Around the fountain, there are not benches but metal chairs. At this time of day, they are still arranged as they were left last night. You notice how many chairs are in pairs, but still sit on one of the few that is solitary.

You're glad to have a clear view down the main pathway. You want there to be people to focus upon. So far, the park has been empty save for you, but in a city of this size, that must change soon.

Two minutes pass. A male figure has appeared on the path in front of you. You're not sure of the exact moment he came into the park, your gaze has been wandering. Not any more, he has your complete attention. You fumble into the pocket of your jeans. You produce a cigarette and lighter. However, even by the time you start to smoke, he remains too far away for anything but the most general of observations to be made about him. From here, his hair could be black or brown, he could be taller or shorter than average - there's nobody else around to compare him against. What you do know for sure is how confidently he's moving, how alert he appears to be considering the hour.

You have no idea at all that he's examining you in exactly the same way. He wonders why you are there. So early and alone. There's nowhere for someone to sit next to you, so he assumes you're not waiting for somebody.

He sits, ninety degrees away from you. His hair turns out to be dark brown. He is fairly tall. He looks at you with a mild smile. He lights a cigarette himself. You don't know that he has not once stopped in the park on his walk to work before.

The glances you and he share are that bit more frequent and sustained than normal. It should be transparent what he is thinking, but you second guess yourself. After all, you're still the only two people there, there's nobody else for him to look at but you.

He has smoked the cigarette more slowly than he would previously have though possible. Eventually he realises himself, there's no way he can be at work on time now. Yet he waits another two minutes.

He finally moves, walking around your side of the fountain. You and he smile at the same time, as he passes feet from you. He says 'hi', but the word only comes out as he's slipping from your field of vision. You crane to look at him, you keep craning, but he doesn't look back a single time.

You continue waiting, and he continues wondering why.

and there was nothing in the world to be fought for.
if there were change in the universe, it passed around her.
her form was too controlled for external energy to be absorbed.

her senses could register nothing that she need react to.
her heart was walled, her thin, grey blood slipped beside it,
there was untold magic lost inside, but nothing was set draw it out.

there was the possibility that her existence was vital to the world,
whatever her situation within it, she consumed nothing of it,
but at any unanticipated instant she could bleed magic.

posed, alone, her tongue almost bitten between her teeth,
she possessed a white fire beneath her translucent fingertips.
her grey veins flowed exposed, her thin skin tightened.

she noticed the seasons had stopped changing.
stiflingly, the grey air of the city sat within her lungs.
she realised she was nervous.

the tired sunlight slid through her sleek fringe.
the weather was always like this in her dreams.
heartsick, she waited for the world to awaken.

F8 - Этот абсолютный чудесный клавиш. Хочу eго в реальной жизни.

It's a hot summer's afternoon. You are walking through the small, shady park that encircles the old city. The sky - which you look towards through the lattice of leaves and branches overhead - is perfectly clear. The weather, you realise, is always like this in your dreams.

On a bench before you is a boy, dressed in black. He has sunglasses on, and a large book open on his lap. His head seems too raised for him to be focused on the book. His posture sees him angled in your direction, but at the same time he doesn't appear to have seen you. Unless he's forcing his eyes upwards slightly. It's simply not possible to tell.

You might have passed a thousand people during the fifteen minutes you spent in the park, but the impression of his face lasts longer than any other.

You go home. Your sister asks how your afternoon was. You're not certain of the answer and find yourself staying silent.

A street away from your flat. The evening has come.

The boy from before passes you. At that moment, it doesn't seem strange, although it's such a large city. You have no hesitation in saying something to him. Looking back, this hitherto unknown confidence will be the strangest part of the story.

You repeat yourself, neither having been conscious this time - nor the first - of any of the words you were using.

He doesn't understand anyway. He doesn't, it seems, speak your language. You find yourself smiling more naturally than you have at any time in the preceding year. And turn away before you can see what effect you might have had upon him. You've forgotten where you were going, but that doesn't matter.

Если я посылаю ей сообщение на ICQ, и она не отвечает, я всегда удаляю это из 'Истории Беседы'. Лучше, когда я смотрю снова - даже если это не реально.

Kажется, также, я забыл, как стать сердитым.

Я только чувствую себя спустил.

Я поехал в Москву на автобусе потому что, я хотел где-нибудь удобный сидеть и написать. Я забыл что, будет темно. Но, в темноте, я написал этот:

Я обещаю что, я не напишу все мои незаконченные мысли здесь. Но этот мне нравится:


He wasn't sure how long it would be until dawn. If it would happen to come at all. He hadn't woken so early for some time. The sickness of over-insulation that had laden his stomach before he had gone to sleep had now taken residence in his heart.

...

For ten minutes he had stood on the balcony, but hadn't once looked beyond his own hands. Even in the cold his thick, grey veins flowed exposed, tightening the surface of his thin skin. Within he knew there to be particles of magic... They'd shown themselves...

The world would not awaken from this sleep. Not today. The dawn might arrive, that didn't matter.

...

Seconds after he left her, a dead light finally arrived in the sky. The day was as still as the night had been. He looked around but there was still no sun in the sky. He tried, but failed, to remember the last time it had been present.

and they settled together, unaware they had never been apart.
the even, grey plain they occupied was as far as the world went.
nevertheless, until this time, they had never noticed one another.

silence had washed around them in ceaseless, shallow waves,
until one swept the light from within their thin grey skin,
and, touching, they illuminated one another in a pale glow.

with time untold, the spilt light would melt away,
but, knowing newly the precision of their shared fiction,
together, in absolute contact, they could rest forever.   

Еще кусок романа:


It would be too much to say she cared, but it seemed easiest to conceal her disinterest. She nodded by way of reply. She didn’t want to explicitly commit herself to any sentiment that might misrepresent her. No conceivable choice of words could make her lack of enthusiasm appear like anything other than an implicit rejection of the offer, so she chose to use no words at all.

For Lena, silence had always been rather more than a convenient failsafe. She understood herself as a more elegant and precise being than words could ever display. Her skin was taut and flawless, her hair was at her effortless command. Her self-control was absolute, her desires null. She lied with her eyes, with her heart and with her soul, until all she knew herself in terms of was an exacted, inflexible fiction. Words, she felt, could only create unrest. And Lena was quite prepared to rest forever. It never crossed her mind that she might be doing herself harm simply by staying silent.

...

Mark spoke.

‘You’re not working at the moment, are you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good, I think.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I was working. I’m not now.’

Lena paused. She bit gently at the inside of her cheeks for want of anything else to fill her mouth. Then, belatedly, she spoke.
‘I don’t have anything to drink in.’
‘We could get something. Or you could always come back over to mine’.

...

It was already becoming dark. A thin, marbled, uneven layer of black ice lined the pavement. Lena walked at a speed that took no regard of the conditions. Accordingly, Mark did likewise. They both knew they would never fall. At this pace it was ten minutes walk to Mark’s flat. They each bought a bottle of beer to drink on the way. A queue formed behind them at the kiosk, so Lena stepped aside and used her cigarette lighter to open the bottles.

‘I don’t normally answer the door.’ Lena said, breezing untouched past a young woman passing in the opposite direction.
‘I’m glad you did’.

Using only her eyes – a painful movement upwards and to the right – Lena looked at Mark. His left cheek, his hair, his dry, slightly parted lips. He proceeded to address inquiries she hadn’t made.
‘I knew you’d be tired. And that you’d have no questions left to answer.’

She did not resent these assumptions being made. Not because they were accurate. Maybe that was the case. This did not interest her. She had already reached the conclusion that there were only two real reasons why Mark had come to her.

Either he imagined she had something to offer him, or that she was in need of something he felt he could provide. Neither struck Lena as possible. She wanted nothing, she needed nothing. In return she gave nothing. She remained unmoved. Unfazed, her heart continued to process her dry, rich, blood.

На улице я нашел 5000 рублей. Я знал, что они были плохие фальшивкие, но я собрал их.

Никто не смотрел. Иногда, я не меня понимаю.

С начала незаконченного романа. Я смогу кончить это, если я заканчиваю жить это.

В других новостях, я должен учиться предложения с 'если'.





...

She put on a coat and picked up her cigarette lighter before leaving her apartment. Descending in the lift she felt weightless. From a kiosk she bought a bottle of beer. It took only a nod to have it opened for her. She could feel nothing. An unscattered grey light blanketed the snow-glazed city. This would never change. Everything became pale, grey or white.

She drew a mouthful from her beer. As she lowered the bottle afterwards, the foam surged and trickled down the neck and across the back of her left hand. She did nothing about it, instead lighting a cigarette, still stood a few metres from the kiosk. She stayed still. She allowed most of the cigarette to burn away. For thirty minutes, forty even, she stood, wishing, watching cars approach the crossroads too quickly, sludge spraying from their tyres. Darkness came too early on these late December days.

…

By day she had little to tire her, so by night she found it difficult to sleep. Her heart had always been heavy, once carrying the weight of a thousand unrestrained dreams and prayers. Now it had walled over and dried out. It was easier to tease the hours away if her heart didn’t beat unabated, always waiting to bleed into another heart’s more tuneful beat. Nightly, her apartment lights bleached the night outside. Even when the all but perpetual cloud cover broke, she never saw the stars. Across her corner of the city alone there were a hundred lights that stayed on until dawn night after night. She was not interested in any of them. She was not reaching for contact.

…

She finished drinking. Two, then three cars in succession rode the same red light. Nothing resulted from it.

Whatever she gave to the world with her precise, undemanding... she was rarely repaid with a fit reason to leave the house. Those she created for herself were scant and insubstantial. She had no particular taste for fresh air. If she went walking for its own pleasure, she would only ever go as far as the edge of the nearest park, before the worthlessness of the task made it too difficult to justify carrying on. The park itself was always too far.

…

There was no rhythm to the way Lena’s days collapsed into one another. She might eat at any time, she slept whenever her tired eyes insisted they had gone long enough in one day without seeing anything new. She had managed to stop dreaming, it disrupted the absolute silence she sought in sleep. So now she always woke without inspiration. …



Her skin was taut and translucent, she carried herself with an exacted... composure, but she had created nothing. She had won every battle in her life without even fighting. She could walk through the most crowded street without once having to adjust her stride, such was her command. She hadn’t needed to struggle to win her friends, and she had dropped them all as easily. Nothing was precious, because nothing had any price.

An hour passed. For the last three quarters of it, she had lain prone on her bed, the electric light shining directly through her thin skin. She thought her first clear thought of the day. That maybe… The thought would stay with her.

she took rest, aware, at once, of every second of the rest of her life.
in the hesitant spaces between her unformed thoughts she’d found magic.
albeit beyond reality, unrealised, it had come to linger indefinitely.

still, her unabstracted future lade her leaden heart, laid bare, colourless.
absorbed by herself, it seemed she could take nothing from outside.
unrefracted, the plain light within her held itself as a wall around her soul.

resisted by her exacted being, the placid evening fell everywhere but through her.
finally, for form, with self-possession, she released her first breath for weeks,
she herself would never travel further than the particles it contained.

Через прошлых нескольких дней новая фантазия была у меня.

Я читал что, телефонный код Москвы изменится. Идея - которая никогда не будет случаться - не рассказывать мой новый номер моим родителям.

Вероятно - это о бегстве. Или болезни сердца.

and, as if she’d sent her secrets astray in an uncreated language,
she saw before her the substantial and inactual bleed together.
across her thin grey lips she laid two slender grey fingers.

absorbed by her unformed thoughts she’d lost her way.
for countless weeks she’d sought to say something unspeakable
but, wordlessly, the idea she knew the incommunicable escaped her.

intact, she recalled serene songs about the sadness of victory.
the lifeless sunlight slid through her translucent grey skin
and untold unreal potentialities remained unimagined.

and their taut, translucent skin wound around one another’s,
as thin grey blood flowed slowly between their wounded forms,
laid together, heartsick, their unspoken lies became substantialised.

they’d fought to occupy a reality they thought could occupy them,
their shared daydreams, lustrous, challenged for substantiality,
yet their convergence, as an act, channelled only unreal magic.

they’d bleed together unendingly, if their hearts allowed,
until form forsaken, their lithe, woven forms merged eternally,
and, unestranged, their contact coloured the unscattered daylight.