Видимо, люди курят ночами, чтобы лучше думалось. Или...

Apparently people

smoke at night to think better. Or

so that one does not think at all that sometimes one

and also. I do not smoke. And sometimes, as if

I have nothing to do, I start to think.

In virtuality,

where do not throw the mouse, some traces of the past

life, someone else's or yours. Alien - that's what

someone else's that is incomprehensible, which means that it is not

interesting. It tightens its loop

nostalgic masochism.


Photos,

happy for show or on faith,

compromising (naturally, laid out

not you), with beautiful views (not because

what is beautiful, but because the associations

happy), with friends, where are you drunk

(so that you don't think that you are only posting

those where you succeed), saying

lack of demotivators (why

demotivate in an already difficult

life), remnants of old general pictures,

which have long been removed from the author, with

which all have already removed their

square, and only your stubborn

presence keeps the frame alive.


Scraps of phrases

smart, but sometimes repetitive, beautiful,

but often deceitful, gentle, but incomprehensible

why. According to them, at first glance it seems

you can read my whole life. But no,

if you read and think about it, you notice

what is here - as you now know, you

lied, there - you were not in the mood,

and would say something completely different to my face, here

- you are so carried away by correspondence with a passerby,

that I forgot to congratulate my best friend

happy birthday, congratulations dated

next day with an apology and a story

that you did not have any

the opportunity to get in touch, but you

you know ... And this is your life. Or maybe something

what happened to her for her weakness for miracles

technology.


Sounds. Quiet,

crackling, bass, or crystal,

depends on the speakers. New, fashionable songs

but more often old-loved, forgotten-found

by chance. There are those that make

you cry. Only you know about it.

Perhaps someone else, if I came to you

attentive. There are those sent to you to

please, just share; share,

because hands itch; express what

that it was not the time to write, or in a bad spirit.

There are sung for you, it still seems

what is beautiful; embodied sentimentality,

you are generally lucky in life for romantics,

if you suddenly want to make sure of this,

re-read your messages, especially

winter. For some reason in the winter at night

potential, former, unsuccessful, and how

strangely enough, old friends are drawn to write

things you don't know how to answer ..


Most memorable

victims of romantic magnetism -

always strangers. I'm lucky on the street

poets. They come up on the street and ask for

read your poems. I can be in

large or small female company,

come up to me, I can be hugging

with a guy, it doesn't matter. It can be seen on the forehead

it is written that I cannot refuse, not because

which is inconvenient, but because at such moments

a challenge to itself wakes up inside,

stuck in a society of dead poets.

Living found me at different points

the world, in different languages ​​(there was somehow even

in the language of birds, good, me as a child

taught), in different degrees of relation to

life and to people. So meaningless

there were about ten inspired meetings.

And this is a part of my life that

written only in my memory, for such

there is no place in virtuality. If I

now did not make this lyrical

retreats, it is possible someday

and would forget that it was in my history.

After all, suddenly this will not happen anymore, maybe

I don't deserve this anymore. Or vice versa

someone at the top decided that I was finally

who has become wise and mature is not worth

distract with such nonsense. Now

a little part of my real life

entered a frightening abundance empty

in the mass of virtuality.


Although, the verses are here

also have. A special base for them,

naturally no, the virtual world is too

hurrying somewhere to love poetry.

It's less than music, much less

than films, and even less so than

porn, if you suddenly click on the search engine

naively, something is not right.

In my piece

virtuality poems more and more Brodsky,

Tsvetaeva, in good moments, Pushkin,

and you can even find mine, just not quite

it is clear how. It is foolish to wait from the addressees

conservation concerns - female romanticism

hurtful and selfish.


Road video

dance and more presentation about

family made by little sister in the garden

or

to school. Video is the most sincere in

virtual life. You can't

give up and difficult to reinterpret.