"You know, Kolya, on some days I think I've lost my mind. But on the other ones it seems, that nothing troubles me at all. If only the thoughts about her don't come again. It's a strange feeling - to be someone's plantain."
My eyes are blindfolded with some cloth. My hands are fastened behind my back to something solid, presumably a chair, especially considering the position of my legs. The last thing I remember is walking home from my night shift at five in the morning. Then, emptiness. No cars, no people, nothing resurfaces in my memory, even after minutes of reflection. The room is cold, damp; it might be a basement or cellar. I can't hear anything. Absolute silence, penetrating to the bone.
In the shadow of the magic dome that, like an invisible hand of fate, embraced the city, life flowed slowly, like tears on glass. The streets of the city were curved like ancient dreams, covered with the dust of time. The houses rose to the sky like guardians of unspoken secrets, their facades glittering with soft light, giving the impression that in every window there is a story hidden that no one dares to tell.
In the shadow of past dreams, where the stars lay on the horizon, there lived a man whose dream eluded him like a light breath of wind in the midnight silence. Every night he went to bed like a sea of rest, but dreamed of fatigue, of the world that opened only in the arms of weightlessness of sleep.
In the dark sky of my soul, like stars whispering their secrets, a bright planet called "Destiny" flashed. Her light was reflected in my eyes, giving life meaning and filling it with unknown possibilities.
After the “death” of Soulless, things took their turn. And up to a certain point everything was fine, but then one day, when Soulless carefully went about his usual business, news came to him.
There is constant murder in the city, the news is all about this, they also talk about some “Soulless”, who received his nickname because of the cruelty of the murder, someone calls him a murderer, and someone considers him an idol, but who is he? In fact?
Polina and Martin meet in the "Cafe on the bridge" by chance, but people who find themselves between two shores always have something to share with each other. And there are some secrets to tell each other.
Otis naively believed that after going through some rough experiences in high school, he would be able to keep his emotions under control and never do anything rash again.
But his plans, as usual, come crashing down. And all it takes is one look into the blue eyes of his neighbor who lives on the other side of his dorm room wall. A wall so thin that Otis becomes a reluctant listener to Conard's wild pastime activities.Until one day, after their absurd first meeting, Otis realizes that he simply
A dead fog bloomed in the gray embrace of the night, like the breath of bygone times. He came like a sad messenger, eclipsing the light of the stars with a misty veil, like a ghost of the past, forgotten in the whirlwind of fate.
In the shadow of sad alleys, between the endless walls of gray buildings, lived an artist whose work was shrouded in the darkness of art. His palette knew only one shade - deep, impenetrable black. It seemed that every stroke of his brush contained inexhaustible grief, longing, the source of which lay somewhere in the very soul of the artist.
In the dark realm of the unconscious, where dreams are born, the hero of my story woke up every night. He was a shadow flying through the stars of his dreams. His creator, the master of this magical theater of dreams, put his soul into each image, gave him wings so that he could soar into the abyss of imagination.
It was summer when the flowers in the garden were blooming with bright colors, but in the house number 13 there was a shadow. Where laughter and joy used to sound, now there is only an echo of past happiness.
At the edge of the world, where the sky had become an unreal carpet of evening haze, the beach stretched like a forgotten verse in the book of time. The sand, soft as a memory of the past days, met the wave streaming from the boundless horizon. The sea seemed like a big ocean of longing, in which the sun's rays were drowning, coloring the water surface with shades of unspoken sadness.
In the shadow of a forgotten city, where time wove its nets of old memories, there was a homeless emperor. He was the lord of the forgotten streets, covered with the dust of time, and his palace was a dilapidated house under the arches of heaven. His empire was empty, as if locked in bronze tombs of memory.
In the lost alleys of the city, where the walls of houses are like silent witnesses to forgotten stories, there lived a homeless tramp named Wind. His long hair was intertwined with fate, and his eyes, like the heavens in a gray cloud, despite their bottomless gaze, radiated something inexpressibly dreary.
