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Routine. Waking up, washing up,working, eating, working again.
Evening. Television. Beer. Sleep.
Twenty-three cigarettes.
Six cups of coffee.
Liter and a half of water.
Like potential self-murderer with an armored gun in the desk.
Always ready to move out the apartment, to quit the job, to leave someone forever.
And then: new flats, new job, new people.
And, of course, everything is wrong.
Once I stole a red skein just to knew how long was it's thread.
I tied one edge to the pole and started to uncoil the skein.
I thaught I could walk till the end of the street,
but the thread ended near the gate of the neighbour house.
It was empty inside.
This big red skein.
Uncoiling the thread - to find emptiness. Digging inside - to find nothing.
There is nothing behind these twenty-three cigarettes and six cups of coffee.
And this isn't terrific. This is the life.
It is terrifying.
Too much everything. And there are no thaughts.
At all.
Can't find peace?
Yes.
Who are "Them"? And where are these "Them"?
You imagine your everything.
You just live.
You just live.