Politics is a dirty business.

Politics is more dangerous than HIV, Cancer, more dangerous than any most awful Ebola in the world. It strikes not just the body, it strikes the soul and deprives all of humanity, is man to obtain a fraction of power as white and fluffy citizen, he turns into a monster ready to eat anyone who gets in the way, literally and figuratively…

We sit in the gazebo one of the country houses. The evening had just begun, so we are still sober and are quite unintelligible conversation.
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Khovansky inspired.

Summer. The streets are empty, the smell of wet asphalt, which leaves a sprinkler, and greens. I’m going off shift, satisfied, already drunk, waiting for a nice weekend in the company of brunettes, blondes, and possibly some red beast. In which the pocket begins to vibrate the phone while he figured out which of the three pipes, rings, all was quiet. I looked at the screens – missed: Serge.
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Creative personality.

I have many times in my life heard the expression: the Creative personality. And it is the creativity can manifest in any business: in music, painting, writing gonocytes and so on and so forth. I must say, if you say: he is a creative person or I am a creative person, you know, before you fucking bum shit in life doesn’t know how to do than to paint pathetic pictures, write shitty lyrics no one needs, or to sing songs in the style of: candle stove. Especially amusing when they say: he/she talented, it’s just hard to break, I immediately precipitate. Remember, if a person is talented, for real, not in words, it will break everywhere. No one would argue that Scoop of opportunities to climb anywhere, was at times less, and censorship, and the Committee, and the party, and a crowd of Fuckers that sat and selected writers, composers and artists. And nothing! Bulgakov broke, and Bernes, and Sholokhov, and at the end of the Scoop annealed Vysotsky. Talent will not score in the dungeons and destroy censorship, talent will not break, but a creative person is something else. A creative person requires the universal recognition of their pathetic work. Without fail, they’ll write down their honopilani about love, to publish a ton nobody need books, or draw a fucking picture, in the style of: daub, and in order to say: I have the album, I have a book, or I exhibited in the gallery, in the city of Pereezdik.

Once in one of the taverns of Moscow, the fate brought me with Guidonia. Woman, decent in all respects, but tight fucking head. Introduced us, just sat, she was a friend of one of his many wives. Once they met her while vacationing in GOA, where Guidonia drew inspiration. The inspiration for GOA, she drew, exactly from November to April, when the in mother Russia special ass in terms of weather. She considered herself a smart Roerich, only with Boobs 4th size. Incessantly, Pestel about Shambhala, mantra, philosophy and shit. I, as a man who inst read everything you can about Eastern philosophy, especially Zen Buddhism, was funny to listen to her superficial knowledge, and how it distorts many of the basic teachings. But the whole pezdir, overlap good looks, Tits and long legs.
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Someone was born, someone…


Christmas morning, the snow crunches underfoot, the dog breathes, the daughter yells. Peace and quiet of the city after Christmas night. Whether the frost has affected, whether still something, but over the holidays people on the streets I almost never seen. On the one hand the joy, and sadness. I missed the birth of his compatriots. This peace and quiet tearing sound of a mobile phone:
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I’m sitting in a cafe, lacau coffee and visiting visitors. Basically, everyone is sitting and blunt in your gadgets, explore the news, the dollar. Stick into a phone and I don’t have time I open the app with the exchange rate, as the bell rings:

Sash, soon… we Tube…
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The last time a live Christmas tree we bought, 20 years ago, now put only artificial. With the advent of animals in the house, the living spruce was by definition impossible, and to throw thousands of Russian hairless beautiful, quite expensive. To throw tens of thousands on fluffy beauty from Holland or Denmark, actually crazy. Sunday. Morning. Seven hours in the morning. The bell rang at the door. I come around and open the locks, on the threshold of are shat and the Cauldron.

Good morning! – enters the apartment shat
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