Какое же здесь всё замечательно, восхитительно мёртвое. Неспроста,...

How wonderful everything is here, delightfully dead. It is not for nothing, apparently, for our God-bearing people the criterion of holiness is that corruption should be untouched. They dug it up so that they open the coffin - it lies, darling, as if it was laid yesterday; of course - holy. And the sweet smell ... That's the same here: there is a village by the road, the road is good, asphalt, and the bus stop is yellow and cheerful, and the houses are all so neat, all of the same dark gray color have become from time to time, the glass in the windows is almost all intact , roofs are dotted with fist-sized holes - and where do they come from? And here and there a collapsed roof, like a broken cap on a village daredevil, and through the narrowed frames with cracked glass, the red and white of a Russian stove, and shingles from the roof, and curtains, gray from time, peep. Everything is as it should - like a living village lies, overgrown with weeds above the head. And further, a couple of kilometers away, lies a cat at the edge of the road, of a dark gray color, in a huge dark gray pool of its own blood and intestines, brown, dry, but - as if they had put it yesterday. And - a sweet scent ... So, this cat is a saint, and not that sweet bearded man from the photographs who called himself the master of this land hundreds of years ago and who has recently been commemorated on the radio every single day.