Late Nite at the Sudzy Dudz

The older boy unfolded himself out of his plastic chair and ambled out of the Laundromat to rummage in the trunk of a black 1970s American car out in the dirt parking lot. He was back shortly, moving slower and leaning over under the weight of the black tool box in his left hand.

Scully felt herself staring.

Setting the toolbox down on the washer, the boy stepped back to give the man room and his father opened the machine and had the coin-collecting mechanism off the nearest washer in under a minute.

Scully was shocked and appalled to think this man and his clean-cut sons were about to rip off the quarters from some crappy dilapidated Laundromat. And, of course, that she should really stop them, being a law-enforcement officer and all.

“The office over there looks locked. I’m planning to shove an envelope under the door,” he said. “I think I got one in the car.”

Scully felt herself relax.

“If you don’t mind my askin’ ma’am,” the man said as she dug her clothes out of the washer and piled them on top of the non-working one to her left, “Why are you carrying a gun in here? I know it’s night, but without the bikers here Sturgis isn’t that bad a place.”

“Oh there, you are,” Mulder’s voice, holding the overly-pleasant tone that heralded bad news, rang from the doorway. “Doing wash?”

“I seem to recall that I told you I’d be doing wash when you got in the car to go out to the site,” she said tersely, not looking at him.

The younger boy at the drying table began to snicker.

Scully looked at him and then followed his gaze to the doorway to see what was so funny.

Apparently, it was Mulder. Covered from head to toe in what appeared to be some toxic combination of mud and who knew what else, it smelled like pure manure.

“If you think that I can be persuaded to wash any part of that,” Scully said. “Think again.”

Mulder was too busy eye-rolling at the suggestion that they might be out there to hassle whatever AIM activists remained in South Dakota to catch the looks that passed among the man and his sons, but Scully saw them, even as she stuffed the last of her laundry into the first dryer the boy had worked on.

“Are you sure this will be ok?” she asked the boy. “I’d rather not light my underwear on fire.”

The, Scully hated to admit, extremely handsome kid gave her a look that clearly implied he could think of quite a few better ways to light her panties afire than by putting them into a defective dryer. She felt guilty because the look was appreciative and that she found it more than a little flattering despite the fact that she was much the worse for the humidity and more than old enough to be his mother. He gave her a grin that should have been illegal and said in a way that was downright dirty, “Yeah, it’ll be fine. If I fix something it stays fixed.”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, sonny?” Mulder asked from the doorway, in a way that was too casual to not be pointed.

“Gee, Dad,” the kid said with an aw shucks hayseed shtick that could have got him into any acting school in the country. “Have I got your special permission to stay up late?”

“Don’t argue with the FBI man covered in bullshit, Dean,” the father growled from where he was loading in the last of their laundry. “That’s pretty much guaranteed to not end well for anybody.”


Theft of Assets, Destruction of Property

Gradually, Draco stops worrying about it as much; he doesn't have anything his father needs anymore.

Did I force you?" Neville says tonelessly.

"Force me to clean the shed?"

"Did I rape you?" Neville says, his face tight and grim. Yes, Draco should say, but I know you didn't mean to. Yes, but I forgive you.

"No," Draco whispers. He's prepared for anger, but Neville's shoulders just drop a little.

"I didn't think I had," he says, relief leaking into his voice. "But I thought maybe I wasn't remembering it right."


"I could never even believe that you let me—when you—" Neville shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Draco says. "I know what I said, but I—it never occurred to me that you—that I—I know you would never do that."

"I wouldn't?" Neville says, and looks at up at Draco, his eyes dark and hot and frustrated.

"No," Draco says. "I—you couldn't."

"Why's that?" His voice is caustic. "Because Gryffindors never—"

"Because I want you to," Draco says.

Neville makes a choking sound and Draco turns and starts sorting out the nearest box mindlessly

Making up stupid stories and the best way to braise veal has nothing to do with my career," Neville says, voice climbing precipitously, "you are so fucking—" Draco, in spite of himself, takes a step back and feels his shoulders hunch; Neville had a little too much to drink, not his fault, drinks pressed on him by the Ministry liaison and the Dean of Students. Neville breaks off, staring at him.

"I'm not going to hit you," he says. "Is that what you really think of me?"

"No," Draco says. "Of course not," but his voice, his hands, are shaking, and Neville turns around and slams out of the house without another word.

He always stays in Draco's bed if they have sex there and thanks him for meals and kisses him when they fuck and always makes sure he comes first; there may as well be a tattoo on his forehead that reads "Gran Longbottom raised me right."

Right, then," Weasley says, rubbing his hands together once Draco puts the ladyfingers in the oven. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have an extra one of those sack lunches around the place, just going to waste?"

"I have beef stew, rolls, roasted asparagus and a trifle," Draco says. Weasley's eyes widen and he looks so eager that Draco says, "You may stay for lunch."

Weasley drops around a few more times while Neville's away, always suspiciously near mealtimes. He is loud and messy and clatters his knife and fork together, but he's an entertaining conversationalist and gives Draco some very useful critique about his cranberry bread, and then, when Draco asks, the rest of the meal, and, later that week, the some of the pastries Draco's been trying to perfect.

"Neville just says they're fine," Draco says. They're sitting across from each other in the kitchen and Draco is taking notes.

"They are fine," Weasley says. "Very good, even. But I think this one is better—what's different about it?"

"I added some cardamom," Draco says.

"Don't even know what that is," Weasley says. "But it's good."

Weasley says, cutting himself another wedge of blueberry pie. "You know Harry."

"Not really."

"He's always going off and being brilliant and bloody handsome in the right place and time and saving everyone and he doesn't even do it on purpose."

"Ah, so he's still a bit of a prat, then," Draco says. Weasley doesn't deny it.

"That money wasn't an allowance," Neville said. "I would never—you can have whatever you need."

don't, really," Neville said. "It's—loud. Gran and I used to just have a nice dinner and listen to the Wireless."

"That's—I'd rather do that," Draco says.

He wanted to get him a set of spell-treated vambraces, since Neville's been accepted into Broadsword 450 for the spring semester and only pretending not to be proud of it. He wanted to get him a pocket compass that doubled as an apparation coordinate plotter, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by getting Neville something too nice when Neville was probably going to get him a set of monogrammed handkerchiefs or a new mop or a scarf or something, so he got him

No," Draco says. "You give me money and you don't—you know, push me around or make me, um—"

He stops because Neville looks furious. "Not that you would," Draco finally falters. Neville's been turning the book over and over in his hands restlessly, but now he puts it down on the table, squaring the corners against the edge.

"Did you know," he says, his tone mild, "that those Muggles Harry grew up with put him in the cupboard below the stairs?"

"What for?"

"It was his room," Neville says. "I don't think he's ever really gotten used to being touched."

"That's awful," Draco says. "Is that what Muggles usually do?"

"No, of course not, come on," Neville says.

"Well, how would I know, I don't know any Muggles," Draco says. "I mean, it's not as though I assumed they went around putting babies in closets until you brought it up."

"All I meant was, perhaps you shouldn't expect so little of people," Neville says.

"Perhaps," Draco says. Neville rubs a hand across his face.

You were the first person who ever really treated me like I wasn't a bit of a joke," Neville says. "So I wasn't exactly in a rush to tell you what a coward I was, to be so afraid of some stupid dreams."

"I expect I would have found it tragic and romantic, if that helps."

You used to like things."

"Yeah, sure," Draco says lightly. "That was me."

"Don't," Neville says.`

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like I think you're a—you're after money."

"Everyone else does."

"Name one person who thinks that," Neville says, "no one thinks that, they think you're in—" his voice shakes

Draco allows himself to be cautiously happy—at the honest enjoyment people seem to get from his cooking, at the steadily growing little stack of galleons he keeps in one of the biscuit tins in a lower cupboard, at the way Neville smiles at him when they're having sex, until, cleaning, he sees Neville's appointment calendar. It's a serious little black book, scribbled over with Neville's blocky sсript—classes and training, appointments with the mediwizard he sees about his headaches, long meetings blocked off for his solicitors and money managers, and nearly once a fortnight for the next year, reminders to buy flowers for Draco, lined up neatly with his other chores and responsibilities. There isn't a single dinner or social engagement that isn't about work or duty; Neville apparently doesn't write those down

Hey," Weasley says. "Hey, Draco are you—um, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Draco says.

"Yeah, I can tell," Weasley says, and then makes Draco come back to the flat he shares with Potter.

"It's a little messy," Weasley says cheerfully, scooping some laundry off the couch and throwing it onto a chair. "Sit down." There's a pyramid made of Old Mag's Ale cans stacked up on the mantelpiece, a mishmash of brooms and dueling swords propped up in the corner, and what Draco can only assume is a stolen traffic sign—'Caution: Portkey Point"—hung up on the wall. The coffee table is strewn with Quidditch magazines and textbooks, potions ingredients in clear plastic packets, a tin of broom-bristle conditioner and several greasy rags, a half empty box of owl snacks, and a mismatched pair of gauntlets.

"Can I get you something?" Weasley says.

"No, thank you," Draco says, sitting down a little gingerly on the couch, but Weasley ignores him and makes him a cup of tea, which Draco is dutifully drinking when Potter slams in the door. He throws down his rucksack, tosses his robe over the armchair, summons a bottle of ale from the refrigerator, pops the cap with an inaudible 'pertivo, and takes a swig before turning around and seeing Draco.

"Hey," he says.

"Well, this was nice," Draco says, putting down the teacup with a clatter. "I should probably—" he trails off, because Potter's just staring at him while he takes a few long pulls on his ale.

"Would you like a drink?" he says, finally.

"Yes, please."

Draco has two ales; Potter has another two and Weasley has four, and then they floo up some take away and have another round apiece. Potter and Weasley tell him funny stories about training exercises gone wrong and describe a series of increasingly improbably Quidditch plays they've invented. Draco has another ale and then falls asleep on the couch, head pillowed on unfolded laundry. He wakes up with a Quidditch cloak on top of him and Neville sitting in the armchair opp

Yes, thanks, I'm aware of that," Neville snaps. "And, by the way, Ron dates girls."

"Yes," Draco says, starting to wonder if Neville's running a fever. "I know."

Didn't I give you the recipe?" Draco says. "I can copy it out again for you."

"But mine don't taste like yours."

"Don't tell me you can't follow a simple recipe. How do they taste?"

"Gritty," Granger says. "Sour."

"You must not have emulsified the milk thistle properly—"

"I can expense it," Granger says plaintively. "What's the going rate?"

He wakes up on the converto-couch. Ron is sitting in the easy chair, one ankle tossed up on the bed, reading the scandalous novel Neville got him for Christmas and Harry is lying on the floor flipping through the flashcard file Draco made for Neville. Granger is sitting cross-legged, leaning against the chair, reading. They're sharing a pot of tea, and all of them are eating cupcakes.

"Oh, hey," Ron says.

"Hi," Draco says.

"You've been out for a while," Ron says, summoning a glass of water and handing it to him. There's a smear of frosting on his chin.

"So—" Harry says, sitting up.

"I just fell," Draco says hurriedly. "I guess I just hit my head—idiotic—I'm always doing. you know. idiotic things."

"Yeah," Harry says, his brows pulling together. He looks a little concerned. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I fell."

"We got here in time to pull Neville off your dad," Ron says reassuringly. "So—no need to lie."

"Your dad stole your magic," Harry says, finishing his cupcake in one huge bite and picking up another from the plate on the floor. "Then Neville says you cursed him and I guess that destabilized the spell he was using to hold onto it and it all went back to you. And soap bubbles came out of his ears, for some reason."

Granger huffs a little and starts to say something and Harry tucks the cupcake in her mouth before she can. "That's the short, non-boring magical theory version, anyhow," Harry says.

"Oh," Draco says.

I know," Granger says, at the same time that Harry says, in a studiously careless tone, "How do you know what Greg Goyle thinks?"

"He's in some of my classes and we've—had coffee a few times."

"Oh, coffee," Ron says, in a similarly strange tone.

"Yes, coffee," Granger says. "Since you two were too busy with each other

I have a question," Draco says. They all turn towards him, faces flushed, and Granger raises her pen in a way that means she's prepared to take notes. "Are you eating the cupcakes I made for Robbie Cattermole's tenth birthday celebration?"

"We were hungry," Ron says, after a conspicuous silence.

"You were unconscious for a long time," Harry says. He's still holding half a cupcake, but he's twisting his hand to hide it. "And they weren't marked."

"And then there are all your 'roughhousing' injuries," Granger says loudly, waving her arms around. "I'm sorry, Draco, but they were delicious. You two can't honestly expect me to believe these beyond ridiculous stories about how you have marks all over your neck from mock dueling or tripping over takeaway boxes—"

"Actually, if you've seen their flat," Draco murmurs, but Granger is talking loudly over him, her face red.

I don't want to separate," Draco says promptly.

"Divorce," Neville says, nodding, not quite meeting Draco's eyes.

"I don't understand.

"You have your magic back," Neville says. The expression on his face is familiar from the last months, a peculiar mix of resignation and sadness.

"You knew," Draco says.

"Yes," Neville says. "Or no, not about Lucius, obviously. But you almost never used magic and you always had some flimsy excuse. I thought you were just a bit of a squib or had L—late onset magic loss—"

"I know what LOML is," Draco says.

"I figured—you needed me," Neville says. "And that's why you married me. I didn't mind."

"You didn't?"

"I'm in love with you," Neville says. He's very matter of fact. "You don't have to say anything."

"I mean, I suppose you're not completely unfortunate in the sack," Draco says, and Neville's anxious smile eases into something more genuine and he lets Draco pull him down onto the converto-couch right as there's a loud thump against the house from outside, the distant sound of raised voices. "And, apparently," Draco continues, "we don't even have the most complicated relationship of the people currently in this house."

"You may change your mind when you get stronger," Neville says, leaning down to brush a kiss against Draco's throat.

"I may not," Draco says. He doesn't.



vse лучшее dostaetsja generalam



A beautiful wedding, a thrilling honeymoon, a moving funeral. What more could a girl hope for?
The Bridal Path









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вот до чего ж всё ж таки удивительные существа - люди.
Некоторые всё понимают, другие вообще ничего не понимают, одни кретины, другие прекрасны, одних хочется послать нахуй, а с другими нужно выпить сразу по двести.
И все живые.
И если бы я был Господь Бог, то сидел бы и улыбался незаметно в свою бороду. Потому что нехуёво они придуманы.

. А на самом деле степан этот так же прост и бессмыслен, как сломанный ещё в прошлом году колун, подаренный мне двумя мореходами.
То есть я сам его придумал.
Хуже того - даже себя самого я тоже придумал, ибо если кто-нибудь не поленится заехать в нашу деревню, он там вместо меня обнаружит сонное существо с гноящимися от где-то подхваченного конъюктивита глазами, которое ни разу не читало ни одной своей книжки и пора бы вообще-то ему сходить в баню.
И деревню эту я тоже для себя придумал: если соседу показать фотографию этой деревни, он скажет: "Во, бля! А это где?"

И так всегда и везде: разговариваешь с каким-нибудь человеком и опять же мысленно засовываешь ему в голову свои представления о прекрасном. И говоришь с ним так, как будто они там есть. А когда вдруг выясняется, что представлений этих там нет, никогда не было и никогда не будет, ну, тогда что: бить морду или, если человек интеллигентный, то вежливо послать друг друга нахуй.
Значит человека этого придумать не удалось.




Слова большие, словно яблоки. Густые, Как мед


You ain't never been blue, no, no, no
You ain't never been blue
Till you've had that mood indigo


[more]AAAAAAA godblesstoyou,deardearV-iaP

When the story gets told later it always begins different. Kaylee says it begins when Wash died, leaving her with an empty bed and unfulfilled dreams. Simon thinks it was dusting off a crying child that fell and scrapped her knee one day when they were in the market of some little backwater. Mal doesn't say, because he knows better, but Zoe knows he thinks it's when she ended an argument between him and Kaylee by asking what would happen if it was her with child. He'd got real quiet and they just looked at each other......They were there to meet a man looking to move some roasted ore left over from the smelters that were prime material for gravel making and cement, though Jayne swore it was for remining silver that hadn't all oozed out and Mal says they were actually skimming off the ore and only calling it roasted, but..............................and just so was paying close attention to everyone else in bar while the music played hard and that was what it was. One man by the pool tables, singing along. And not just singing shy-like, but belting it out enough to hear him a little over the noise, head bobbing, foot tapping, and all the while studying the game he was playing. He didn't look no different than any of the rest, though maybe his face was a mite cleaner. Tall with short hair and a layer of dirt over well patched clothes, but it was the singing that struck Zoe.
For all his pretty face, he looked a bit like an overgrown kid singing like that, young and goofy.[/MORE]

Summary from "Bushwacked"

Summary: ALLIANCE COMMANDER: You fought with Captain Reynolds in the war?
ZOE: Fought with a lot of people in the war.
ALLIANCE COMMANDER: And your husband?
ZOE: Fight with him sometimes, too.

"Fair does not mean ‘everyone gets the same’. Fair means ‘everyone gets what they need'."

Zoe swears that Wash bruises if someone so much as looks at him funny. He has that kind of complexion, the kind she coveted when she was too young to have grown into her own skin: the kind suited to blond hair and blue eyes, that blanches and blushes, that does not tan but burns. It shows every mark and mar of his clumsy days—a scrape from working on the forward console hatch with Kaylee, a gash from an overeager landing, assorted cuts and bruises that he can’t even recall acquiring.

(“Oww, “ he whines whenever Zoe is required to bandage some hard-to-reach spot. “Ow, oooh, ya—careful! …And again—this time with feeling—ow!" Then, just when she’s starting to feel a mite bit guilty, he’ll give her a sly sideways glance: “Guess you’ll have to kiss me to make it all better.” Clumsy and a terrible patient. Zoe’s not sure how he survived this long.)
[MORE=lost and found
Title: Fair in Love and War]2ndary-author.livejournal.com/51078.html#cutid1


“I’ll leave,” Al heard himself saying, “I won’t crawl back here. Owl me whatever I owe you; I’ll pay Scazza—”

A chair flew in from the adjacent room. “Sit down.”

“You’ll burn it afterwards.”


There had been strange looks, of course, whispers and pointing fingers. But no one had been so forthright about their disgust. Al remained on his feet.

“The chair will not thank you for your martyrdom.”

“No, really. I’ll stand.” The back of the chair was within reach and Al almost went for it. “Thank you. I mean, it’s all right. I know.”

“And what do you know?” Draco leaned back to look at him.

“Nothing.” Al sank into the seat; the question begged for an answer that he could never utter himself

Memories. Surely you recognise these?”

Blood rushed away from his brain. Al felt lightheaded, his skin cold; but he nodded.

continued to study the cracks in the glass beneath his feet, twirling his wand between his fingers like a baton.

“So this is what I’m asking in return for my services. Memories.”

The twirling stopped.

“Don’t look at me this way. Every visitor of Water makes the same payment, but—” he cast a silent spell on the spindle, which spun and tore the strands of memory away from the water screen; they screeched in a futile attempt to escape the draw of the glass cylinder, “—given your surname, it’d be unbecoming to offer you some special treatment … an award of bravery, if you will, for upholding the fine Potter tradition of ignoring the rules.”

What a longwinded way to get to the point. Al felt an emergent lift at the corner of his lips.

Draco resealed the ceiling. For a moment, water continued to fall like rain.

“Usually, I select the memory I wish to save. But, Mr Potter—”


“—Al, I’ll let you choose your own.” The offer was smooth as black silk, the veil unable to conceal the glint in the eyes beneath. “Including that memory, should you desire.”

The knot in Al’s chest loosened. Everyone wanted the same thing from him in the end, the thing that had defined him, had become him.

The Memory.

“You could very well be the next one lying there.” Draco nodded towards the waterfall and his eyes swept towards Al, then trailed from his face towards his abdomen. “Delinquent. Weak. Your parents will be so much happier without you.” He withdrew his wand, his final question replacing the void of his absence. “Who wants a whore for a child?”

Draco did not look disgusted. “Thought you’d be back only if let Scorpius in. I remember that. How’s my son?”

It made no sense—mistaken as his dad then. It had happened before; the flowers made it easy and for the flowers, Al could be anyone, anything. “Scazza’s fine.”

You know what?” Draco, too, smelled like flowers; his voice was smooth as nectar, his lips soft like petals. “This …” His fingers traced along Al’s nose, from bridge to tip, then to his mouth, his jaw; Al could see and feel every one of them. “This has been passed along to your son. To Al.”

Lavenders, their sight, their scent, their taste, had taken over the world, save for the little space Al occupied and drew his breaths from, where it was barren and mired with blood. Critters—Dark and invisible—were crawling beneath his skin. Al had bitten on himself, picked on his skin with his fingers to no avail; the tears in his skin had shown nothing but flesh and blood.

Lily stuck her tongue out, then her eyes lit. “So, how was dad?”

Al snickered and stuck out his palm; Lily took off her glasses and handed it over.

“I’ve said this many times before.” Al pushed up the spectacles and feigned an irritated expression. “Sure, pure-blood families have been richer than half-bloods and Muggleborns and they might have got some of their money from Dark activities, but unless we have proof, the Ministry cannot just take away their assets, which everyone knows is what this measure’s really all about.” He tore off the glasses and returned them to his sister. “There.”

Lily looked comically pensive. “Insightful, indeed.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s made better arguments when Mum wanted to try something new for dinner.”

“For good reasons.” Lily laughed. “Remember that fish thing? Blech. It was funny though; I’d never seen Dad turn so red. I almost wished she’d cooked more.”

“He swore the fish was swimming inside him for days.” Al joined in the laughter. “But wait.” He thought for a second. “About the debate. There’s something I forgot to mention. When the floor opened for discussion, Dad … you know him, when he loses it he can be rather—”

“Loud?” Her eyes widened with curiosity.


“You thought I wanted to see touching … as a tool of humiliation.”

He stretched his arms across the desk and examined their length, speaking again only when his eyes—and Al’s—had finally reached his hands.

“You see these hands?” Joy had departed; Draco’s fingers curled, grasping for the silver sprinkles cast by the light on the dark gloves. “They evaded my mother’s reach when she took her last breath; they’ve never touched my son or his mother. They haven’t even felt the flesh they’re made of for more than a decade.”

With one fluid motion, Draco reached upward and caught a light sphere in the air; silver wings soon sprouted from it and it took off from the black silk.

“No one is good enough, clean enough for them.”

“To answer your last question,” he said quietly, “I do not wish to touch you because if I do, there will come a time when I will not be able to stop, even if you want me to.”

The movement was awkward, graceless; his grip kept slipping with the layers of gauze in between, and his search for deep pleasure accomplished little but gathered the fabric between his fingers and his thighs. Looking more pained than pleasured,..............

Then, quiet sobs serrated the heavy, humid air.

Al did not know how long he had stood there, how long he had watched the lone figure coiled up behind the glass, lamenting a predicament, an unfulfilled desire with tears that nobody would see or hear.

The image was so foreign, yet so familiar—

You asked me whether I like your father; it’s irrelevant. I need him.”

“They’re not the same.”

“They can be, if the need runs deep in your blood—”

“Liking,” Al chewed his lower lip, “comes from here.”

But the silk and veil were reminders of Draco’s inaccessibility, and the almost-healed scar on his hip that Draco looked at everyday, of Al’s free will stolen from him in the past.

The choices of what to give, whom to give it to.

The choice of memories—what to remember, what to forget.

What they both needed, perhaps, was a reversal of fortune.

But the eyes never opened; the fanning came to an abrupt, resolute stop and the eyelids, almost blue with veins, squeezed themselves tight.

He could play Saviour, even if he had no longer believed …

It was in his blood.
.................................The glove fell onto the bedding as Al whispered, “Hold on to me.”

Hold on, because only then you’d know your salvation is real; more than a dream, a desire, an image.

Hold on, because salvation could drift away,....................

Perhaps, there was no such thing as a beautiful memory of sex.

It was Al’s father. One step after another, his worn boots carried him up the stairs towards the foyer of the auditorium. His head remained bowed, never for once turning to look the judges, to whom he should have excused himself before leaving, or his son, who—because of him, because of his legacy—had lived through the crime, the shame all over again.

No one stopped him; no one was able to. He was almost at the entrance when Al’s mum seemed to wake from a trance and stood. She looked at her son, then her husband and back to her son, evidently at a loss of what to do.

...................... The oak double door closed behind him.


Фильм очень поэтичный, нежный и вызывающий у сотрудников утробный смех.

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Сели, разлили. Женя рассказал нам, как недавно слушал исполнение "Беовульфа", и там человек играл на аутентичном инструменте - флейте, сделанной из кости лебедя.
Орнитологи оживились и стали прикидывать, которая из костей лебедя более всего годится для изготовления флейты. С учетом того, что ударом крыла лебедь перешибает человеку руку.

/////заглянуть внутрь книги, спросить персонажей, просто побродить по тем же местам, поглазеть полюбопытнич - "мы живем на дне воздушн океана" , ворона Клара, сети, Коса


12:11 pm
Новый метод литературной критики.

В подборке "Нового мира" попалось одно предисловие Битова, одно послесловие Битова, и "Записки из-за угла", которых я не читала. И дойдя до "11 августа" и прочтя и его, я впала в чудовищное настроение на сутки. О тщете всего сущего. Катя ходила и всем сочувственно объясняла:
- Ася вчера что-то не то прочитала. (Таким тоном, каким говорят - "что-то не то съела".)
Наконец я к ней воззвала за утешением, Катя мудро заглянула в конец текста и говорит:
- Ася, журнал 90-го года, но текст 63-го. То есть это ему еще не было тридцати. Если бы тебе молодой мальчик начал что-то такое излагать, ты бы что подумала?
- Что он интересничает, - призналась я.
- Ну вот! - обрадовалась Катя, - Нет тридцати! Ася, ведь это мужчины, которые тебе еще даже не нравятся!

И от сердца у меня отлегло.


יש ילדים זגזג

ни с чем несравним удовольствие - открываешь книгу и с перв строчек, ничего не зная что будет потом, чувств - это твое. то самое физич удовольств не тревожн, а приятн и спoкойн тепло изнутри - наконец-то твое, ты нашла и все метания конч, плохоe позади, ты не одна


А вдруг это не поддается лечению?

Пришла я на (э прежде )любимый (котор был единствен) - и убежала в ужасе
открываешь- и все кажется страшн убожеством, ну то есть вообще, читать невозможно
кто-то где-то зеркало разбил, а в тебя попало
или работа зафригидила все изнутри
лучше честн Красн форум, ну их на этих глубоких



мне нравит Сипур Гадол,jemen песни Офры. я была на свадьбе (чуж) и мне понрав жених/жрачка/туалет
пора смотр определ точн опред פרחה

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