The otherworldly letters I received from Charles Baudelaire on the nights of August 20 to August 27, 2000

Mon petite marquise,

I see you found me somehow. You have a long reach…
your heart is truly aching to be heard and mine constantly aches in search of its songs longing to be heard.
This sounds wonderfully challenging my petite marquise and I am eagerly awaiting these bountiful re-words 1st glanced upon inspirationally shared reminder of your gift’s surpassed rarity of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s all encompassing uniqueness of percerving life’s ongoing reflective self empowerment’s abilty’s unto others seeking solaces redemtive fully understood compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery right behind them backing their own stories no matter what stands in front of these attempts to be in the moment’s where just knowing someones guiding the hand you’ve held is all that truly matters.
Please lets begin chapter’s one’s onwards in and throughout your book of knowledges page by page turn of events.

I will maintain a 2 hour window daily throughout my work week in offering any guidelines acceptably sent back and forth between us until you are completely agreed upon its fruition of beliefs deemed suitably acceptable with your ideas original intents.
1 in the morning before with the 2nd when I arrive back in the Hotel de Lauzun, 17, quai d’Anjou usually before 9 pm.
And then the weekend’s like this one past will be my own recuperative times narratives focusing solely on my own similarly poetic journals of rediscovery and literally letting go of what needs of mine allow me to by penmanships sinking like a stones repeatedly cast 1st 2nd and 3rd if my own needs are not met.

And please, if you have any ideas of how mine could be more easily understood in the manner of fluidity I am completely open and have been eagerly waiting for creatively intensifying its representantions effects?

votre ami dévoué, Charles


Please lets take it a much more carefully paced assistance this time in hopes of recognizing eachothers needs in hopes of inspiring one another’s creativity rather than stifling each ideas potential.
I know I over stepped my bounds in offering assistance immediately and then having to step back from being overwhelmed with my inability to realistically carrying a weight of responsibility that was in no way meant to be cruel in doing so rather an admittance of my artistic hearts reaching out to help another’s but then breaking each time mine weakened by years of being broken itself by over 30 years of disappointments reoccuring that it simply could not bear your disappointments in mine as well.
I have thought regularly of how you were doing but was scared of upsetting you again by visiting your poetry grave in the Cimetiere de Montparnasse

Engaged with ones
Beckoning sky’s kissed
Encaged with suns
Reckoning lies missed

Hunched over gatherings
Along freed loved fences lengths
Bunched clover, rather brings
A strong need of defenceless strengths

Hunger urged
Backboneless cuts
Wonders purged
Lack shown less guts

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Show ethnic free nuances”

Woman obsolete
Through bliss Am I
No man robs, though elite
To this damn try

A known readjustment’s
Inconclusively thunderous applause
Alone we had lust meant
“Grin on whose give under us collapsed laws”

Reducing this beliefs brethrens
Clevery lasting laid upon hand’s
Seducing kiss, beneath heavens
Everlasting praid up on lands

Unproven life’s free sentence
To try hopeless dependency’s
One proven knife’s repentance
To my “hope less tendencies!”

Souls scared of
My poetic responses
Tolls, dared love
“Cry no ethnic free nuances “

Embrasse Josseline pour moi

Ma petite marquise,
Incredibly well pictured moments of humanity’s inhumane devoutly followed faith within their encouragable society’s abilities of poverty’s eagerly sense less concerned with entrapment than freely offering kindnesses returns.
How beautifully choreographed these rarely heard rhythmic beats fall from your uprisings literary thought as if to invite and invoke penmanship’s voice to dance across your tongue of a spoken word longing to heard from your song of choice.
Ok my maîtresse Josseline just called and is on her way over.
I’d like to pick where we left off when next we converse ?
Yours truly prefers to stay anonymous Charles
p.s Your secretly sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts, opportunity’s beliefs best suited points shared beliefs are offering in this our written life’s transfigurations contracts placed in times accordance of rebuilding these once broken doors of opportunitys that we now stand for by reminiscing poetically of be fronted justices cause to unite peacefully before the those forgotten within reveal themselves rejuvenated by our rights left uncharted perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts to remember love’s potential as well.

p.s I need a loan, My petite marquise.. no more than 200 francs. My lucrative publishing contract is just around the corner, but the situation I find myself in is too difficult to turn to Caroline .. my mother has always been sad about my inappropriate behavior. Oh, what a grief!


Mon cher ami Charles,

Pour reprendre les propos de mon cher ami, Mansa Musa, the ruler of West Africa and the wealthiest man who has ever existed la meilleure réponse à cette question est sans doute “non”

I cannot imagine your monumentally struggles, engagement within to be heard without suppressions ever listening suppressive fears of you and your message’s whispering scream of awakening society’s deafened sense turning a blind eye whenever freedom’s mentioned hope of for all literally scares those self descriptive elites from their point of views never ending nightmares readily changing wills of casting their first stones throne high archy based solely on being dead set against those daring their set in stone’s refusal to be held responsible for holding back free wills neverending dreams to not let go of your hopes to inspire others

La Petite Marquise

Ma petite,

Though my efforts to change societally influenced attitudes struggles with the minutest comparitive of yours,
My own similarity as a small part in our spiritually orated potentialities to change today’s water making attempts of flowing idealisms, recreates its intoxicating effects seen right before our eyes always half cupped optimistically looked up on as sideways towards life’s hand in hand journey to never look down on others as I have, simply because I can.

My selfimposed state of hell which dominated my life’s neverending hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison states of thoughts terrifying thoughts into continuing my torture for that 30 years sentence of solitary confinements nightmares of never allowing me to wake from its steely barbed wired fenced in and off from others grasping direly to the hopes of me breaking free.
Since then self admittedly starved to bone of sunlights promise of a new day only long for even a moment’s touch of any sensation other than darnkeness preludes of fearfully returning me into its waiting crushing paralyzing me with fears presences always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst shadows of opportunities once had and lost by mistakes neverending conclusion of its lifelong sentences of documented guilt!
My greatest fear is of returning to madnessess reign of terror. My guilt which I have spoken of and finally faced after all those years of running from myself left scars so unbearable to let me live my feeble attempts to secretly bury them within myself represents drove to the brink of a madness so indescribable in its descriptive unforgettable unfathomable certainty of literally a fate worse than death.
Blacking out was my only saviour.
Leave me alone?!”
And BANG !!
I hit the floor, Josseline heard the crash, came out and stayed with until I came out of my reverberating position on the floor and looked up at her wondering where I was while convincing her that as I went to get a broom to clean up the mess I had made

“Everything is going to be alright!!”

My thrashing up and down on the bed as each time I bite a small piece of my tongue off while spitting out flem and turning red with heat and eventually waking up to see the fear as I stumble around the place mumbling incoherent words of confusions hinted immently waiting dementia until I finally come out of it completely the next morning.
My entire fate is in the hands of the spirit that has guided me since I was 4 years old.
I cannot take any opiates due to my elongated method of returning for increasing the dosage to its point of no return.
I had been an alcoholic since finding its temporary numbness of childhood tears since the age of 12 years old.
My addictive highs led me lows of adjoining suicidal thoughts that have confirmed over and over again its waiting for me if still interested? Time is the only valuable boundary I humbly ask in need of your freely offered suggestions of your invaluably creative words of art.
I am in a completely and never more happily challenging at times it seemingly all consuming lover’s relationship.
Josseline’s love literally saves my soul from it’s own innate self destructive longing to write an obituary’s requiem of what could have been if only….
I need her needs of my undivided minds attentive states of varying unwearied readiness within its ever changing illusions placed before me so its after effects of realizing what I have either accomplished unknowingly or let’s it been known of her concerns about the lack thereof.

When I make and then mistakenly turn away his guidance of peacefully admitting its making of ammends to my obviously showing after effects while incomplete denial from my part of and in its promised never again reoccurrence is suddenly rebuked by my guiders compliance of asking its presence temporarily depart until I figure things out for myself.

I now have no where left to run, but the faces of those asking for help and my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes and my delays in doing so after in realizing.
I once again have overstayed my bounds of realistically abilities to do so.
I wanted to be your hero and foolishly thought my hidden weaknesses would somehow continue your belief in me as one.
Truth’s cannot be suppressed until realiziations of my obvious unlimited limits for me personally has become better than ever as my escaping personationations impostering as unto e arrogance.
… to have any affect of suturing my torn souls inevitable agenda of literally do or madly face a fate worse than death.
Madness itself.
I finally faced this hidden secret that I too had for my own sanity erased from my psyches memory.

gros bisous,


This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.

Ma petite!
How beautiful is and was your true intent all along when seen as yours of a truly reflective heart in search of an artist’s longing to be finally understood in her search perhaps to understand why she has been given this gift to share yet is burdened by her fears that no one else will be able accept its offer from her based freely on their acceptance of what they themselves may or may not be ready to accept?
Truly I am honoured and humbled upon your gracious and inspiring belief in my abilities.
And yes I believe ours could be an ongoing life’s enhancing looked forward daily challenged and faced together separately and yet their for each other whenever in need of guide in either penmanship or suddenly awakened by one’s momumental poetic moments of need and in to be spurred on by an encouraging word to continue its ideas potentiality through to seev this time and hence each and every time from this and that moment on where it takes you and myself as adventurers in rhyme and who will join us in our soon to be fabled journey.
I had awoken in hopes of perhaps sharing with you my thoughtful throughought the night thoughts inspired acknowledgement of your inquiries and was eagerly about to see if they actually rang true with yours?
However yours far exceeded any hopes I had dreamt of.
I was hoping though I could continue to share these with you?
Were you pertaining to how man’s uniquely shared abilities of attaining the highest forms in spirituality can only be attained upon the realization that he is the sole proprietor in this inherent ability to lose himself on this neverending search for why he seems to be eternally a loss while continuously questioning why this time he is always within himself lost
Please accept this first acceptance of another’s shared guidance with mine that each beautifully orchestrated language has its uniqueness that transcends translations attempts to clarify when an audiences sought after idealism’s transcending ability is found in their own lifes search to be found and finally understood in at times even one stanza or well worded soliloquy.
Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and those truly seeking beauty, from what I’ve seen in your gift will truly find it themselves through you when they themselves cannot put to paper what so artistically yours continues to help them grow through and along with your ongoing growth as an artist.
Thank you again as the spark of intrigue can ignite the flames of hope’s peacefully offered warmth through its well lit darkneses of inspirationally shared interests and yours in mine calmly and reassuredly has added fires to the flames.
At the age of 49 I have experienced 5 physicians shared diagnosis of separate nervous breakdowns.
4 I kept to myself out of fears of being returned to the this life hospital.
I had a rare reaction to my addiction to opium which only intensities my isolation’s effectiveness to separate and destroy.
Please take care and be reassured that I am earnestly looking forward to our continued conversations


(a few nights later)

Long story short…

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was written on a six day cocaine binge, and I … I dream of hanging on a pipe, I am in trouble and in distress, madam. I would praise anything that is immoral, unhealthy and disgusting.
You must be tired of my deep self, full of mystery, indefiniteness, horror, dark and vague forebodings.
You are but a disorganized and scattered multitude of images and labels that get their meaning and harmony only in the imagination of the creator and thus turn into his subjective reality. Your poetry is a big scandal.
See what you made me do!
You, demon, martyr and damned. I hope they will deny you access to the church. You are a monstrous mongrel, a lying, ruthless, self-confident black Venus, which I turned into a beautiful girl.
I even corresponded with you!
If only you had sent me 200 francs …
If you’d like to correspond about YOUR official poetry with your picturistic fears of entering oneself into your bravely revealed systematically choreographed attempts to destroy what no man can or ever will. – and that is the eternity of MY moment! – let me tell you something:
Artistic freedoms challenges to and for the state to change itself through the blunt force of face to face recognitions of what was and continues to simply because the perpetrators of these horrendous crimes against humanity can.

Revelation is feared
And has the power
Of fears abilities
To change with
Or face the inevitable
Fear of change alone
In being left behind

I would like to begin sharing this voice”s guidance for and with you again but there MUST BE SET BOUNDARIES OF REALIZATION that,( if you Google (Do not think that I do not know what it is! Your deity!) the affects of long term use and subscription withdrawal from opiate) am basically rebuilding and constantly attempting through seemingly never ending day throughout night’s of rigorously reconstructive emotional psychological physical social therapeutically exhaustion.
It reached the point of a tartive dyscanatia that required speach therapy at our this life hospital, this life, this life is a hospital! and which also as you could imagine made most aspects of my healing attempts even more difficult to achieve any sense of securing more than temporary states of even the smallest momentary victories .
If I hurt I am very sorry and embarrassed by my panicked immediate uncertainty of what I had shout and could even do if my worries became a reality in your written words state(d) unrelenting spiritual and psychological torments?!
….and I can only hope you understand in your heart what mine needs to continue healing itself’s work from within?
I’ve mentioned this before I believe?
It’s make or break for me
Right now!
I cannot go near opiates having devices a taken like candy’s habitual problem whose nightly next seconds of nearly losing my mind has me more scared of them than any pain itself.

Charles, 200 fr


I am sorry to see you are in need of help.
But I am at the point in my life where I realize if I am hurting myself in being there for anyone else’s pain and suffering I truly am not offering anything other than the temporarily shared illusion of the ability to do something I simply cannot.
I did not realize you attempted to contact me 2 days ago with honestly the words of which I stopped at rather than continuing on to your messaged request having sensed my heart breaking in knowing I can’t be there for yours.
I am not a mean woman a coward or acting out of cruelty’s turned deaf ears to your cries Charles.
I am simply – bankrupt

This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so.
Take care of your unbeatable heart Charles in knowing the connected rhythms within will never be without.
And when I saw my potentiality’s moment of a thunderously conclusive readjustment of their theoretically unproven life sentences of hopelessness self dependency’s .
I made my supposedly inconceivable mad dash for freedoms inspirationally welcoming arrival within and unless it was to close another chapters reassessment from my points moments by moments others well self preserved moment by moments prospects for healing a well intentioned turning of the pages never to be looked backed upon refusal’s of cant you see it in their eyes kind of sorry of story’s magnitudanalunly accepted acceptance of all those phases out ofv cant and be looked down or back up on!
If I could offer you one last peace of advice if you’re interest me has wained, as I too am lost at times in our mutually read uncertainty’s meaningful offered reassuring words of encouragement’s revealing worlds a part of mutually acquired wisdom’s approach to situationally associated uttered states of reflective confusions.
Even going back to our originally documented conversations there was always this taste of disolutionments challenges put into perspective when finally understood upon expectations shared narratives of concern.
In no way let go of your darknessess lights of rarity’s survival until you are good and ready to do so!
I wrote all years to stay alive
And now after I decided it was time for my own retrial and errors of sorts.
I am ready have recognized the want and need to feel alive at last again!
I at one time though when it was deemed the rambling in my irrefutably non sensical manner of tongues my message that not only would seemiglly never seem get across to any included within my message to the masses
I would begin to actually heal myself by temporarily bearing this burdaning overwhelmingly proportionalized burdensome crutch of unsustainable nonsupportive reliability
of living for others in attempts to heal myself.
But honestly I found this an exhaustively neverending source mutually noticed and possibly neverending seemingly unbeknownst needless needing to my hands) to one’self’s washing of my hands thoroughly misrepresented nonreconcilatory turning aways from truly coincidentally running into a person of interests to you m.
For talking simpletalk with in away that truly never lasted for more than its temporarily true version of oneself self revered state of importanc’es needs of recognition at the very least
It was until I took a step back to see the worlds around and see out right longing.of the people of non- coincidental opportunistically offered simplification of life’s truly treasuring day by day conversations of others individually motivating peoples of interests.
If you help even just one similarly outfitted one as such.
The wealth of this treasuring inner peace’s Unheard of mirrors.the souls pricelessnesss by looking in to the windows thie once selfendulgent magnitudally lost moment in time while receiving the resways within distances evechainging .


Madness is a state of mind
Frightening in the eyes of and never eyes upo of the beholder’s viewers like you .
And make no mistakes that all imperfections are perfectly situateted one on one nonconversational right in front the (wo)man
If you were able to work for you, Charles!
And you’re
Take care of ….

Ma petite marquise,

Tears are flowing with your honoured acceptance of my presence in your valiant struggle mon petit marquise
Thank you
Good night as you have made my dreams come true with its validity”s confided and never before so confirmed belief in from someone whose talents I have never seen before and look up to as my possible mentor of truth’s power in poetic written form.
I have never been so proud to be a part of a team.
Rest though I am so excited is in need.
And I will thoroughly read your letter in a better light when my dimming mechanism is as rejuvenated as me in this brand new light of days ahead to come.
I think the time has finally come for me to accept that I am dead.


“The Ghost Part”, sequel “The Adventure of Boris K.” Boris K, paranormal expert

The Adventures of Boris K. “The Ghost Part”, sequel “The Adventure of Boris K.”
Boris K, paranormal expert

Boris K. encounters a man who is crying inconsolably. He complains that, because of the pandemic, he is not able to accomplish the only passion he had in his life, and that is to visit exotic and attractive locations, metropolises and what not. Boris K. took pity on him and told him that he had had great trouble visiting these places because during his travels he had discovered that not every city was as beautiful as it seemed. He narrowly escaped with his life.

  1. Scotland. The 9th Legion disappeared behind Hadrian’s Wall. They were killed by the Picts in present-day Scotland, huge, red-haired warriors who painted themselves blue. It is said that the ghosts of the Picts attack tourists from the dark Scottish forests and that he is not safe from them even in Edinburgh.
  2. Prague – it is said that in the 18th century, a German noblewoman who had a castle there became a vampire and that she was restless and sucked blood from tourists which she seduced by presenting herself as Ruzenka Smetana.
  3. Paris – a creepy grandpa who is over 300 years old has a guillotine in his basement in the 3rd arrondissement and responds to the name Robespierre.
  4. Australia – Banjip, a creature from Aboriginal mythology, is a real, huge, hairy spirit that lives under the Sydney Opera House and tickles passers-by while they are laughing fit to kill.
  5. Beijing – circus master Jo Po is not a master at all. He asks an ordinary passer-by to enter the box and then saw them in half. The difficult bit is putting them back together…
  6. Mauritius – the dodo bird is still alive, huge, bloodthirsty and cannibal
  7. Parnassus – philosophers harass you – they appear and talk about whether Pythagoras is better or Heraclitus’ principle is better. Boring to death …
    Dangerous too.
    That is the reason why we should not leave Serbia, the land of vampires and werewolves

For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.

Fear often recurs, fear often repeats itself, he has tact, he is musical, he likes to preen, very sure of himself, constant grooming. he gets closer and faster to our hairs and says, I’m here, I love you.
Fear is a kind tenant to us, he pays his rent on time, he truly understands us, he cares about our toothache while crying out loud he would alert us to Mrs Flamehead, the landlord, a wicked woman hooked up forever with a broom and with a cloth scarf on her head
You have to run away, says Fear, you have to run away, his words have it a great sound of reprimand, his cold sentences, like icy droplets of sweat, in search of a wet knot made of piles of weakness.
For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.

An open call to ones, an open despise to others

as an author of the maxima: human hypocrisy should be respected because virtue is not worth the effort, I’m not surprised nor should I react differently than throaty laughter, but all those who, for some reason, secretly and not publicly address me with ah: ah, you’re so talented, I have never heard of these things to exist at all .. I have learned so much from you or — your brain is a precious instrument … etc (I can corroborate all this with letters ..) or those who persistently follow my blog when I turn to them for concrete help, they remain silent .. I do not count the famous archive -1-checkup early in the morning –  from Serbia, I know one hen that gets up earlier than a rooster ..I know who it is, it is a female mental patient under control…
I am waiting for the doomsday when the psychiatrist will allow her to call me… or whoever she chose to be her tutor nowadays. –  to welcome her.
I will not be able to continue my work that would be much better and I would write more and you would enjoy my work much more if you would only give me a little help, if not materially, then in the form of technical assistance (translations, someone
to help me with marketing and procedure)
Looks like you would love to do it, but living in the dreaded fear of what I could become if I had the crumb of luck to make money the way you made it …
I cannot prevent you from spying on my blog, reading, anyone with their intentions, I tell you openly, I despise you and if it depends on me, I would ban you on reading my works. and maybe I will.
this does not apply to people who do not know me. admittedly, neither do those who claim to know me, know me at all.
but unfortunately, I got to know them by their deeds.
unfortunately, talent and money rarely go together, and today, more than ever, money determines who will publish books and who does not.


Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman

Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman

Boris K. found some helpful suggestions but is still not satisfied.

“They expect no less from me than the Lairn dragons and the Minotaurs, well, that’s just unavoidable, isn’t it? ,” As he said: here is Boris in Poland, in Bamberg, Higher Franciscan, where he meets Hoffman in the theatre. His face was full of anger mixed with madness.

Hoffman muttered, frowning.

“Everything is spectre of spectres, saith the preacher; all is spectre. Life is a dungeon. Ah, Kopelius, alchemist, here you are,” he said, upon sighting Boris K.
Then Boris told him what the Russians said and Hoffman thought: “Phenomenon. It’s a scary phenomenon! Let’s say you deserved death, a hundred times over, a dark look in your eye. Touch and go between the lines. Smile as creepy resurrected with, you creepy little perv! hehe! This will lead readers into a state of ecstasy.” He pulled him from the ranks as he shook his whole body in excitement… This will ignite the atmosphere to such an extent that they will not pay attention to the story itself, but they will look at each other suspiciously of themselves just as I whisper Hoffman stood up and looked at something evil and devilish, right? as his face flushed with horror
“Back to the dead, Boris K. Back to the dead! – he grabbed his head like he were in terrible pain. – Go crawling back to your dead wife and your loser son, Ernst Teodor! Run! Run for your life! – as he said that he ran with all his might and rumour had it that Ernst Teodor leapt past the edge of Poland’s borders. Boris K. sighed. “I have no choice but to go to ancient Persia.”


Boris K. in Russia 3, Turgenev

.. Chekhov shook his head and kept writing while muttering, ” Devil take you! , can’t you see that I’m finishing my thesis? If I don’t give it up on time, I won’t earn my PhD degree!    Turn around and go back where you come from!  ! The Black Monk himself sent you to interfere with my career! I have to comb and put on my good old Valenki! ” The Russian was throwing a tantrum like a toddler.  , trying to get rid of the intrusive time traveller. ” If anyone knows how to dishonour the stories,  prancing about them while grinding their own ink…  it’s Sholokhov and Turgenev.  Now leave me alone.  “, Chekhov said,  making the sign of the cross, with his flame-throwing fountain pen, if the local lore and beliefs are to be trusted.

Boris K. met Turgenev, a Russian poet of landscapes, sitting on a bench in St. Petersburg, mourning Gogol’s death.

“Why are you crying?” Asked Boris K.

” “I’m forbidden half of art! My obituary of Nikolai was a masterpiece!  … But alas, I don’t wipe my tears, they are like a storm after which one gets calmer,” said the pretty revolutionary thought and groaned even louder.

Boris K. sat with him. They cried for two days, each with their own tears, after which Turgenev adopted a chivalrous attitude and turned contemptuously on Boris K. “You must be Nepočin! No Rest, from Field of No Rest Spirits!” What do you want from me?

“You mean the paparazzi?” Boris K. mused after what he told him about the lot.

“I’ve never written such a story, nor had an accident. Vaistina, you’re really in trouble. But there’s also a cure for that!” Turgenev blinked and patted on his shoulder. “You look like Gogi.”

(which was Gogol’s affectionate nickname)

“Get to the point, Ivan Sergeyevich!” Mourned Boris K., realizing that the Russian would not help him. (Maybe  I should put my bet on   New England? Or Poland? Straight towards E. T. Hofman’s? Boris K pondered…

“Boris K., From experience, I assert that the herb burns as the motive of history and the source of all inspiration. Turgenev said. – The story begins “in medias res”, but honestly … It’s so sincere that you almost end up in prison or at the stake. Go: “A man – a being who cannot love!  That way, the women will, women.. hmmm… both male and female….”

(Boris K. gasped in pain) …

…  –  will grab your hair. and tear your heart out as ripping phones out of the walls..   (your overcoat is still fixed, but I see a clown’s mask goes crazy running down your furrowed face. ) – Boris K. stood amazed by Turgenev’s knowledge.

Ivan,  his name’s  Turgenev, the name was passed down from his father and his father before him, continued:

“Draw their attention to the dark fall and the silent cry of love that smells like the cool breeze blowing through,  on a cold night’s shade. That will calm them down. Name all the herbs you can think of to make a love potion.”

Just quoting the herbs gives one and a half pages. While quoting herbs and singing to the celebrant, listeners will yawn and fall asleep. When they wake up, you will tell another story that has nothing to do with life and with living, and in the new story the woodpeckers sing and sing … – Ivan Sergeyevich was silent – That’s all I can think.



Boris K na Rússia 3 Turgenev


cropped-12499139_535870049903599_1094217109_o.jpg..ele apertou a mão de Chekhov e continuou escrevendo, enquanto resmungava: “Deus sabe onde ele te levou, não vê que estou a terminar a minha tese de licenciatura? Se eu não a entregar a tempo, não me vou tornar médico. Volte para onde veio! O próprio Monge Negro enviou-o para interferir na minha carreira! Tenho de me pentear e calçar! “, disse o russo, tentando livrar-se do viajante do tempo. Na história, eles são Sholokhov e Turgenev. E deixe-me em paz “

Boris K. encontrou Turgenev, poeta da paisagem russa, sentado num banco em São Petersburgo, lamentando a morte de Gogol.

“Por que está a chorar?”, Perguntou Boris K.

“Fui expulso do funeral … Al, não enxugo as minhas lágrimas, elas são como uma tempestade após a qual uma pessoa fica mais calma”, disse o pensador revolucionário e gemeu ainda mais alto.

Boris K. sentou-se com ele. Choraram durante dois dias, cada um com suas próprias lágrimas, após o que Turgenev adotou uma atitude cavalheiresca e virou-se com desprezo para Boris K. – Você deve estar exausto! O que quer de mim?

“Você quer dizer os paparazzi?”, Boris K. refletiu depois do que contou a ele sobre o acidente.

“Eu nunca escrevi uma história assim, nem sofri um acidente. Você está realmente com problemas. Mas também há uma cura para isso!”, Turgenev piscou os olhos e deu uma palmadinha no ombro dele. “Você se parece com Gogi.”
(que era a alcunha carinhosa de Gogol)

“Venha ao fenómeno !”, Lamentou Boris K., percebendo que o russo não o ajudaria. (Talvez esteja escrevendo na Nova Inglaterra? Ou na Polónia? O endereço de E. T. Hofman? Boris K pensou…

– Boris K. Por experiência, afirmo que a erva arde como motivo da história e fonte de toda a inspiração. Turgenev disse. – A história começa “in medias res”, mas honestamente … É tão sincero que você quase acaba na prisão ou na fogueira. Vá: “Um homem – um ser que não pode amar! Então mulheres, homens e mulheres

(Boris K. ofegou de dor) …

… vao arrancar-lhe o cabelo, despir-lhe o casaco (o seu cabelo ainda está fixo, mas vejo que a sua máscara fica louca pelo reflexo na pia) –

Boris K. ficou surpreendido com o conhecimento de Turgenev.

Ivan, chamado Turgenev:

“Então chame a sua atenção para o outono escuro e o silencioso grito de amor que cheira à brisa de uma tarde ensolarada. Isso os acalmara. Depois, cite todas as ervas em que você puder pensar para fazer uma poção do amor.

Apenas citar as ervas dá uma página e meia. Enquanto cita as ervas e canta para o celebrante, os ouvintes bocejam e adormecem. Quando eles acordarem, você contará outra história que não tem nada a ver com a vida, e na nova história os pica-paus cantam e cantam … – Turgenev ficou silencioso – É tudo o que consigo pensar.a8cec49721b19826945c4fd228ec3a31.png

Court 21

In Court 21, the defendants entered one after the other, accompanied by prosecutors, witnesses, defence attorneys. While the judge, the scorer, and the jury followed them, the five defendants sat on chairs, and one of them was a timely and powerfully built woman. In all cases, of all the chairs they sit on the weakest and the slimiest. And as she sat down, so she fell, one second, second, third, fourth while the bearded prosecutor with fedora hat cross-examined her, but under no circumstances to finally fall, and so, the moment she was falling and falling, the prosecutor ran up hastened forward, picking her up, while she kicked him as falling down, her black large head with two distressing disturbed eyes, alternately reappeared and disappeared. Just a minute ago badmouthing her, the Prosecutor rolled up his sleeves, a lisping voice, worried, but helpless, he went round and round… and spinning and spinning… and dancing and flying. : “Ma’am, are you okay, help ma’am help!” And she didn’t hear it all because she kept falling and falling, a curvy line, like a piece of the divider, like the trash can got knocked over, and the stuff fell out of her.
When she finally fell, after five minutes, the Judge ordered the courtroom to be emptied, and he and the scorer looked at each other silently, and then the Judge sat back in his chair and laughed so long that the whole Courtroom echoed.
The judge was laughing like hell.in an empty courtroom when all of a sudden the rest of the chair broke and the judge and the scorer and the jury fell down, too, not long after the big lady departure.