In a subsoil of the yard sat in a sandbox, smoked Prima
- Now - that everything, - told one. - And when I dreamed to become a writer - every day wrote.
of Krutanulos in a brain: since ten years: at first filled notebooks in a lineechka, then sheets of writing paper and filled with the imaginations
It dragged on, let out the gray rings which curled the unsteady eights.
- I in writers do not mark, - another answers, drawing on sand a pattern a boot sock. - Just a wish arose which - what to describe.
- And you know, at you the direct speech fine turns out. It seldom happens.
- Yes? And how to you in general? - Yes it is entertaining to
to read was It from life of rockers, and I know nothing about them.
- And I any more not rokeryu! - also rushed in a brain a hurricane: night streets of Moscow, interlacing of motley fires, and feeling of flight, freedom penetrating each atom of a body, and speed - remarkable speed - as if swirling consciousness a difficult labyrinth.
Another presented mountains of sheets, stalagmites accruing on a table - the stalagmites covered with a small pattern of texts -
demolished then, thrown out - Well, we go?
I go they - 18 - summer, go on the yard, then down the street, and it is at all not the street of life (excuse for banality), and one of them does not know, does not know - what to become it the writer
RAGS of MEMOIRS
- Milk to drink, children, a milk! - the grandmother, and the grandchildren who were cheerfully turning at a horizontal bar shouts from a verandah run, sit down to a table, there are enough firm gingerbreads
Rural milk shines wonderful light, streams to liquid disgraces, filling glasses.
the World wonderfully revealed a ping - a pong and to lasagnas on trees, small billiards where blyostky metal spheres wrote out intricate figures, game in knives and the size turned from cherry.
the Father and mother of one - the uncle and the aunt of another will arrive in the evening, and tomorrow, on Saturday will carry children on Blue lakes where a zolotist sand, and brisk small lizards curl at bushes, and depth begins from the coast at once.
I will be still trips for mushrooms, with a rising at five in the morning, and it is necessary to suck sugar for visual acuity, and velvet paws of fir-trees hide strong families of boletuses, and the grandmother waits with a tasty lunch
the Grandmother - such dead - lay many years later on a table of one of country rooms, and a coffin, empty and terrible, waited for it greedy. In a year the uncle, the aunt - behind it died: did not take out life without it, could not, did not manage
motley rags of memoirs what will never disappear Remain
, will not fade even - To the Yurkiny grave we will pass
ON the PROVINCIAL CEMETERY
- we Will pass, we will pass. They together lie - the grandmother, Is brisk
the Provincial cemetery, close density of graves, crosses, rusty fencings, blazing of flowers - and trees, huge as towers. Balls gry pour, disturbing air.
- you Remember Yurka? - the senior cousin asks.
- Not - and I remember for some reason a dog it - Freda: soft such, with a brilliant hair, mokronos
Having untwisted a wire, come on a site; get a bottle, plastic glasses from a package. - Have a snack on
, - the brother stretches sandwich.
is Smoked, listening gray.
- And you well remember Yurka?
- And that! I am obliged to it by much.
Stack a bottle and the remained sandwiches in the rustling package.
Go to the following grave.