Please look up.  Wait a while.  There will be a bird flying by.  Follow it with your eyes and then go ahead, as usual.

Very insignificant things – to touch each other with our shoulders on the stairs, to smile.

A body doesn't get tired of dancing.  It is just the fine mechanics of feelings that fail to work.  I don't know what it is and how it works.  What machinery is that?  A soul?  A heart?  What is beating there?  Or am I being continuously beaten and is the heart just flopping between the ribs?

Why are tears flowing?  Why am I sleeping sideways and why do I not dare to look into the children's eyes?

I don't know anything anymore.

Yesterday I suggested to Oleg Zhukovsky that we fight a pistol duel from two meters – to not miss in any case.  I promptly forgot about it, but he came back in a day and said that the ways of our hearts are different and he will die some other way.

I'd like to have no sensations at least for a week.  To smear myself with olive oil and to fall asleep in the sun. In the hot and delicious night, to discuss thoroughly the complicated form of an asparagus harvest, a history of mosquitoes and the foul neighbours who draw aside the water from the stream.  But suddenly there is a break.  The fireflies appear at the terrace.  And the heart is beating again and the hands are sweating, and some Love will be the last one.