean. The book is about the shit already. Irvine Welsh, race car post-modern culture dermovskoy, the book is crap. Read, read, slept, went pissed away, and realized the truth that man writes is good.
Pour yourself a cup, pour into a glass, pour.
I do not know what would you do if you have something to write about myself, I think you would have lied. Everyone wants to be crap in a tie from Ferre, here I am.

I remember those childhood days when the sun is slowly touched the floor, it could see the smallest speck of dust. I was 9.
Bathed in the bathroom, with foam and ducks. I loved the ducks, they inspire confidence. Duck, which I loved, was green, but the old, my mother did not want to give it to me in the bathroom, but from the new I refused, and she had to leave. I loved the green duck.
And I loved to hang on it, fully embracing her hands and feet, glaring at her whole body, and only when I felt a little more and my favorite duck burst under the weight of my child being sentimental, I touched the bottom of the foot bath, and let go.
The sun is shining, my mother is preparing dinner, I embrace the duck at the moment when I decided to let her go, I was horrified to feel a plug that keeps the inflated duck, flew out, snapped with a rubber ball in my chest, and mine, of course, children are sentimental released from the duck whole air. While these thoughts had time to reach the brain, my body has had time to fall to the bottom of the tub. When I realized what had happened in his eyes began to appear blurry spots in my chest was burning a fire. Oxygen starvation is a terrible thing, because if there are hungry people, you can forget that it is read, it's not for you.
My legs tighten blown away a piece of rubber that when you were my favorite substitute for friends. The hands are trying to find the edge of the bath, but all in vain.
I woke up, as it always does, as in magic, in his crib. A clean, dressed, and live. My mother pulled me out when I was already beginning to lose consciousness.
The more I open my eyes never under water, and the rest has not changed.

And be aware that you are sick like everyone else. You know, it's really very sick, to the blood from his mouth, just like that sit on a chair, sit, think, remember and understand that everything about you, you're like everyone else. What are you so puny, pathetic and primitive as any member of its euro-repair. As it is disgusting and you need to understand, but you have to try on a suit student \ other \ lover, or whoeverelse is in this life. How disgusting it is to the knife at the breast, but it's not scary, it is still a thin gut, the guts up to the fact that in moments of weakness of her tears, and allyour shit for years of life flows on those who are around, and they are taking in response axes and tear on your own. Flows as a river of shit middle band.
You sit and think to myself, and actually what? Why not? Maybe go and finish it at that.But no, the gut is still thin.

Я очень давно не писал вот так, наверно глупое желание скрыться ото всех и вся берет надо мной верх. Я проживаю дни, как будто они последние, но нет, это далеко не значит что я безмерно счастлив. Моя жизнь, это создание обоев для пустоты. С рассветом, у меня полные рулоны, с заходом, у меня ничего нет. И тогда моя пустота явственно дает о себе знать, дает себя прочувствовать. Мне нечего вам рассказать, на любой вопрос, я не знаю ответа. Я просто живу, и даю жить другим.

некоторые люди слишком рано начинают печалиться, — сказал он. — кажется, и причины никакой нет, да они, видно, от роду такие. уж очень все к сердцу принимают, и устают быстро, и слезы у них близко, и всякую беду помнят долго, вот и начинают печалиться с самых малых лет. я-то знаю, я и сам такой.

лучшие зачастую кончают самоубийством
просто чтобы свалить
а те, кто остался
так и не могут понять
почему кто-то
вообще хочет
уйти
от
них

Я у него выигрывал в карты, машину одалживал,
Трахал его жену.
Вообще-то с женой его трахались все подряд,
Но более славного парня
Я не встречал никогда.
Ти Кей Кемпер несколько лет играл
За «Грин-бэй пэкерс»,
А потом получил травму колена и занялся
Авторемонтным бизнесом,
Очень удачно.
А вот в карты
Играл он паршиво:
Мы поили его,
А потом
Обчищали до нитки,
А супруга его сидела в засаде на заднем плане,
и груди ее торчали из декольте.
Ти Кей Кемпер.
Могучий, большой мужик.
Руки — окорока.
Честные голубые глаза.
Он для тебя рубаху последнюю снимет.
Он для тебя шкуру бы снял, если б мог.
Как-то вечером шел он с работы
И увидел двух хулиганов,
Вырвавших сумочку у старухи.
Он пустился вдогонку —
Сумку хотел забрать.
Почти уж догнал — и один хулиган обернулся.
В руке его был револьвер.
Он выстрелил пять раз.
Могучий, большой мужик…
Все пули попали в цель. Он тяжело
Упал на асфальт и больше не шевелился.
На похороны собралась толпа.
Супруга рыдала.
Друг мой Эдди ее утешал,
А после увез домой
И оттрахал.
Ти Кей Кемпер.
Больное колено,
Доброе сердце.
Он не был создан для этого жесткого мира.
То, что он протянул двадцать девять лет —
Уже большая удача.

It should be smiling, so lively appear

Gradually, life teaches us to indifference and composure. Do you offer love, passion, fantastic in its power and experience adventure … and you turn away with indifferenceand you order from the bartender still whiskey. It seems that it should be.

The only moment of creativity is one twenty-fifth fraction of a second when the user clicks the shutter, the camera flashes of light and the traffic is stopped

You know, most people who say that they love me not even want to know me. They close their eyes and ears, loudly repeating yourself that I am "good". They don't even try to understand me, their eyes closed and ears zalepleny and diaries are hidden.

григорий умер в туалете
причем не знал что там нельзя
а можно только где табличка
тут умирать разрешено

during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
whores
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn’t call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment

and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.

what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.

Charles Bukowski, How Is Your Heart?