Ольга сказала, я шизоид. Так наука называет необщительных,...

Olga said I'm a schizoid. So science calls non-communicative, gloomy people.
Before that, we were shaking forty hours in a tight iron Honda. In a tub full of Russian tourists. We drove four countries. I became silent and barked at the living passengers. They asked to smoke, write, and in other ways tried to piss me off. I answered them, my God, what you spend your life on. Let’s get there soon and spiritually lie on a clean and horizontal.

Not far from Dresden, the famous composer Alexander Beknazarov was preparing to burst. He secretly drank beer and hid from me this nasty act. And Olga is his wife. She got used to her husband with a whole bubble. And I said I won’t slow down, sort it out on the go. And then the pee develops into a smoke, then we get the chicken, and so the years pass. Feel a dramatic conflict?

Our flight was interrupted by the Sturmbanführer of German customs. He sat all day in an iron booth with other fascists. He wanted beer, cigarettes, weapons and drugs. I answered in German “Kayne”. This means in the translation, "I myself would have all these benefits."
Sad Fritz trudged away. Then Alexander fell out of the car and shouted after him with an intelligent baritone:
- Goeben si bir bitte to pee, porphor!
The customs officer understood from red Armenian eyes what cataclysm nearly entered the country. Shuddering inwardly, he pointed toward Poland. Say, go and burst there, stranger. Most importantly, do not hurt your homeland. Our patient was obediently hiding in Polish Christmas trees.

As time went. At exactly eight o'clock the neat German sun touched the forest. It became clear that you can go collect the shreds of the composer. Some did not run. When he finally returned, the passengers already hated all the men with the surname “B”. Alexander sat down and admitted intimately that he could not find a suitable place. And we rushed off to look for some Grand Canyon.

I do not like to travel. I'm angry with others. Everyone quickly wits what shit they got involved in. Initiating friends into the wonderful world of your character can be harmful. After trips, some are sulled for weeks.

Whether the Beck case. He travels with rapture. He called me to Barcelona for a festival. He left in advance, but to Tallinn. Allegedly, it’s cheaper. A dusty bus drove him to the other side of Spain. In Tallinn, there lives one heavily drinking bard. He has contact with Irish aviators. Very cheap, literally for mopping, the Irish carry Armenian composers anywhere. So said Sasha, getting on the bus.
I bought a ticket and flew as a herbivore German pensioner. Only a little nervous. Three days weighed underpants and sandals, chose the lightest. I wanted my eyes to remain in the skull when the time came to pick up the suitcase. But familiar female terrorists said - how empty - and planted a heap of dresses, shoes and an iron.
Fly away, flooded the cat with farewell tears. He gave him a bucket of canned food and five fake mice.
I hid my passports and money a hundred times. Lost two kilograms of nerves. And at the end of the journey I found only that
1. In Spain, the land is equally flat.
2. Sasha is still on the way.

Perhaps the Irish are flying on a decommissioned bomber during the Ethiopian war. The exact landing site is not written. The device is old, highly dependent on the winds. Maybe even this is the famous “Airone”, an Italian seaplane with an unpressurized cabin and three Isotta-Fraschini engines. Thanks to hypoxia, in flight you can see interesting hallucinations.

On the second day of the journey, Sasha called friends, asked how the Dutch “A little bread and sausage” would be. It was heard drunk children cry around him. I didn’t hear the answer, I hung up the phone.
On the third day he sent an SMS - “It is colder in Toulouse than in Lubeck”. Whether this observation was the result of oxygen starvation, or is it actually being carried around Europe, forcing to wash floors, is unknown.
He got four days. Tanned, leaned. Romantic hole shorts hang loose. And when he left, they were concert trousers. And something in him appeared so tart. At the Girona airport he was picked up by a Russian woman in tights. Totally free, (for mopping), brought to the hotel.

I am a boring vegetable compared to him. For example, I sit down to drink coffee. And he goes to sunbathe. Five minutes later, I just drank coffee, and he was almost shot. He lay down side by side with one girl. It turned out to be a drug lord’s girlfriend. There were no other empty seats and women on the beach. The bandit emerges and sees: his woman is in full swing studying Russian poetry. And so tight that he can’t make out the teacher. She sees mainly the nose. The Colombian threatened in ten languages. The bard replied that he did not understand German. Then the latinos pointed a finger at Alexandrov’s breast coat and said “bang-bang”.
- Yes, you go in the ass - the composer defiantly objected. He took a towel and went to rehearse the concert.

In order to keep up with the sense of entertainment, I went swimming in the storm at night. I went down a pebble to dark water. I went ankle-deep. He raised his head and saw that a huge wave was already above me, and life seemed to be behind. It looked as if the Kremlin wall was rushing out of the darkness. “I wish I hadn’t ...” -