And Here I Was In The Empty House

And here I was in the empty house where, however, as in the hunting izba, all minimum supplies for an independent life even without circulation in shops were stored. Has guided some order, has prepared an omelette from an egg powder, has made tea - behind this deliberate mechanical fuss has somehow driven away oppressive emotions. But here has drunk tea and remained alone with itself, with the thoughts. Both has moaned, and has fallen the person to a bed; also began to punch a pillow, and has begun to roar, because the pain has entered into my heart never knowing until then of such burning hoops. I then also have originally understood Jack Londona from a legend: he died not from two equally fine women, and from a pain of the intolerable. Well, no! The heart attack will not be, I will not admit this shame, to punch to destiny of I will not give: not in such happened alterations, awards at me fighting, man's, fair!. I of tears from a bed, have stood on , have risen, have somehow reached a bath.