|Yesterday a mood of one of my relative was good. Though we were not aware where he made such mood but he came to us himself. He lay down on arm chair so boastfully as if all world was his. Suddenly he recalled something he took the phone receiver quickly.
|That was youth which went off in that light way in front of me, but I fell after it and pursued it. I asked after having passed considerable way:|
|Like before I am being strangled in my ideas, inside my senses. Place of the world of dreams that I built was empty. Dry winds blow there. There is nothing able to press my heart in reality; there is not anything which must be a cause to be bored.
Attitude to my heart
|When fall of the leaves of the autumn begins with memories, as if my heart says these words every time: "Oh, God why have you given me such fate?" A nature bringing spirit to it is felt by my heart with fine senses.
I am afraid
|A city drowned and sleeps when night comes. Only silence remained awaken. A terrible silence that violates night. I have not slept. I do not believe that only silence would be judge of my soul. Probably there are other persons that stayed awaken besides me.
|It was a hot August day. I was at home alone and boring. I wanted beguile time with something. I decided to copy my senses which consisted of feelings into note-book. Of course, that would have been first of my creative work!
|When I was ten years old my father was living his prosperous time. I remember it was 1969 I listened to his speech in the hall of TSKhA in Moscow. Though I cannot guarantee exactness of this information, most probably, I will not rely on my memory too.
I say that
|Man sometimes is oppressed from life, is offended from the society and wants to be lonely, to go one silent desert, where no slave of God would be found. He wants to be himself and God.
Unluckiest man of the world
|Who knows the age of the world? Why do we live in this world willingly, with interest? When we want we count days, weeks and months for the sake of our work. Do not we know that it goes from our life?
A tree and its stump
|This is a stone and this is a scale. If you do not believe, yourself can weigh and see. I sometimes begin to copy my grief onto paper. When somebody finds out they say it is not a way, make it a little bit softer.