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Stories smell like a lies. Roses smell of chemistry. "It's fantastic!" - A cry in a bookstore, a guy in a green rumpled park found a book Camus. A girl in the subway stands on the edge of the platform and looks sadly down at the rails. The guy in the green rumpled park will be happy to read on the Internet about her death, inspired by the part of the writer. The bald cat “Sphinx” jumps down and knocks a porcelain cup. The cup falls and breaks on the floor covered with linolium. But now there is no one to collect fragments, the girl, the mistress of the cat, lies on the rails in parts. Request on the Internet “How to Clear with yourself”. Warm water in the bathroom, fragrant soap, a crimson blade of a razor. The mother of the girl from the metro, the mistress of the cat, whose death was subconsciously delighted by a Kamye lover, will not read to the end the novel of the great writer Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, because her daughter is now decomposed in parts. Funeral. A closed coffin, a crying father who will begin to drink from this day. A guy in a rumpled green park is watching the development of events on Twitter. Society for consumption, corporate herd, everyone writes poetry. Having hated the environment, a request on the Internet “How to Preat with yourself” is repeated. Failure. The rope breaks the chandelier, the crumbs of the ceiling pour on the head of an amateur of existential literature. Booze. The smell of burned matches and songs under a frustrated guitar in honor of the man who survived. He has a girlfriend that night. The next morning she disappears. Another depression, a fragile teenage body, digesting a bottle of vodka for a week. The book Camus is lost. Monday. Open a laptop, mail, colleagues, music. A few more crumpled pieces of paper of various denominations. The father of the family of a sad girl, who is already neat, in spare parts, rot in the grave, writes a verse without rhyme. Painful whistle in the lungs, bronchitis. When loneliness ends, a dumb question, a final verse. A guy in a green rumpled park writes a quote from waste paper on Twitter, which no one will understand. Shame on the weekend, pain at the base of the penis. The message “I'm pregnant, I need money, and if there is no money, my friends will bury you.” Request on the Internet “How to Clear with yourself”. A guy in a rumpled green park, metro, Lubyanka, stands on the edge of the platform and sadly down on the rails.