It ' is my life. That are our life.

Part four. HE SO WANTED TO BELIEVE… …We need to write something wonderful. From a letter from a Good Girl. Instead of an epigraph… …Assol came to him along the easy morning road. She sat on the windowsill, dangled her tanned legs in the air, talked, asked. Like all Good Girls, and Assol, invented by him, was undoubtedly a very Good Girl, she loved different things, wanted strange things, was bored without adventures and miracles. She told the tired sorcerer some of her little funny news, then said, already regretting. — They’re waiting for me, I have to go. — She picked up her legs, throwing them over the window sill, turned over on the spot, spun on the windowsill and jumped off, finding herself on the other side of the window. But before Assol disappeared completely, lost among his own, foggy and unclear fantasies. The sorcerer saw next to her fragile figure not only the silhouette of the girl’s companion, a reserved aristocrat, the faithful Earl Gray, but also something else, something huge, not scary, but inexplicable, which descended towards the girl in the flickering of scarlet sails and the rustle of silk and shiny invisible wing. “This is love,” the sorcerer decided. — It was I who saw their love, love and mutual affection, the Very Nice Girl Assol and Count Gray. — Then the Sorcerer changed his mind and decided. — No. Love always requires only two: A man and a woman create their own relationships and build their own love. The sorcerer did not yet know what became in his thoughts, memory and soul, that incomprehensible and enormous thing that he suddenly saw in the reflections of scarlet silk, sails shining with pink light, or huge silk wings. And his poor head ached very much, crushed by the hot, cast-iron burden of inflammation, high fever, and delirium. And his thoughts, rough as sandpaper, very heavy and incomprehensible to the Sorcerer himself, were constantly mixed and confused. Probably the Sorcerer was dying and understood this about himself. In his feverish delirium, his thoughts became more and more confused. They became rough, rougher and more painful than sandpaper. And so intrusive that they were repeated, repeated and got into a sore head. These heavy thoughts sat for a long time inside my sick and tired head. And they tore her apart because they did not calm down and demanded attention. Then my heart gave up and got tired. It became indignant and hit the ribs quickly and often, then got tired and stopped its run. The sorcerer was then suffocating and suffering. But if the Nurse managed to come running or understand, she came running with a shiny syringe filled with a cloudy solution of medicine - camphor. And she inserted a needle and syringe into a body that almost felt nothing. And the Sorcerer would escape from suffocation and come to his senses under the frustrated or angry grumbling - the whispering of the Nurse that there was so little precious medicine, precious camphor left in the hospital! One day, after a particularly incomprehensible, but one cannot say that it was a very bad dream, the Sorcerer came to his senses and realized that death had passed him by, close, but sideways... That morning they carried out five motionless, ossified bodies, carried away overnight from life and illness into death, death itself and typhus. And he, the Sorcerer, while in the hospital, in the ward among the living, remained and lay, saved maybe, just maybe, by that modest, foggy head that flickered among his delirium, appeared for a moment among the shadows in a dark corner, glided along the wall , then manifested or shown at the window. Or maybe all this, all the visions were just delirium of an inflamed, sick consciousness?... Now the temperature has dropped, and the typhoid fever has ended. This is how the recovery began, difficult and long, because the weak body could not fight and did not try to recover quickly. The sorcerer got tired quickly. However, he came out of his delirium and now received his own familiar surname, first name and patronymic. He now remembered their first and last names, he did not love them. But he answered in good faith if he was called by his last name or by the name of the Medical Nurse. He also did not like his past life, dreary, rough, boring, but he could not change it yet either. And I often dreamed, sweating cold sweat from weakness and lying in a hospital bed, about a different life, bright and interesting. Incomprehensible images and feelings no longer tormented him as before, in a painful and sick delirium. But there was something inside him, something that was eager to be released and remained, that was not expressed in ordinary words: A fragment inside, a fragment of something, an unclear, painful sensation and a feeling that he had not done what was necessary and important that he must needs to be done... Men know absolutely nothing and always understand very little about themselves, because they study all their lives or life itself teaches them that they must go and do something that is always understandable, often difficult, but absolutely correct, known from childhood, men's work... Quite recently, Alexander Grinevsky was sick with typhus, now he was ill with impossibility. The other side of the brink of this severe and painful disease - typhus, was delirium, which, very accidentally, pulled out from the depths of consciousness those possibilities or needs previously unknown to Alexander Grinevsky, not only his needs, but also the need of the rest of the world and humanity for fantasy, dreams and a bright, impossible dream! Alexander Grinevsky, a Pole on his father’s side, a born Polish nobleman, together with his noble Polish family, impoverished so long ago that no one in their noble family could remember what life was like not in wealth, but in ordinary prosperity, Alexander Grinevsky lay motionless on bed, suffering from malnutrition and cold. But if I found the strength to think, then I did not suffer from food shortages or other impossibilities, but thought about it... To be continued if I manage to meet the deadlines for the competition - challenge.