A penny. Bury me in the trash can. Homeless man's will
Where am I running? How much longer can I run? My body hurts, I don't remember my soul. She was, she just once was … I remember something … I felt something, except for this sticky sweat running down the collar. It's a race with yourself. For the right to own. I hate everyone who wants to take away from me what I bury counted in my pocket.
Snatch! Snatch, snatch … Count, count … Pennies! My darling! Silence. Bury it quietly in the palm of your hand, and the palm in your pocket … If there was still a place to bury the pocket, I would bury it. There is nowhere to hide the pocket. Sadness …
What can I do? How to hide so that nobody, nobody knows. My lovely fist warms, thirst burns inside. There is not enough air to extinguish this fire. Burns, burns, fries the brain with little thoughts, my lovely. A penny, one more … Everything is in the palm! All? No, no, not all … Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! Not all! It is necessary to recalculate, to recalculate. We must take cover and count. Urgently! Immediately!
But how? People around, people will see. It's scary … To run, to rush at full speed with small steps so that no one notices, otherwise they will notice and think about me, think that there is something to profit from me. Quietly, quietly on the sly into the gateway, into a dark place, under the shelter of the shadows of garbage cans. No one here will think of me, no one here will suspect that I think a penny, that my fist is full. Nobody, nobody, ever!
My pennies. They are here, in my crumpled pocket, in my little fist. Oh, if only a larger cam! Here they are … Two, three, four … That's it! Well, it's good that I counted, well, that's good. Calm now. Now it is quiet and does not burn me. Bliss … Doesn't burn a penny. Cam and pocket. I'll hide it in my bosom! No, the cam is uncomfortable in the bosom. How to let go of such wealth? Again, the infection will start to burn … This accursed thirst.
No, you can't go to the bosom. In the pocket. And run! Run! Where to go from this horror, how to escape from it? He pursues me, constantly pursues me … Catching up … Count!
One, two … Where is she? Palms grow cold, a wave of horror raises hairs on end. It's hot, can't breathe … Narrow slits flicker feverishly from beads of sweat. Copper drowning in drops of fear. No, no, here she is, my dear. Here she hid behind a bigger friend. My penny. Fuh, let go …
Where am I running? How much longer can I run? My body hurts, I don't remember my soul. She was, she just once was … I remember something … I felt something, except for this sticky sweat running down the collar. It's a race with yourself. For the right to own. I hate everyone who wants to take away from me what I bury counted in my pocket. I'm tired, but all I can think about is how to stretch my pleasure … it's a humiliating pleasure … To count the coins in my pocket …
Allegory. An artistic trick of the writer … So what? It's not about me. I am not hiding behind a garbage can, I am transferring to offshore. And instead of dark corners - double-entry bookkeeping. I do not run away from people, but I just do not pay taxes to the state and alimony to my son. Yes, I sometimes remember that I have a son when he lets go … Sweat trickles down my back from the thought of an audit or a desk review. But I do not sit in the alley, I have an office and a business. People work for me, so what, what without registration … I pay them, so what, what is in envelopes. Not! I'm not like that, it's not about me, period! And in general, I'm worse! I deal with the law, I need to think about how to get out, how to get around it, so as not to deprive myself of a penny … That is, profit. I am worse off, I have to share, I have to give bribes, I can't even take a step without them. He runs, hides, but where do I run and hide,when is it necessary to give everywhere? And I give and they give me. This is a business, it works like that. No, this is not about me!
That's just … Why is this frostbitten idiot with a penny in his fist calling me into the darkness of the degraded consciousness?
According to the equality of mental properties. Degradation does not depend on the number of steps passed down. At any stage, it dictates actions, it shapes life, it makes you suffer where you can get pleasure from life.
You can mine and multiply without the sticky sweat of fear on the Armani lapels, placing the right accents in your unconscious desires.
System-vector psychology is for the successful, ambitious and purposeful, not for those doomed to life-long compromises with failure.
