“And then, thin scarlet rays penetrated everything they could reach. Sprawling along the milky red sky, they bronzed under fat cystic clouds, where darkness covered every tree with patterns. The sun’s smoke baked the stale crests of the mountains, while the gentle thorn beat of their snow-covered hearts shook the beads of frozen lakes. The hot black sea was filled with bitterness, striving to resemble the blind visions of its pathetic soul. A weak soul that carelessly fell into the depths of the whitening abyss. I saw it when I was getting up from my small crib, very young. The emotions that have appeared in me cannot be found in anything else. I began to feel the world, madly regretting those who are not around now. But what do I care about them? And why would anyone need others when life spoils your valuable imagination? She exposes herself as a maturing girl and blushes prettily. Scratches the dimples of your cheeks until they bleed, kissing only briefly. And then… The snow-white rose of her warmth descends to her poor, very weak chest. I will always be grateful for that…
After spending time with paintings on the second floor, I invariably noticed how a scattered lush herbarium, crying under the window, gently shimmers with an icy tangerine crust, close to an unripe, airy-green gooseberry, knitted on this earth with its emerald thorn-talisman. And then, listening to my sister’s poem about the dead baron, it was as if I touched the golden heartbeat of the great lord, who watched the world he conquered blossom like eternal gardens. Imagine only the limits of that sweet cradle; how smoothly the once-blackened bird echoed away from it, farther and farther away, farther… and further. The movement of the wings led my gaze to a gloomy forest in the fog, to a field in rye that was mown to the brim, not far from the noticeable whitish graves. They seemed to frame the forest like a wall, but in fact, they had long been like low castles throughout its territory. I’ve seen it every day. Not a copper, almost honey, evening landscape – the most affectionate that I would have seen. Luxurious fabrics of coolness embroidered a combination of unrestrained, autumnal charm of these species. They contained a frozen fire of caramel-claret color. Cool and slow, he breathed the scent of rain and soaked grass, gradually falling in love with me.
To endure heavy treatment at this time was also a rare experience for me. Along with the cold charm, I felt sudden burdens, and then the autumn frozen sunrises took me firmly with them. It is impossible to resist these impulses, just as it is impossible to accelerate their flow. Again, going to my window without strength, I looked into the reflection. A faded ghost who can’t feel and is getting weaker. All the dampness was reflected in me, every wet pebble was hated by my eyes and froze in my mind. So, having satiated me to the limit, autumn itself began its life in me, for a short time…”
“A suicide card enclosed in the flyleaf of Danny’s diary…”
By the evening, in the house where our story begins, everything seemed to freeze. Massive cabinets stopped opening. The crackling of the stairs, as well as the crunch of the railing, did not sound at all. Not a single conversation of the audience was heard. By eight o’clock, silence had taken over. There was no light at all on the top floor, so there could be great doubts that at least one small room would have a person. The only thing, only the street lamp shone with calm, white rays exactly into two spacious, tightly closed windows. He played with tulle, leaving long shadows in front of him, so that all the beauty of the patterns, embroidered flowers, maybe dandelions or peonies, thin, elastic branches and petals divided into thousands of threads were transferred to the tarnished floor of an ash-dark texture. A light breeze was walking outside the window. The sky completely lost its colors and turned into a black void. The mood could not allow a single star to find a place for itself on this infinitely gloomy canvas, like a long lake, trying to rain down on the roof of a house completely pacified inside. The pale wallpaper of the room looked like thousands of colorless crystal droplets were flowing down it, and the only thing that covered them was a medium-sized canvas that had been hanging near the door for about two years, with an oil painting of a hunter driving his prey in the middle of the sands. A nimble rider, shooting his arrows from an elongated bow with a rare braid around the edges, on a beautiful white horse, tightened with red reins. On the shelves, in orderly rows or one on top of the other, half-opened, sometimes half-read books with a variety of contents, light literature with very worn, soft covers lay carelessly. The eye was attracted by the frequent, countless written sheets scattered on the table, containing neat, measured and suddenly ending strokes of black paste, laconic portraits in the form of brief and strict sketches. The chair was slightly pushed back, but a little more than usual, its back rested on the sharp edge of the table. From the height of an overhanging, heavy chandelier, perfection was revealed this evening.
