Art is the whisper of history heard above the noise of time.
One to hear, one to remeber and one to drink
It began in different minds and the different places.
It was an enviable skill, to be a normal human.
A madman, an ironist, a Russian?
There are never a shortage of Zakrevskis.
The harder the times the grabier the hands.
Fear and shame swirled happily together in his stomache.
To be a russian was to be pessimistic.
Irony grows as fast as a mushroom, as disastoruously as cancer. (when the noise of time becomes too hard)
Well, life is not a walk across the field.
Integrity is like virginity.
No one died in the right time: some too soon, some too late.
By allowing him to live, they had killed him.