If not too to dig in a similar hypothesis, it very much and very much even anything. Not to carp. A vagueness, roughnesses, and
nestykovki only to it on advantage, here again it is possible to pile naivety such that will deduce the confused and breaking
footpath on a wide highway of a reality. And why all should speak somehow? Only in the literature all should be explained, and
subject lines are finished. In a life after all not so. "Not so it was, not so..." Only here is how to explain presence in this pool of
blood of the strange design which has been stuck round by seaweed, corals and molluscs, as if the ship skeleton lying at the
bottom of the sea, acquired something very similar on crimson to a bast, hanging down short and long ugly tapes from a head
round timber, from a humpbacked backbone, from thick bones of edges, from bones of shins, femurs and a basin. It, really, a
skeleton with which else is definitive not slezla a decaying flesh, whose tatter for some reason slightly moves, leaving in a blood
pool the short scratches, slowly swimming away a viscous liquid. I start to bite a hungry dog own hands, I feel opposite elasticity
of a live human body, smack of blood in language and still bolshee desire strong-strong to compress jaws, to bite through
damned muscles, to shake a head and to pull out a body piece that the pain on some blissful instants has blinded me, have
deafened, have destroyed the past and the present, have filled them to edges only by itself, only with my pain where there is no
place to anything to that does not keep within frameworks of primitive reflexes. Any my part very loving this body, this lovely
plumpness and whiteness, these well-cared hands and long fingers, still resists to hatred searching an exit and fear which try to
rescue reason from full disintegration and the subsequent long rotting filled with tangible nightmares, gloomy miracles and crazy
prophecies, but the abscess bursts, me overflows so dirty stream of disgust for and furies that without the further fluctuations a
teeth bites into a hand, breaking off meat and vessels, milling joints and bones, and only mad shout from bursting lungs forces to
come off a brush gushing forth by blood and to give vent to already simply air. The pain destroys time and reason, transforming
into a being, whose unique desire - of this pain somehow to get rid. In full conformity with the theory together with time the space
disappears also - it is narrowed till the sizes of a laceration, and only in these limits I still keep a primitive rationality. My eyes skip
on its unwrapped interiors, with skolkami bones, with a hanging down piece of leather and filled blood with floating whitish slices
of fat, and in an empty pate biliardnym by a sphere is reflected and does not find an exit from a cranium thought: "What to do?".
And still I realise, though the thought and is not pulled out from black embraces of a bitumen pool of subconsciousness that I am
happy, happy. Certainly, it not the sexual satisfaction from kalechenja the body, is all the same for a long time wished and
leleemaja an amnesia, carrying away a debt, responsibility, pity.