But, today, I come nearer to our house and something that I know is that something is wrong. All is silent—all always silent—but there is a kind of an immovability in air. The kind of silence which arrives after the worst thing to the world has just happened. First I come to complete inactivity. Who knows who observes that I cannot see? But this silence grows as an illness–as a cancer—and then I become excitement motion rushing through carefully disguised doors and ladder platforms in our house.

All – chaos. Shelfs are taken down. Beds are turned. Boxes have been released. Anything that can be moved has been moved. Something that can be broken has been broken. Food poured on all extent of a floor. Guts of our electronics have been spilled also. All this was only from search or some kind of struggle? I cannot know for certain.

Then, however, I see a print of a hand of blood on a wall. A small hand, not a hand of a man, but a hand of my beloved Fanta. What did she think, as she has pressed it against a wall? What I had brought her? What has been lost? That the end was a decreasing number of seconds? Or it was only a matter of time until I have arrived to find this and give an output of my revenge on those who has made it?

Black ideas overtake me for an instant. I think of that past and all bad things which have happened. I look ahead and also everything that I can imagine – awful result. My stomach is sick, I am heavy, and I feel as though I never shall be I again. I feel an idea that it will be never possible for me to be me as I became accustomed.

Then I remember the statement of the father: the person cannot live in the past which it cannot change and cannot live in the future which does not happen. Negative? Assured? Nothing has been solved nevertheless so why choose the worst result? Instead of it hope for the best, planning of the worst. I have no control over something except for my actions and my attitude to that I do. As there is nothing other I can make, it is everything that I can make.

I collect me and then I leave to make following steps to murder of those who has made this and return my beloved Fanta.

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The father taught me various ways to do all these things. You take some things close. Struggle of hand fighting. Sometimes you swing a bat. Sometimes you throw a rock. Sometimes you look the person in an eye and pull on the trigger mechanism the weapon and observe that the person it flies back as though kicked by the assjack.

When you take things, various people demand various means. The beggar, a dog, scourerer? Come nearer and kick them in teeth. A Black Angel? Catch one with a knife in the back. Then kick it in a teeth. Frighten its head with your boot. Place a heel of a boot in its neck. Laugh. A praise Jesus! Grind it with certainty.

The governmental person of army is the finest. But the biggest reward has the greatest hazard. It has the stuffs which you want. It has things you can trade for what you require. But it has the majority of support; it is most carefully cautious, and will be found the fastest as soon as you remove it. It—a thin flower, what should be chosen most carefully during the moment of full blossoming. It takes the big patience to receive the full award. You live in shadows. You take long looks through your opportunities in streets and places far.

Today there was a meeting of minds. Long hours per rubble of a long fallen building. Hearing of beating of whirlybirds on distance in the sky. Long time where all you feel: the sweat reducing your person, your intimate heart beating, and a wish something, something, something would happen. Then, the moment the governmental person of army goes into your sights. It is better than something. It is the culmination of all things.

Today I was going to compress the trigger mechanism—to take this generosity—when I see it is going to return advantage to me. During the long moment we are frozen, looking on each other through glass eyes on guns.

Then I have awakened to myself and swirl around of a back part behind of the fallen block of a stone. The whining bullet passes above me. I wait, but I do not hear anything other. At last, I make my way far and work through many return paths and labyrinths to come back home to my beloved Fanta safely.

Tomorrow, we should hope and pray all, will be the best day for hunting.

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I see a skeleton. Broken, a claw of a bone, a marker. On a wall, on a canvas, a unique way to search to demand to beg, to deny.

More die every day than are born. It is the judgment. Or, on the other hand, you win a lottery – yes? All of you are still alive when a lot is lost.

These are jungle. It is worse than jungle. These are jungle in wrecked yard. Jungle in wrecked yard, full broken shards, glass after nuclear war after polar ice capitol letters thaw. And so on and so on. Also: the son. There are no rules. Any, but one: To survive.

Only because we live in dung and dream only to die peacefully and are covered in a dirt, it means that we have even less illusions than someone. We are not mute. We live worse than animals, but we not animals. We are excellent than animals.

But, every day, die more. Send away more. The father taught me how to be the family man. But it was just the plan of the father. In a stone there is no letter. We speak our history to us directly. In our minds. On our family. On our world. But each father has history to tell, to explain the world.

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When I was the certain age there was a place the father has taken me. A place where the father teaches the boy how to be the father. The high building, the broken windows, the dark blue painful dark blue sky. Dead plastic trees with wide leaves which the father has told belonged more on isle of pale dirt granules. Wide branches now the soiled brown color with dirt of our world. I have taken my lesson: the broken cheekbones, black eyes, poignant lips, seeping voice hole. Any tears? Ha! Not that.

Then once, a day, I has told the father, Enough.

You thinks so? the father has asked.

I nodded and we went it at.

It proceeded a long time. A bone on a flesh. A throw of bodies across the concreted floor. Scratching blindly—which? what?—something to be broken in a skull. Grunting. Deleting of blood, sweat, from eyes. Seeing only fluctuation of a fist, a whipping cord, a piece of a wood, regardless, of the fact that could be. Giving feedback naturally in return—a thousand thousand multiple—to the father. Returning of blessing. One thousand bloody angels kisses in a blush of fists. In my head: A bright kaleidoscope star, hot and sick. The tide sweeps back and forth but as with the moon turns one way to the end.

At last, the father smiled to me, searched in me through a bloody, bleeding profusely teeth. Now my work is made, he has told. Now you have learned that I can teach you. Now you can support the family.

It is the theory, philosophy.

The father, I speak every day in my breath, before each action, each sin, I should transfer to be the family man for me and my beloved Fanta: Many thanks.

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When I have found my beloved Fanta, verging she was being a cherub.  Black Angels were going to have their way, to take my love to the altar. See—they have left their mark, from the Animal, on its neck. Fortunately, money can be so powerful as religion and gods and devils. Hence, for a nice penny—I saw my love from afar as I moved around the city—I was able to buy freedom so that we could be together forever. It was not always easy. First love would shout at night, to try to leave. At the first woven cords have bitten a circuit in its flesh. Love was afraid to love, understand how I felt, how I required it to feel. But it has learned in due course. The smart girl, not the smartest, but smart enough. My beloved Fanta. The true love is not easy. It is sometimes firm, as an angry fist. Or bite a hand which feeds it. The true love can bleed. Or cry as a shout, the child whimpering.

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At last, today, beating of rain at last stops, and I appear above to see that there should see. Moving from a shadow up to a shadow I make the way around. On the north there is a structure surrounded by a fence and a wire. Today there are the people cabled to it. They are dead. They were there many days. Their persons decay in a way which cannot be from death and weather alone. They are compressed in severity of a pain and suffering of illness. What armies have pulled them here? Whether really it is a warning? To whom it should cause anxiety? What side of the fence we should remain?

I shall not speak my beloved Fanta about it . . . she is still sick and coughs and should worry not more.

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Some days my beloved Fanta is better. In some days she is worse. As to me? It is direct, the feeling of fear down on me. Feels like as though we at the end of something. Things constrict then nevertheless fly separately all at the same time. My breast is intense, and then it extends to capture the world. It resembles high temperature, flickering on black road, but it happens everywhere and in cold. Today I did a picture of my beloved Fanta also as violet light, bright and light, bathed our world in mischievous heat for 45 seconds.

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Something wrong, even it is more wrong than usually. Today I have gone to the market to sell some things, which I have hidden to receive more stocks, medicine, which my beloved Fanta and me we require. As so on as I have left the house, I could tell that something was mistaken. It was silent. Too silent. Any lorries in distance? Any planes or helicopters? No. But, also, any birds and any dogs or bugs? No. Only the sick breeze which has pushed its way through barren trees was. I know that it is not a lot of people in our city already . . . but it was something new. Different. Not good.

I have taken roundabout to the market. It is never full, but is usually some sellers and people and some kinds of business. But, today, as you can see from a picture, there was nobody. No soul. Not even a single soul but me. It was the deserted city. I have passed by Kopeth’s and the door was closed, and I knocked and knocked on a door, and nobody has answered.

It very much disturbing for me. My beloved Fanta—it is not good. She has received cough while we were underground. I thought as soon as we arrived to a surface, back in grey light of our world, that it will leave. It has not. Her person is grey similarly to the sky, but with red spots and she sweats, also coughs, and—it is not good. I should receive medicine for her. I shall make that what is required to rescue her. There are no limits. Not now. Not with her life under threat. I shall make that is required without thought of good or evil. To save my beloved Fanta is only the good no matter what the action I make.

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These things happen periodically. Fortunately, I had enough many foodstuffs that we could wait it. All the night long. All the day long. Impact of impact of impact of the bombs falling, similarly to giants stomping on the ground. Sometimes they go closer. Sometimes they go further away. Sometimes they dance similarly to mad people. But always they—there. But, today, at last, giants have left.

Now things are a little more desperate than usually. Our stocks are very low. We cannot do it through other episode is similar to this. Who can help us? Kopeth. And he will not help us for free. But, there are things which I can make for him and then he will help us. They—things by which I would not like to do if I had not to. But I have no choice. So I shall make that I should make so that we could go through and for once leave this place.

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To fish for the foodstuffs. What is it? To overlook the leftover buildings and houses for stocks—one thing. But, there is a limited quantity of buildings and a material left in them. On the other hand, it is possible to receive new things if you make this right.

It—how it works. Some of streets through our city are very narrow. Empty. Collapsing. Destruction. But taking into account the way city is portioned among various groups, streets – a only way to move from here in there. Above—a picture from a roof beside where all this happened today.

Today I was with Тоben. Тоben I knew the long time, probably six months or about it. He has been seized by competing group of Black Angels. But then he has escaped. He has squatted in various empty buildings in our vicinities. He has understood value of work together. I, probably, have destructed him in the beginning, but no person can make everything, that needs which will be made one so I have taken him under my wing and we have made things to help each other.

But, back to a subject near to hand: we fishes for the foodstuffs and the decline of Тоben. The lorries full of stocks—usually army engines—downwards these streets. They are sometimes closed, but many times they not. There can be a protection or two by the lorry and the lorries full of army men everywhere on an escort, but safety—not that is intense. For our purpose you require two men, one is higher also one below. Both men use hooks. The person higher the hook on a cord should to be put out quickly a window and a throw downwards to try and apply it to a box or the pallet or a bag or something. The cord of a hook is established against internal structure of a door. If it incorporates, the hook will pull that it will catch away the lorry. The person on the ground makes the goods on the ground and will pull them in a building with the hook. You cannot receive many things this way but if you are successful, that you could receive one or two things from the many lorries. But you should work quickly and stay unseen.

Today I worked above mentioned, and Тоben worked below. The escort has penetrated. I have thrown my hook, and it established on a basket. In a basket brought mess from the lorry and has fell against the side of a building below me. After that, I did not see anything still until I did  run downwards. The basket was half of way through the big window of a mirror glass. Тоben—on a floor in ever extending reservoir of blood. As soon as the escort has left, I have gone and have rolled him. The part of a glass from the destroyed window has been squeezed through his eye. His hook and a cord were still in his hand. His one eye, a looking eye looked at me is similar to the dead fish addressing to the sky on a shore of a dirty river. I badly felt myself for him, but once again happy, that I was alive. He was the good person, but all of us are intended to die so as how far as sad you can be? I breathed, I was alive, allowed to come back my beloved Fanta. Why I should feel badly myself about these things?

As to what I have found in a basket? They were very remarkable things . . . Things which only can help to escape to us. But, I should tell to you about these things in more later time.

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