Or maybe it’s their own skin and they are not painted? I don’t know, I can’t say anything, and someone throws a cigarette, pours gunpowder, pours gasoline and everything lights up, almost to the ground, the gray screen drives off and you can see old heavy hands, a beard, an elderly man looks at the screen, - “I’m nothing I don’t understand what it’s for? I don’t understand anything at all? Why is this all? .. Behind her, laughter is heard, exclamations of discontented exclamations of condemnation and she is distracted, goes to the kitchen, looks into an empty snow pan with a single red spot of a flower ...
He presses the silver piston of the tap, a transparent stream pours, hands substitute the white bottom, and it fills with a transparent mass, then lights a blue bleeding light and opens a yellow package with a white inscription and orange stripes, inside buckwheat-colored pasta, measuring the right number and gradually long worms in the pan they start to stir and get wet and soft and she turns the black knob on the switch.
She does not know her actions, her head is cracking and it hurts, her throat, she strokes the swollen meat with her hand and she becomes chilly, her legs give way and her body sits heavily on a wooden chair tied with black lines of ropes, the seat is soft, bardovop, slightly aged and faded and the color faded ... And nothing else to change.
And the brown clock measures the lost time and lost moments, and everything will end soon... Perhaps!?
The siren sang in her head, walked over the pan and waved her tail, touched the curtain and stuck her tongue in there, licked the edge, and there were a bunch of flies, ate everyone and rushed off into the night.
The dragon flew in and ate half of the pasta, she just cried, and then where there is so much, there is a whole kilogram, she sat on the back of the dragon and flew away with him so as not to see the white veil of dawn.
Just don’t tell her!” repeated the rabbit.
The fox narrowed his eyes very much and clattered his teeth, and the blizzard lifted them up and carried them somewhere into their own distances.
“And they won’t tell you that you could live, they won’t see anything in you and they won’t be able to tell you more than you know, and you won’t be able not to do it!”, sang a voice and fell silent.
He was somewhere there, but not close, but most likely farther than one could say or think ...
She was looking for him and all her hands were pierced with blood, raking sharp snowflakes that were mixed and melted in the snow, the crust pricked her bare feet, and when she lost consciousness, a black rider picked her up, he was wearing a cloak and mask and she couldmnot see her face, only big bright owl eyes and he kept warming her hands and feet, blew and blew and she became warmer and finally forty began to subside and the films merged into a single eolecdoscope and consciousness woke up to live on.
She opened her wet eyelids, dawn passed over her hand, froze like a bunny in her palm, played with her fingers and caught a narrow strip on light beige wallpaper with silver stains.
And the fox no longer bothered her, and the rider settled into daytime anguish and something else pinched her heart, and she broke into a smile and became like others, like everyone else and like those who do not remember their illnesses.
The sparrow chirped, he flew and sat down on the railing, cold and narrow, there was a little snow and he sat warming his thin pink legs in the inhabited snowdrift. He chirped, pecked at some buckwheat and flew off to his own.
And the dawn in the bottom departed, gave its reign to the bright and snowy day and endless winter.
