Woman with necrophilia. The most common type of necrophilia (4 photos)

A similar set of motives - pretentiousness, fear of selfishness, fear of becoming vismian (for example, through impotence), social obscurity, the desire to have new control over a partner - are manifested by the most important "lovers of corpses". The richness of necrophilia is characterized by the fixation of the image of the deceased mother Kokhanoi. In some states, the death of corpses is accompanied by cannibalism (which is possible as a more effective way of closing with a corpse - how to penetrate at a new one, and turn it on to the warehouse of a wet body). In a number of manifestations, but far from old, necrophilia appears with occult manifestations. What is the cost of a mental state, the deacons of necrophilia have been recognized uncondemned by the year, otherwise - mentally healthy.

Pointed to short term more sprat real feelings necrophilia.

Albert Hamilton Fish is a vagabond, childbearer and cannibal, in 1927 he drove in the z'їv of the doubled Bill Gaffni, and through the river - the eleventh grade Grace Buddh. In the 1930s, a number of arrests were made for vagrancy and the distribution of "leaves of obscene money". In one of these leaves, addressed to Mrs. Buddhas, Fish reportedly described how he had killed his daughter. Vіn nasolodzhuvsya, zgaduyuchi about his mischief and fantasize about others. Possibly, vtim, scho want to vtishit the matir with his remaining phrase: "I didn’t cry її, I want to be a moment, yakbi want to. She died unborrowed." (I later confessed to a psychiatrist, which is not true.) In the other list of wines, I reportedly described, as if preparing the body of Billy Gaffney. Vin is not similar to divine, even though the deacons psychiatrists knew that this person is normal - a person who ate human flesh and excrement, drank human slaughter and blood, that she built twenty-six heads of her own in her genitals at once, that she dripped gasoline in her own gasoline back passage. to experience an orgasm, praying constantly and repeating without a break: "I am Jesus! I am Jesus!" Fish bu v streniya y 1936 roci u v'yaznitsa Sіng-Sіng u vіtsі 66 roki.

Clerk of the Fifteenth, John Reginald Holliday Christy, having been known to have beaten his squad, a house-keeper, and also a lot of young women, the bodies of which were found under a lousy and large apartment, and in the garden there was a house. Vіn having said that having driven the woman for help with a spray can for inhalation, having pumped up the gas to those veins. If the women were dying, the wines were gone. As it was said in the press release: "This arrogant rascal, who, picking up old plaques from a tyutyun, did not in a moment grieve with living wives." Stratcheno in 1957 roci.

Ed Gin, a lagoon farmer from the village of Plainfield, Wisconsin, may have been the greatest necrophile of the 20th century. If you want to win and drive in the recognition of two women (offended calls are similar to those of the deceased matir), sing your wines, sooner, to the category of "quiet" necrophilia, screech chimes when you see the corpses of women on the zvintar. Gin was born in 1907 and lives on a farm with his mother and brother. Yogo's brother Henry died in 1944 (for one version, Yogo was shot by Ed himself), and his mother died a fate later. Eat more strongly emotional attachments to the mother, regardless of those who won Yogo without kintsya tyrannized and, being a tight puritan, instilled that sex is nonsense and sin. At the recesses, the food was left with a majestic budinok, which, without a barrage of wines, turned into "Budinok zhakhiv". Otrimuyuchi federal help, Ed maw necessary dosvіllya, schob take care of them, scho yogo most cіkavilo. And cіkavila yoga anatomy of the female body, especially the intimate parts of the yoga. Quite a bunch of wines, having satisfied their interest, reading medical encyclopedias and assistants in anatomy. For the most part, yoga knowledge was cheap novels and zhahiv and pornographic magazines. Crimean anatomy, yogo zhvavo tsikavili atrocities of the Nazis in Another light war and especially medical experiments on Jews in concentration camps. Nezabara vіn transitions from theory to practice and digging up women's corpses on tsvintary. Yogo mother was the first, followed by others. "Old Man Eddi", as they called him in the village, having learned to masterfully anatomy the corpses and beaten their parts in his state. If Yogo was arrested, around the headless and gutted body of Bernice Worden, which hung on the hook, rose on the 16th leaf fall of 1957, the police showed in his bachelor life and other shocking speeches. The head that hangs on the wall is nothing but a trophy of mischief, and next to it are nine masks from refreshed human faces. Kilimok from the shkiri, from the woman's torso; lampshade with human shkіri and stіlets, upholstered with it, with lowers from homilk tassels. Two bowls for soup and chotiri knobs for stovpchiks, crushed from human skulls. A box of salted female noses, and one more, filled with female organs. Remin from woman's nipples; peruka with old black hair, which was a woman's scalp, as well as a special costume, which was folded from a vest with breasts, knee pads, sewn from a woman's coats and women's genitals, which are attached to panties. Gn pіznіshe znavsya, scho otrimuvav nevimovne satisfaction, dressed at qі and іnshі shati from human shkіri, dancing and waving around the house and revealing yourself as a wet mother. Zagal at the booth of Gina knew the remains of approximately 15 female bodies. The refrigerator was filled with human remains, and on the plate lay the half-hearted heart of Bernis Worden.
Provіvshi ten years at the psychiatric clinic, Gіn standing before the court. Vіn buv vyznány vinnym, ale criminally unpunishable through non-conviction. They talked about the new one as if they were about a bright patient - modest, lagid and majestic. Ed Gin died in 1984 as a child of a heartache, suffering from respiratory illnesses, at a ward for people of a frail age.
Prote already for life Gin knew a friend and richer than life, having become the archetype of mass culture. Robert Bloch created yoga with the prototype of Norman Bates in his novel "Psycho". In 1960, Alfred Hitchcock created a masterpiece of cinematography from his cheap "chiller". This film opened a new era in the development of the genre of jahu and plunged into the construction of images of maniacs in rich artistic creations, like in cinema, and in literature. The original "Psycho" was followed by a few remakes (1983, 1986, 1990, 1998) and succession. In 1967, the film of Roddy McDavell "Vono" (It) was shown on the screen, in which the hero spoke with the corpse of his mother, which he resounded, which he kept at home in his bed. In 1974, two films were announced, inspired by Gina / Bates - "Deranged" by Jeff Gillen and Alan Ormsby and "Texasian chainsaw cut" by Toba Hooper. The rest of these two films, having become a classic of the independent cinema, and, in its own right, provoking a whiff of remakes and succession. Although the film does not represent the history of Gina literally, zhahlivy budinok, reminiscent of virobs from human remains, and the character in the name of the Shkiryan is wearing a skin (Leatherface), which puts his victims on live bait on a butcher's hook and wear a mask on the skin of a human skin, obviously to dіy Plainsfіldskogo, opovіdannya about yak impressed Hooper in childhood. In the film "Don't Enter at Your Boondocks" (1980) by Joseph Ellison, the character takes the corpse of his mother from the apartment in the name of Donna. For life won't be small, let's burn your hand with fire, as if you were "badly behaved." Vіrny її to the pious vihovannyu, Donny cannot think of anything better, lower to bring the girl to the booth and smear it with live bait. Gein's passion for dressing the human skin was known in such films as "Maniac" (1980) by William Lastig and in "The Young Lambs" (1991) by Jonathan Demm for the novel by Thomas Harris. In "Movchanni" Buffalo Bill, obsessed with the idea of ​​"re-creation" and sewing his own clothes from women's shkiri, may show a generic similarity to "old Eddie", like, vtіm, and a number of other characters in the series about Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Zreshtoy, you can’t help but guess about the German director Jorga Buttgereite, who directly calls himself a “gynophile” and who made such films, like “Necromantic” (1988) and “Necromantic 2” (1991), which became a sort of makabernim manifesto of necrophilic mysticism. The only one I think of is a film about necrophilia, which, excluding the direct infusion of "Psycho", is the film by Lynn Stopkevich "Pilded" (1996) - it is possible that both the author and the heroine of the film are women. In 2001, Gin's biography was screened ("Ed Gin", directed by Chuck Parello).

Another famous necrophiliac, Jeffrey Dahmer, went like a "monster-cannibal from Milwaukee", having driven in 17 people, the first one of the victims was far away and reported to the police. Like Hein, death for Dahmer meant more, less life. For an hour, a search in the yoga apartment in the refrigerator was revealed human heads, intestines, hearts and nirks. For a while, the police knew skulls, brushes, gratings that could rot, cauldrons with blood splatters, and also sprats of whole skeletons. Three tulubi were found near Baku with acid. In addition, there were found dances with chloroform, electric bream, barylo with acid and formaldehyde, as well as numerical polaroid pictures that depicted the torment of their victims on such Dahmer. Vіn otochuvav itself parts of their victims, putting together chimerical installations from them, having seen the appearances of the beaten in and robbed masks from them, inducing dreams from the skulls. As one of the commentators is appointed: "This is the pre-stroke plan, the only ambitious plan of your life." Obsessed with the idea of ​​a living death, Dahmer tried to create zombies, which in turn helped him. For which guilt, having grafted the victim into an unfamiliar camp for additional drugs, having drilled holes in his head and pouring acid into it and cracking it. Sounds like the victims died, but one of the last ones was alive for some hour and walked the streets. The judge's psychiatrist, who dealt with Dahmer, having established that yoga necrophilia grew from sexual arousal, like that, seeing, looking at the childish corpses of creatures, like they were lost under the wheels of cars. In 1991, roci Dahmer was arrested and through the river of striations.

It is not necessary to think, however, that the necrophilic tendencies fear less at Sunset.

In Russia, Andriy Chikatilo, school teacher from Rostov, killed and hired 57 people in 25 years (a world record for the middle maniacs of the 20th century). Yogo sacrifices were like a human, so a woman’s status. Satisfying your whim, ring out the wines, making corpses and eating parts of their bodies. It is important that such factors were put into the molding of yoga naughty, like a state of weakness, that it made the normal states of weariness worse (want a new bula had a team and two children), as well as a mother’s rose about cannibalism at the hour of war, like a child’s chuvs. At the trial of Chikatillo, the grove of the divine, the ale of confessions to the condemned, and in 1992 the executions.

Insha Russian serial maniac, necrophile and kanіbal - Mikhailo Novosyolov - having killed and posthumously hired twenty-two people - sixty from Tajikistan and sixteen osіb from different places of Russia. Vіk yogo, laying 6 to 50 victims, among them there were small boys, and women of a frail age. To drink up Novosyolov, we came up with the following: "The corpse is the same "add more." The more you lie and "languish", the better it becomes. On zapitanya, navіscho vіn tse robiv, vіn vіdpovіv: "Why am I driving?

Do not start necrophilia associated with zhorstokistyu. In rich moods, the motif of necrophilic diy is love and nezdatnіst reconcile with the second love.

In 1994 in Brazil, after a few days after Roberto Carlos da Silva and Raquel Christina de Oliveira, she was named fell from a motorcycle, a kind of viv da Silva, and perished. Three months later, that Silva dug up her dead kohana from the grave - and kokhav with her. To the news agency of the novelty of wines, saying: "I have seen and demanded її."

Vtіm, the novel Wittkop is not a cross-sectional criminal chronicle, but artistic TV- floorings with a glimmering shape, stilted with a streak. And as if it were a literary tvir, you may be able to fit into the singing tradition.

Obviously, necrophilic motifs can be found in the literature before Wittkop. Not zagliblyuyuchis at this topic, it’s more likely to show the presence of such authors as de Sade, Poe, Heine and Baudelaire (accept the first two authors of the list are quoted in the text of the novel). In the Russian literature of the 19th century, necrophilic tendencies are manifested, for example, by such writers as Lermontov and Gogol. Rozanov directly called the rest V.V. a necrophile, who would give life to beauty only once, if the woman is opined at the work. I would like to be able to plot the plot so that the heroine can die without fail, in order to become truly a kohana, Lermontov is the protagonist of Oleg Postnov's story "The Antiquary". Instead, the name of the hero of "Necrophila" - Lucien - is attached to the myth about Lucifer. The archetypal basis of "Necrophilus" and Lermontov's "Demon", in this rank, is one and the same. It turns out that a more detailed analysis of the literature of a romantic warehouse (including here before-and post-romanticism) could immediately reveal a whole layer of images of those ideas, as if directly indirectly leading to the structures of a necrophilic message. Swamps of night, death, tsvintar, coffin-digging, anatomical studies, living death, deadly named, merry with the sky, love to the tune of the string; so just like the theme of the search for the object of an ideal kohanny (or the ideal object of a kohanny), which is indelible to the slowness of the hour and which is drawn either by the creation of the art (statue, portrait), or in the image of a dead kohanoi, - for literature, staring at the inner world people and deep souls are objects that are more divine.

Postnov's story was written under the direct flow of "Necrophila" Wittkop. Vlasne, and the name, and the profession of the character from the first rows of po'yazan Postnoviy z "Nekrofila's Schodener". Prote interpretation of the causes of necrophilia is here іnshe. Just as in Wittkop the root of the sexual craving for dead bodies is lost in the childish experiences of the hero, then in Postnov the necrophilic excess is nothing at first glance, a crimson deadness in the girl’s life, no motivations. However, in the further reflection of the hero, the cause of an obtrusive craving for dead bodies (necrophilia) and speeches (antiques) is being changed by the leveling of spiritual and material values, which began in the era of the Reformation and has reached the boundary expression in our hour. The corpse and artifacts of the past appear in this situation as more valuable, authentic and individualized, lower distinctions of the body and speech of the present. Zvіdsi vyplivaє other raznitsa. As for Wittkop, necrophilia is the deacon of cultural and psychological universality, then Postnov is a scholarly explanation of the phenomenon historically. Vtіm, rіch is less in accents; in both ways, there is a discussion about the interplay of natural and social, human predilections and ovnishnіh according to the age to the human environment.

Interest in corpses may be motivated otherwise. For example, in the works of Andriy Platonov (for example, as well as for the riches of other writers in the 20-30s of the 19th century, a great infusion was made by Mikoli Fedorov’s speech about the physical resurrection of the dead in the future), the corpse sounds - not so the subject of romantic feelings, like a river To hide the riddle of life in oneself, to solve the mystery of yoga, the heroes are guided by natural-scientific methods. Yuri Mamliev has a corpse - tezh taєmnitsa, but already not scientific, but metaphysical. Methods of penetrating into Qiu "stay in secret" are often seen as sexual. "Death", "corpse" and other words of similar semantics are Mamlyev's keys. So, in Mamlєєva's novel "Shatuni", written a few years before Wittkop's "Necrophile" (in 1966-1968), we have a large gallery of characters obsessed with interest to death, as well as a low number of necrophilic scenes.

Fedir at the same time shukav Lida's death; vnutrishne vіn vіdchuvav, scho won close; vіn choking in a crazy chill, smacking like a crit; marveling at Lidinka's zіtlіnnya disguise and tremavsya, shchob kіchi at that moment, if she dies, between death and life.
Lidinka did not understand anything; її shaking in the sight of a strebucha nesenіtnitsa...
- Retivy, retivy, Fedinko ... Let's fly, fly with you ... Blow, - squeaked out.
Raptom, it fell in її breasts and she immediately realized that she was dying. Vaughn froze, her eyes froze in a sleepless diet in front of the empty woman.
Now already only a weak shadow of sexual intoxication flickered in them.
Fedir understood that the end was near; Trochs throwing up their heads, unruly marveling at the vіchі, becoming deadly strangled by the body, embossing on the heart - to hasten the arrival of the bazhan mі. "Help me, help me, help me," - murmuring wine to himself.
“Gobbling... Naviki,” Lidinka’s mind flickered weakly to the day.
And everything came together in a raptom, around one motor power, which resounded in our eyes: "What about me? .. What will you be?". Fedir having grown the zusilla, trying to see the names of the food chains, the rest of the idea.
And swaying, like її eyes swayed raptomly, and Lydinka, huffing, saw a stinking wheeze, like a sound to the її lower ones, which were strewn with invisible quintuples of lips.
Tsієї mitі Fedіr skinny...

Zvichayno, one should not talk about Mamliev’s influx on Wittkop: she couldn’t read it; "Rods" and other works of Mamliev began to be translated by French and other European language significantly worse. More suttivish principle of authority in the approach of that style: metaphysical grotesque Mamlyeva and extreme psychological realism Wittkop is mutually unconverted.

Riziknu stverdzhuvati that Vitkop does not have uninterrupted literary successors. Allusions are those quotes that lead to the necrophilic "texts of culture", that they roam in the novel show that the author of that character is able to construct the "line of offensiveness" of the necrophilic tradition. Still, it’s clear that the idea was to keep the novel alive in another world.

We can’t bring it, or just say the reality of real life history, which, imaginatively, formed the basis of the novel. We do not know who K. D. is, to whom the novel is dedicated and which is for the help of others artistic receptions ototozhnyuєtsya with the author of the "necrophile's schoden" to become the text of the novel. When offended, they become like Narcissus, who "drowning at their own imagination"; insults are related to Gabrielle, yak, from one side, є the real author of the text, and from the other side - yogo episodic character, sucidka advising, as if that htivo is higher.

Stylistically, the novel is not close to Poe’s work and, obviously, not de Sade (wishing Wittkop, in one of his interviews, tries to use “120 Days of Sodom” as if it were his inspiration). The breadth and depth of the descriptions, as well as the lowering to the dead cats, lead to the riddle of showing another necrophile - Victor Ardison, a kind of reportable descriptions in the scientific literature (div., for example: R. Willenev "Werewolves and vampires"). I will suggest some cues from Ardisson's opinions, giving the reader an independent style and tone from the text of Wittkop's novel.

I dug up the girl's body, as you knew in my hut, the next day after her funeral. On the 12th of spring 1901, after the beer night, I twisted the string, creaked it with two pins, then, after that, as I was a strong body, I closed the string and buried it again in the ground. Turning back home, I laid the corpse on the straw, de vi yogo knew. Let me go to hellish deeds with her. Shorazu, if I slept with her, I satisfied my hit. I have always been doing this on my own, and my father did not know anything about this speech. To get to the tsvintar, I climbed over the pivnіchnu wall, and repaired it myself, if I needed to drink. An hour ago, I felt that one girl, as I remembered earlier, was seriously ill. I felt radiant, and I confessed to myself that I would go after this corpse. I happened to be more patient than a check of kіlka days. Day and night, I went into fantasies about her, and invariably called an erection in me. If she died, I vydkopati її body of the coming night after the funeral. I came to the treasury about the eighth year of the evening. I needed an hour to dig up the corpse. Having stripped її, I started її to kiss and pestit. I remember that there is no hair on her pubis and that there are small breasts in her. I am pleased with my sleep on the corpse, after which I have lied to take him home. I didn’t think about the security, as I was threatened. Bula mayzhe opivnochі, if I have filled the tsvintar, carry the body with my left hand and press it to my appearance with my right. On the way home, I kissed my burden and showed it: "I bring you back home, you will be good, I will not bring you evil." Luckily, I don’t get mad at anyone. Turning back home, I lay down as a corpse, seemingly: "I love you, love." I slept well. Having prokiniv vrantsі, I again satisfied my hit and, first lower, saying: "I'm going to work, I'll turn around soon. If you want something to eat, tell me." Vaughn didn’t eat, and I guessed that she wasn’t hungry. I told him: "If you want to drink, then I will bring you water." Stretching out the day, while pratsyuvav, I went into fantasies about this girl. Opivdni, I turned around, schob chatted її, and asked її, chi summed up about me. Vrantsі I know I'll come to her. Before they arrested me, I spent most of my nights with her, and only satisfied my desire. During the whole hour, the other girls did not die. Yakby died already like a girl, I and її brought home, put bi її instruct from the first and pestil bi їx both. Ale, I did not forget and cut my head (13-year-old girl, calling Ardisson "my little betrothed") - Є. G.) and іnоdі tsіluvav i її.

Zvichayno, Viktor Ardisson, on the face of Lucien N., an antiquary-necrophile, was a poor person, unlit, on the thought of doctors, perplexed. And just like that, like Lucien, I really loved the quiet girls and women, who digging on the flowers, taking them in, standing up to them affectionately and weeping, if the hour had come to separate from them, for their corpses were unacceptable.

The novel by Gabriel Wittkop is not about necrophilia, which comes to mind in a narrow sense, like a dayak, which rarely speaks of concern. Take not only about her. Nasampered, this is a novel about a kohannya.

"Of course, I love you ... As long as I can have the right to learn the word, more necrophile, as if I'm standing in the wrong images of the people's witness, obviously I don't have such a right," write Lucien N. melancholy, - for a good novel about a kohanny can’t be merry - ale, swearing, about a kohannya forever, the shards of a kokhannya are filled with impersonal forms, but a necrophilic kohannya is nothing else, like one of the forms of an eternal kokhannya, "- even Gabriel Wittkop in an interview 'yu magazine "Le tan de livre".

Kokhannya tse tragic, shards are doomed to buti Timchasov. The tragedy of the human reason lies in the fact that people want to see other living things, and acknowledge the fact of death, but the knowledge does not help them. The stink of practicing eternal life and eternal kokhannya, but the exercise is still visible. Live, like we love, like corpses, become unbearable - grow old, "fuck off", die. Love ends and life ends, and there is nothing eternal.

Necrophilia - addiction to nebuttya, to whom they attribute the likeness of buttya. But otherwise - an absurd rebellion against the kіntsіvki іsnuvannya. Otherwise, otherwise, I will become ignorant, unfamiliar with reality as if it were there, as I am again and again throwing human nature into the cycles of suffering, which are endlessly repeated. This is also a novel about a share, about forces, like things for us. Vipadkovy zbіg environments, which gave rise to an associative link between the two most powerful experiences - the first, childlike orgasm and the image of a beautiful dead woman, the woman's most beloved and the closest (mother), including the surrounding environment (for example, the mother, the smell of a seaworm), - the smell of a seaworm . Kokhannya, sex and a corpse make up a single complex, which sets the structure of specialness and share. Only loving corpses, a necrophiliac to know oneself: "I become a different person, at once a stranger to myself and more myself, don't be-if. ".

Those who are ruined by us, those who signify, which we will become and what we will come to, as if following our nature (and not following it is impossible) - tse and є share. "A conflict of special will and aspiring aspirations of a person with unimaginable forces, which leads to the summation of catastrophic results, which awakens a sleepy chi zhah" - such is the fate of the tragedy. The finale of "Necrophila" is not guilty of introducing into Oman. A true tragedy always ends in death.

Autumn 2002
Moscow – London

Here you can look at the original and dig at the list of literature:

Sensational knowledge of the Nizhny Novgorod care for corpses

Scandalous necrophiliac from Nizhny Novgorod Anatoly Moskvin, 26 mummies were revealed near the apartment of that past autumn, as it appeared, digging up the remains of girl bodies and on Moscow tsvintary. At Mondays, this information was officially confirmed by the clerk of the Investigative Committee of the TFR Nizhny Novgorod region Volodymyr Stravinskas. The brushes died Moskvin transporting from the capital to Nizhny by electric trains.

The latter is eager to make contact, rozpovida about his “fitness”, but if he does so, he cannot understand why the right-wing guardians can make a lot of claims. I don’t care about my own faults. It seems that he didn’t try anything nasty with digging up bodies, just bagging them at once, talking, reading books, talking.

Before the speech, the version about those that Moskvina shoved to dig up the grave of the state of concern was not confirmed. The examination showed that they did not conduct daily sexual activities from the bodies of wines. And it’s a good idea to come out that putting blame on them is not like potential sexual partners, but like your children. In the course of the investigation, it was also revealed that the necrophile collected not just women's remains, but also girl's remains. For earlier information, the oldest of the late ones was 15 years old.

- It is important to explain the motive to inspire, - Major General of Justice Volodymyr Stravinskas echoed the words. – I didn’t conduct annual scientific experiments with them. Vіn is just a dream that you can get them with a year. I would like to have my thoughts.

For an hour of investigation of jamming, repeatedly surprising law enforcement officers with their special look at the world. For example, stating that after the sound of yoma obov'yazkovo turned all yogo children. I adding at the same time: “Otherwise, I know how to exhume after exhumation. I will then turn around and look over all the graves.”

I mostly dressed my “daughters” at the clothes, taking from the other dead. It was clear that far from having broken the graves of them, they removed the remains. For some reason, the actions of the body didn’t suit you, and even then they took more clothes. And digging the brushes back. Dehto inserting the replacement of the heart of the mechanism with toys.

- If we in Morse were shifting the children of the body from the table to the table, the mechanisms spratsovuva, and the human remains began to sleep and speak. Tse zhahlivee sight, - znavsya one of the next.

Before the speech, Anatoly Moskvin long wanted to assume the role of a father. The new one never had his own children, and a few years later he wanted to take a child from child's booth. Moreover, if you want to take a child from a child's house, the girl will grow up - 12 years. To our request, why I’m not small, I explained: “At whom you can already see what kind of person is in front of you and what a fury it is. I don’t just want to adopt Aje, but to pass on my knowledge to her.” Shards of their sympathy for satanism and paganism of wines did not prihovuvav, then it was left only to guess, like knowledge of wines may be on the island: in the gallery of linguistics, local studies and religious studies ...

Moskvin put his forks on the flowerbed with the method of excavations on the cob of two thousandths.

- Most of the time, having found the bodies of children, about the death of some of them, I found out from the newspapers, - I opened one of the spokesmen for law enforcement agencies. - Dedicated to a good hour the vineyard of the Gruntiv, knowing that well, which one of them would have a good time, and de mummify. Ale all the same vlashtovuvav on tsvintaryah yakiy skhovok, de bodies lay, pіdsikhali and vivіtryuvalis. І less than a second, transporting them home.

Kіlka rokіv vіn vyrіshiv throw viklik dolі ta try your hand at the Moscow tsvintary: how can you fool the guard at the same Vagankivsky. And in the new, like wine, having declared on the drink, everything came out.

Love to a woman can spur a person on a roar of insanity - sometimes dear and not short-lived, and sometimes even zhahlivy.

Edward Lidskalnin, for example, having created the beautiful Koral Castle for his kohana, just like the crazy passion of his partner in marriage, Karl Dancer, knew the end of that terrible and ambiguous vchinka. About the rest and timetsya at tsіy statti.

German immigrant Karl Tanzler, also known as Count Karl von Cosel, arrived from his homeland to the town of Zephyrhills, in the American state of Florida, in 1926. However, without a barrage of guilt, he left his squad and children for the sake of working on the island of Key West as a radiologist at the American Marine Hospital.

There, I got to know a beautiful young girl on the name of Mary Elena Milagro de Hoyos, who was 32 years younger than him. Helen was ill with tuberculosis and the Dancer often saw her, reporting unsuccessful attempts to vilify her for help with x-rays and other methods. One day the Dancer saw the girls in the kohanna, declaring that he himself had joked all his life.

Even as a little lad, the Dancer made sure that he was often the ghost of his great-grandfather, Countess Annie-Konstanzia von Kozel, who died in 1765. The dancer, having shown that the countess showed you the image of a true kohannya - a dark-haired woman, recognized Helen in a certain wine.

Unfortunately, Helen died in 1931. Її the funeral was generously sponsored by the Dancer, a kind of arranging for her a mausoleum, so that the mother of the evening could see the place of peace and sleep її in love with Spanish melodies. The dancer was the first to remember that Helen often spoke to him, entreating him to take the body with you to the booth. So vin and commencing one of the last days of 1933.

Understandably, Helen's body was far from being in the best state, so the Dancer was primly occupied with the tasks of the most "aesthetic" look. Vikoristovuyuchi strings and details in the form of hangers, wines, having pulled the tassels one by one, inserting glass bags at the eyeglasses, removing the hand from the excesses of the hair. , replacing the zіtlіlі shkіrnі, bend the sumіshshyu gypsum and the seam, leaked with wax.

For support, she formed a body, stuffed it with cloth, and took the corpse itself from the cloth, panchoks and mittens, adding make-up. In order to smell the roost, I regularly washed the kohana with perfume.

The dancer is quietly and peacefully alive from the corpse of a kohana, stretching out seven years, investing at night instructing her to sleep. And it was inconceivable that the docks were unnaturally calm, as if Sister Helen did not feel a bit about the literally obvious "skeleton in the wardrobe" of the doctor's divine-willed look.

And it’s true, it’s not a big deal about Helen’s body’s misfortune, it’s become a sight of enormity. The corpse was beaten up, wrapped around, and little suffering fell on a part of the remains of Helen, more and more three days. In an hour, they caught a glance at her over six thousand Florida bagmen. Zreshtoy, rich-suffering gunpowder, resting at the grave without a grave.

And in 1972, the role of the doctor, who took his fate at the rose, having revealed the bulk of the more shocking sound - a tube was inserted into the gap of the body, for the help of which the Dancer could not enter into intimate contact with him. However, this fact was not clarified when the necrophile was called, who was sentenced only for desecrating the grave of Helen. It is important to believe that some proteo of people sometimes misled the Dancer, seeming that he was just an "eccentric romantic". Maybe they didn't know all the details...

Unexpectedly, after the arrest of the Dancer, it was called out for the term of limitation, so that the term ended, like yogo could be punished for the scourge of the malice. To this, the Dancer, out of pure conscience, re-settled in Zephyrhills, where he lived the leftovers of his life, selling photographs of images of Helen, still alive, flirting with tourists with her secrets, and demonstrating the death wax mask of her kohana.

Nareshti, in 1952, the fate of the share took pity on the unfortunate death and the Dancer pishov from life, ymovirno, rushing to his kohanoi, shards of the only death certificate and in the quiet of the year of death, bula was an equal woman posthumously.

Love to a woman can spur a person on a par of madness - sometimes dear and ugly, and sometimes even zhahlivy.

Edward Lidskalnin, for example, having created the beautiful Koral Castle for his kohana, just like the crazy passion of his partner in marriage, Karl Dancer, knew the end of that terrible and ambiguous vchinka. About the rest and timetsya at tsіy statti.

German immigrant Karl Tanzler, also known as Count Karl von Cosel, arrived from his homeland to the town of Zephyrhills, in the American state of Florida, in 1926. However, without a barrage of guilt, he left his squad and children for the sake of working on the island of Key West as a radiologist at the American Marine Hospital.

There, I got to know a beautiful young girl on the name of Mary Elena Milagro de Hoyos, who was 32 years younger than him. Helen was ill with tuberculosis and the Dancer often saw her, reporting unsuccessful attempts to vilify her for help with x-rays and other methods. One day the Dancer saw the girls in the kohanna, declaring that he himself had joked all his life.

Even as a little lad, the Dancer made sure that he was often the ghost of his great-grandfather, Countess Annie-Konstanzia von Kozel, who died in 1765. The dancer, having shown that the countess showed you the image of a true kohannya - a dark-haired woman, recognized Helen in a certain wine.

Unfortunately, Helen died in 1931. Її the funeral was generously sponsored by the Dancer, a kind of arranging for her a mausoleum, so that the mother of the evening could see the place of peace and sleep її in love with Spanish melodies. The dancer was the first to remember that Helen often spoke to him, entreating him to take the body with you to the booth. So vin and commencing one of the last days of 1933.

It was clear that Helen's body was far from being in the best state, so the Dancer was primly occupied with the tasks of the most "aesthetic" look. Vikoristovuyuchi strings and details in the hangers, in z'edna one with one tassel, inserting glass bags at the eyeglasses, fixing the peru with excess hair, replacing the zitlіlі shkіrn, twisting the sum of the gypsum and the seam, leaked with wax.

For support, she formed a body, stuffed it with cloth, and took the corpse itself from the cloth, panchoks and mittens, adding make-up. In order to smell the roost, I regularly washed the kohana with perfume.

The dancer is quietly and peacefully alive from the corpse of a kohana, stretching out seven years, investing at night instructing her to sleep. And it was inconceivable that the docks were unnaturally calm, as if sister Helen did not feel a bit about the literally clear “skeleton of the wardrobe” of the doctor’s god-willed look.

And it’s true, it’s not a big deal about Helen’s body’s misfortune, it’s become a sight of enormity. The corpse was beaten up, trimmed, and little suffering fell on a part of the remains of Helen, who would be exposed to a wild look for three days. In an hour, they caught a glance at her over six thousand Florida bagmen. Zreshtoy, rich-suffering gunpowder, resting at the grave without a grave.

And in 1972, the role of the doctor, who took his fate at the rose, having revealed the bulk of the more shocking sound - a tube was inserted into the gap of the body, for the help of which the Dancer could not enter into intimate contact with him. However, this fact was not clarified when the necrophile was called, who was sentenced only for desecrating the grave of Helen. It’s important to believe that some proteo people sometimes played the Dancer a joke, seeming that he was just an “eccentric romantic”. Maybe they didn't know all the details.

Unexpectedly, after the arrest of the Dancer, it was called out for the term of limitation, so that the term ended, like yogo could be punished for the scourge of the malice. To this, the Dancer, out of pure conscience, re-settled in Zephyrhills, where he lived the leftovers of his life, selling photographs of images of Helen, still alive, flirting with tourists with her secrets, and demonstrating the death wax mask of her kohana.

Nareshti, in 1952, the fate of the share took pity on the unfortunate death and the Dancer pishov from life, ymovirno, rushing to his kohanoi, shards of the only death certificate and in the quiet of the year of death, bula was an equal woman posthumously.

Electronic vision:
"Necrofil", "Antiquarian" and Co.

Sіrі vії girls vіdkidyat on її schok sіru tin. The girl has an ironic and cunning smile - people smile like that, like they know a lot about life. Two curls, which have opened up, frame the її guise, descending to the festoons of the shirt, lifted up to the puff and vіdkryvaє lives of that white-blakite color, which can be bachiti on such virobs from the Chinese portion. Hill of Venus, flattened, smooth, gleaming at the light of a lamp; it seems that the wine is covered with fine droplets of sweat.

I am a pink quilt of a girl, to look at her slit, a vuzka, like a scar, with translucent pale-buzkovy lips. And if I happen to get a little bit older, more at once, my body is more hard, tense, - until the warm room softens yoga, like a whisk. I'm poking. The girl of the chogo vartuє. Truly, this is a dead girl.

Yesterday in the evening, the girl played an evil heat on me. I am guilty of talking about it, with a smile. If I penetrated її flesh, so cold, such licorice, such a miraculously tightness, as if only the dead were chirping, this negligent child flattened her eye with a rape, a gap, like an octopus, and waving black strum on me with a shrill grunt. rіdini. Її mouth, vіdkritiy, yak on the mass of the Gorgon, waving on me tsey sіk, smorіd yak reminiscent of the room. All the tse trohi zіpsuvali me malt. I sound to shorter manners, which, as a rule, is awesome. Going out of life, the stench already threw out all the excrement for themselves, instead of vibrating in the face of a slanderous vantage. To that їhnіy lives empty and solid, like a drum. Your smell is the smell of a threadworm. Whose smell, here, go from the depths of the earth, from that kingdom, de musky larvae lay their way between the roots of the roslin, de the forest of mica make a shimmering shriek of air, star, de people live the shelter of the possible chrysanthemums, the middle of the pink peat. The smell of dead is the smell of turning to space, the smell of high alchemy. For there is nothing pure for the sky, and the wines continue to be cleansed, the docks are not within reach of that remaining purity - the purity of the majestic stone lyalki with eternal silent laughter, with eternally spread legs - tієї lyalki, like being in the skin of us.

For two years I have been clean, and I have seen the girl. In this child, who vomits with stinking ink, it is right in the form of an eighth breed. At once, it seems, she splashed all her booze and lay, ear-splitting on the stretch. It's a vicious laugh. Її pens with small nails. The fly, as if it had taken an inexplicable sound, innocently sat on its quilt. Tsya girl has already ceased to like me. There are not quiet dead, with whom it is important to separate, as if it were more painful to separate from each other. Ready to swear an oath that she has a filthy character in her. Sometimes you will grow loudly, as if instilling me with a serious fight.

In the middle of the night, while I was preparing to pack the girl in a plastic bag, to drink and throw it into the Seine near Sevres, as I sound like I’m in such vipadkas, she raptly let out a new roar of zіtkhanya. The long, painful sound "C", like the word "Sevres", whistled between її teeth with a whistling sound, nibi vona felt the unbearable tightness of the fact that її were about to leave. Great pity squeezing my heart. It seemed that I did not zoom in on fairness to the modest and inconspicuous beauty of a child. I rushed at her and became poking around with kisses, asking her for a rebuke, somehow an unwieldy bastard. Then I brought a stone shield from the bathroom and soiled my hair, which became dark and brittle, to rub my body with aromatic speeches. I don’t know how much I loved my child, until the light of the ranks beat the window behind the curtains.

The road to Sevres is the path of all flesh, and the death of my little one, damn it, there’s no help here. Too bad!

Your breasts are truly miraculous. Like squeezing them from two sides, a shackle comes out - a vuzka, soft, invariably accepted.

I lightly stroke її sparsely gray hair, combed back, її neck and shoulders, at once pissing off the widow of a sliver of slime, on the kshtalt of that which the ravics are depriving ...

Mіy kravets - kravets, who saved the ceremonial manners of the past hours and turned to me in the third person - nareshti not vtrymavsya and having proponouvav me robiti my wardrobe, we’ll frown less. "Oskіlki black color, not respecting their elegance, yet still cope with hostility." Otzhe, tse color, which suits me, for I am the same sum. I am smart through those that I have to be separated from my loved ones all the time. Kravets laughs at me in the mirror. I think that I know my body, that I see how I put my masculinity in my pants, and that, having shown it with a marvel, that the m'yazi of my hands is above the name for the people of my profession. Knowing Yakby wine, good musculature can still serve... Knowing Yakby wine, how I squat my masculinity, writing about wine if I have my notepad, that I wear my put left hand ...

One customer even more kindly said today's lies about the Portuguese sailor's figurine of the 17th century: "It's like a garna! It looks like a string!" I bought yoga.

I can't marvel at garnu zhіnku or on a lot of people without that, schob negainoly not indulge about yourself їhnyu death. Once, if I'm a fool, I want to inspire someone out of passion, out of heat. It was about one woman, a tall, green-eyed, brown-haired woman, like I was grabbing my wife today. Irrespective of those that I felt up to her, I did not fall into the thought of wanting to bump into her hands. I check, I pray for death, and death has become the center of my thoughts. Shall I then say that I longed with earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella's death? I did. More than once, the sound of a young girl - her name was Gabrielle - led me to the camp of the strongest awakening, regardless of the knowledge that the awakening of the first crock, which I had thought up to be. For years I have been painting at my sight all the troubles and see death, as if they could strike my Gabrielle. I love to show him on his deathbed, to show in the most detailed detail all the unnecessary atmosphere, flowers, candles, funeral smells, a bleary mouth and slightly closed eyelids that swayed. As if, vipadkovo zustrivshi his sudidka at gatherings, I remembered the sickly fold in the left fold of the її company. I am young, suffocating and suffocating, and to that, having shattered the whiskers in a negligent way, because in it there is a taemna schilnist to self-destruction. I rushed into my room, locked myself in the key, tumbled down on the bed and pushed myself into the darkness. Flattening my eyes, I'm succulent, like Gabrielle smoothly hijacked, hanging on the bed of the hook. Sometimes it was body, shaping in a white merezhivnu combination, turned on its feet, looking at the most attractive look. I was more like a її guise, even though it was shabby and half chained, fell on a new hair, like it sank into an enchanting shadow of majesty, maybe a black mov, which reminded me of a vomitous mouth, like a strum of vomit. Matte hands, to finish the garni, hung from the shoulders, they fell loosely, bare feet were turned in the middle with scribbles.

I went into these fantasies, not changing any of the details in them, I thought, if my goodness of that vimagala, and for a long time the stench brought me the best of malt. Then Gabrielle left the place; no more bachachi її more, I’ll forget it її, and create an image that brings me joy, smoothing out my appearance.

Henri, who died at the six-pointer in the form of scarlet fever, but no ailment sticks to me, a charming little man. Yogo body nibi was created in order to play with it, to enjoy it, wanting to play with it, surround it with its surface. This child is such a big thing that I had a chance to look at the pleasure of the dead, afraid of being hurt by both of us. For a while, I tried different tricks, like dosi naїvno respecting the innocent. Ale and such, such a wine, Henri is miraculously appetizing. The inner side of the yoga wall is slightly curved, allowing you to get it completely. The shards of the zaishov are already far away, I know that an hour with him will not be enough. That’s why I don’t harm yoga in any way and I’m having fun with him in hot baths, confirming that, unfortunately, I’m sorry, hurry up yoga end. His body is roaring with the skin, the belly is green and sinking, teeming with ugly bunions, like majestic bulbs bursting in hot water. Even worse are those who change their faces and become strangers; I don't know more than my little Henri.

In the evening, I said goodbye to Henri, the smell of which became unbearable. I prepared a heavily scented bath so that I could squeeze myself up to the body that was spreading out. Anri pіdnіs me a surprise - dead sovvnі nepodіvanok - I'm thinking about Marie-Jeannie's breasts and a lot of other things. At the end of the vine, allowing me to penetrate into my disparate flesh, which the temple guessed, what to melt: so in its own way the vine helped to soothe the turmoil of separation. I hung yoga at the great towel, dressed at my pajamas with horn flannel, arrived in my veins, combed my chestnut hair, got wet and seemed to be black. At the car, I put the little one in order, lifting him with one hand, and with the other trimming kermo. I left properly, without haste to reach the place of recognition. As if in such vipadkas, it was hard on my heart. "No, not now," I repeated myself. Having crossed the Seine to Saint-Cloud, but only a little bit I went to Maisons-Laffitte, knowing that I could get spiritual strength from myself. I turned back to Paris in the deep low of sheep vans, in the midst of smells of rotting green, car horns, changing headlights. I raptom, having shaken my appearance at the rear-view mirror, fill it with tears.

I'm not going anywhere in the evening; I don't miss anyone and I want to close the store immediately after an offense. Today, chotiri rocks are growing from that hour, as I happened to be separated from Susanna.

At that time, I am not a student yet, but now I want to write down a story about my sister Susanna, so that once again I will have yoga in my memory.

Everything began dramatically, menacingly, and from the very beginning of insecurity threatened us both, one to one, one kind of other. It's a leaf-falling evening, it's warm, it's foggy, if the sidewalks are weeping in the sight of wet leaves. The fall of the leaves will always bring less unstoppable, even though it was prepared in advance. I'm talking about Suzanne at the Montparnasse. Refinement. Feel free to say goodbye. I knew only її іm'ya, that їіy thirty-six years, that she was friendly, without a profession. Dzhe tsіkavo will get to know. Everything went well, I don’t care to throw it over the wall; she was not very tall, thin. I thought that I would have to walk no more than a dozen short walks along Edgar Kine Boulevard, to get to Uygen Street, my car was lost, ale imovirno, the fog knocked me out of the pantelik, and I showed that I had fared far from the spring, lowered. I hurried and hurried, glad that Susanna appeared so light, like a rapt my heart sank. Two patrol policemen on bicycles collapsed behind me. The stench didn’t hurry, but they cut me a single path until the leak; before me, the zhahli sharudinnya kolіs was already strikingly valley. Mitsno hugging Suzanne, I pushed her to the wall of the tsintar. Luckily, it wasn’t the zhahly funeral clothing, but a simple jersey suit and mischief shoes. A terrible creak of wheels approached, the light of a light passed along our legs - along the legs of a couple that were kissing. Behind my back - a fortune teller, police, foolishness, hatred. In front of me - a stranger from throwing out appearances, obscuring mine, її call Susanna and through love to her, I have now risen to my very own foundations. It seemed to me that I should never give up, if one of the voices was already farther away at the boulevard Rozpay, muttering angrily: "Damn, that place knew for the help..."

I succeeded, that the hundred years passed, the first time I overcame fear, that paralyzed me, like a nightmare, and I knew my own strength to destroy the car. Although I don’t want to be foolish, to overcome the price of speeches for the hardships endured during their conquests, I already knew that I tried it for the transfer of invisible joys.

Susanna... Mischanochka with a light, modest zachіskoy, a jacket with polka dots under a classic suit. They took the ring from her. At the end of the day, wearing a man, heartbroken - or maybe, not beaten - mizh room roslins, buffet and TV, at the apartment here on the streets of Sevres.

Street Sevr... Sevrskiy Mist...

Vaughn wasn’t ugly, and, maybe, she wasn’t ugly in any way, only pretty, with a curly nose, with eyebrows raised in a wondrous way. Bo death, singly, caught її mizh purchases in Bon Marchі and vipіkannyam charlottes, knocked down її with a sharp blow - the heart attack is always the same. I didn’t remember the next few fights, to bring peace, nothing. Only zdivuvannya in the face of death. Suzanne had a soft skin, twinkling nails. Having taken off her shirt, I revealed a resolutely shaved pouch. Vaughn wore crepe de chine white, pompously short capacity, lower suit, and zrobiv vysnovok about її pochuttі vlasnoї goodness, unsuccessful woman rubbish and stinginess. According to її tіlu it was commemorative, with some honor it was put before the new, - for asceticism, but asceticism of good, cultural, merciful.

Yak bi was not there. Insufficient buti we hide, like me, we need to save more. I often feel guilty about what they watch over me, what they chat with me. Especially the servants, apartments, concierges, the most important merchants. I, well, police officers. Policemen especially.

Herodotus says that "the bodies of the squads of noble people are given to embalm not in time for death, just like the bodies of beautiful and enraged women. They are handed over to the embalmers only after three hours. So shy so that the balsams do not slander with them."

This is the most recent commentary of riches, rozsіyanikh in human chronicles, to talk about that innocent addiction, which is otherwise called ill. Ale, skіlki naїvnostі at tsikh "three chi chotirokh days"!

Yesterday one of my clients, a young and charming pianist, tried to calm me down. We drank tea on a narrow Empire sofa near my library. I took two empty hands from my palms and with a smile turned their Vlasnikovs with this gesture, as if they were inspired to take a couple of birds.

Oh... Lucien. You don't like boys? I thought...

Well, you see, I understand, I love cotton. I bring in some girls!

Ale, I'm not free and I don't want inconvenient comforts. Meni shiro Skoda.

Vіn vvazhav tsyu vіdpovіd more vvіchlivoy that sweet.

Not a day goes by without me guessing Susanna, її breasts with great beige nipples, її fuse alive, slightly bowed, like hanging, on the backs of steg's tassels, її zhіnochnіst, about how one could bring my masculinity to the floor. Today's remains of an elephant's brush in what kind of mother-of-pearl lie?

Rebooting in my house in the wild of Ivri overwhelmed me, and now I want only one thing - to sleep alone.

I have revealed my grave in a vipadkovo way, if I was walking in the tsvintar, to clear my head: I see a fresh grave, for which there was no name yet. I began to cry, what could have happened to me, and I decided to visit here at night. And in the grave a low-thickness pine string loomed - the stink for me is the best - and a woman lay in it, as if I could easily see it home. In my love right, it is very great to think: if I reveal the guise of a sleeper sent to me, if I greedily marvel at yoga risi, they will soon become my relatives.

It’s not enough forty-forty-forty-five years, but it’s true that death is rejuvenated. Tse bula zhіnka z people, mabut, shvachka, more than an eye-catching finger on the left hand in it was horny, chipped with a bare. I also remembered that the skin of її hands freely waggled on the brushes; schіlna, watery, the phalanges of the fingers were torn off in thick folds. The woman had black hair, like a gypsy woman; її povіki, nipples of breasts, statuary organs nabula that dark purple color, which grows in some mushrooms, or in hydrangeas covered with frost. Thick karakul shining on її pubis and pakhvah. And besides, she grew miracles: two black Komi, thin and gnuchki, framed the її company, descending to the ridge, which smacked the entire guise of a zhorstok, like a Genghis Khan viraz. Cicavi type! Vtіm, I will not hesitate to reveal another cіkavіshu detail. Vaughn was unoccupied, and I stubbornly opened it in the very same place, if it ceased to be with her. Who was afraid of people, who hated them? Chi vvazhala for better women? With these bat-shaped whiskers ... With the incredibly masculine part of її zhіnochnostі, great and hard amygdala, scho vіnchaє її venus folds.

My lady from Ivri is small yet another hostile feature. It seems that in her death she jumped to fight for a long time for life. Not earlier, I did not write down the state organs of the flooring of the non-perfect, to live such a great number of those taemnicheskih vlasnyh lives. Sometimes the vagina expanded, like a fish-fish, and I realized that I was ruining myself in the abyss, then raptly grabbed me, squeezed and wetted me with a greedy taste. And I’m also reminded of the restlessness that my soulless namelessly knows in it, in an unreasonable manner, climbed into the blotter woman, into the m’yasoidnu dew.

I slept a lot of days, acquiescing to the temperamental spontaneity of the unoccupied, although not without fear, that the dead woman is evidently rapt to flatten her eyes, to greet me and burn. Її zbudzhenіst grew up with the skin day, but for good luck, the calm smell of the threadworm was gradually fading away.

As if in the evening, my kohanka sang the rapt company, as if Susanna thrashed. However, being filthy twisted, she performed a left-handed pose, showing the wrong and unhealthy teeth. This time, if I, thinking of hiding a trick from the side of my vagina, laying my way behind my back, she piled me up with such stupidity, as if she beat me in the pantel. Without attaching any special significance to this mood, I still dared to do better without such inconveniences. Ale, in the wild of Ivri, there were few and receiving sides, and I am far from the fact that forget the nasolodi, with which they bestowed upon me.

Ale vsogo bovaє kіnets. Thank you, mademoiselle, for your visit and for those who kept me company. You are dear, but all the cunning of your rich-sided femininity cannot win over me those that are more in me. A lot of devastation, I'll ask myself, chi not a succubus vi...

I begin to nudguvati for my lady from Ivri, dead and alive, whose quivering flesh so kindly took care of mine and healed me for me. Such a sound is more than once in life - more than once in death. It's vague, I don't know my name... Magic, I don't have any luck. Never more .

I did not appreciate this woman with a proper rank.

Why am I ironic irony, how to serve as a stingy rags of ganebnih? What have I forgotten? zabuttya - tse bezpochuttya, tse foolishness of the soul and body - what am I forgetting, what skin once I die without looking back? Once I walked behind two German students and felt, as if alone saying to another: ...denn jedesmal, verliebe ich mich heillos... I could say the same about myself. Ich auch, leider, ich auch... The truth is that I used to be fearful, to be rude in front of myself for not peredbachuvanu vusata dіva, for my Kyrgyz princess with a vagina grip that sleepy. Obviously, I love її ... As I may have the right to live the word, more necrophiliac, as if I’m standing in the wrong images of the people’s witness, obviously, I don’t have such a right.

And the axis of a nice episode is a few days ago. "Dead child of a fire", eighteen or twenty years, unfortunately, crippled in a car accident. Ale is clear, brotherly. Friend, whom I call "Skin-smooth-like a peach", wanting to have a new name, and the peach skin is not yoga, but only an element to come.

It is unacceptable to finish that unsustainable good.

I have spent the day at the fox of Fontainebleau, because the weather was wonderful, and I can’t afford to be left behind the lock at the store. On a kіlka khvilin I zupinivsya at Barbіzonі. Passers-by brought a small bun, I remembered the sign: "Closed through the death of a vlasnik." My black clothes and unknown guise screwed up respect Summer woman bіlya vikna. Maybe she thought that I came through the funeral service. In fact, there is little ration: I always come to the funeral, on the basis of uninterrupted holy death, plaintive fun. Death brings me far away, according to one of the labyrinths I lead.

You came over here, - the old woman said to me, - Yogo was praised yesterday. Such handsome man! Axis of misfortune! Kermo yogo vantage youmu built in the axis of syudi.

Vaughn showed those places, where the breasts pass from the living. I podyakuvav woman and pishov get out. I'm on display, I've read. "P'er," I repeated. P'єr, garny man.

The rest of that day I remember how the mist was. I spent the notice about an hour, and my vision was out of season, but beyond the step of the change in the intensity of the light. It's light... My enemy... Why did they call me the name Lucien, me, who lives all life in the light? The anniversary of ochіkuvannya was given to me especially long ago by the fact that I used to relieve the splendid situation. I slept for an hour at the car, and if I slipped over, I sighed, realizing that it was already two years of the night. I could not describe the Barbizon zvintar, perhaps, in its entirety, with pearly wreaths and mournful angels. Without suspense, I was far away to know the naisvezhish grave, on such a room they were called in a compartment like a haystack. With ease, I opened up the earth, milked the m'yaku, and opened the string, which gave me an oversized greatness.

Garniy man... Oh heaven! Vіn buv not less than two meters per zіst, can be statues. Obviously, the doctors in the clinic tried to vryatuvat your life, to that the bandage, cloddy in the middle with watery pus, operated on his monumental torso, covering his zhorst curly hair. I never dreamed of such a calm flickering with important Roman guises, with a white lower skin, similar to that flour, with which wines were mixed with bread for the living. I understand that I can’t destroy P’er on a hairline. Forcibly, all the same, I managed to pull my body halfway through. I was given to nibi ganebnym to be savored by him right there in the field, sharpened by the fortune-telling of the open space and unfailing nebezpekami. For the lawless vimagaє walls, which protect from the mind of the earth's breath, depend, which to graft from the jealous look of the luminaries.

P'єra's head rhythmically pounded on the side of the grave, his torso twisted, the mute crooked tree, then his waist sharply bent over the edge of the trousers, waving the seat, and his long legs were torn apart. I have appointed that P'er, perhaps, in life, often doing it, that I have worked for me, being dead. It didn’t bother me, but I was respected by the unnatural posture, the tightness of the grave, the squint of the squint. Overwhelming P'era, I somehow put Yogo in the strings and adjusted the shroud on the new one. Bulo is similar to the Yaks "Stand at the Throne" with me in the role of the wicked Josip of Arimathea.

Tse became the day before yesterday. I guess that twenty years have passed. This is the only time, if I didn’t dare to propagate to one of my friends the softness of my bed and my calm room.

"Jerome B. Age 15. Unprofessional. Living on Avenue Henri-Martin. Cvintar Pass. Age 14."

Let's marvel.

There were a lot of people at Jerome's funeral; I'm going to my funeral, so that it would be easier for me to know the grave later. Aleshche and just out of satisfaction, out of cicadas, out of spontaneity. Standing good dry frost. All the tops of the comrades of the 16th district were selected in cashmere coats and astrakhan fur coats. I leaned against the order of the summer lady in a buzkovy droplet, as if constantly rattled: "Two days of ailment, as everyone entered carelessly, and raptom - krak! I ended so well in Janson de Saye, like grief for the fathers, the poor Charles, the poor Zuzu, oh, so, it’s possible, you don’t know, but you never called your mother mother, but only Zuzu, stink, both of you loved it impossible to show yourself like that, and you yourself from your homeland, did you know Jerome?

I recited that I clapped my latin, but the woman negainally recalled her monologue.

Old men. Batko, even thinner, even more elegant, indulges in his sadness, like in a distant country. Mother, a young woman with lowered black eyes, darkened in the eyes of tears, with rich chestnut hair, which vibrated the back of a black veil.

A fat type, wrapping himself at his coat on a sly lining, standing over the grave and washing the tombstone in the style of Bossuet, all the while, to stifle tears. Tse buv spravzhnіy vykladach latinі.

On the following night, I parked my car in Petrarch Square, and everything went off without a hitch. I am given up, that Hermes, the god of villains and leaders of the dead, saves me. Vіn pіdkazuє me tisyachі cunning, vіn escort the object of my bag to my bed.

Jerome. The wine is about the same height as me, but so thin that some of the quilts may be placed in my arms. You don’t know how to work with your old hands, you can’t stretch your old legs, you’re blameless for cursing. Yogo breasts, hairy, more disguised - salty for relish, nachebto in view of the tears shed on them, and the axis of his penis, before I washed Yogo with my sludge and dried it with my caresses, smelled of lavender greedily.

I'm running Jerome in front of me. I turn yogo on the whilina from the sweating kingdom. From the window of the special bathroom you can see the tree avenue. The very bathtub of the room in the style of "pop" - you want so much wine, and Zuzu to kill everything that you don’t care about wine - without a beat, with bottles, like wines forgot to close, and with great pieces of English sweet in your mouths. Navit an electric razor, buried in the depths of a hanging husk at a glance Zuzu: if you shake it, then laugh at him! Vaughn to enter to the new one without a litter, navit without knocking. As long as you clean your teeth, sip your teeth at the mirror of the washbasin, and smile at the black eyes. Vaughn pinches yoga for the seat, trips yoga hair, kisses between shoulder blades protruding backbones, then ticks with laughter. Vіn run after her, his mouth is full of toothpaste, throwing a towel, vіn shuffles with a dull sound at the door, that they have begun.

Sitting on the bіdі, Jerome savoring the lavender sweet, long, long time.

Having flattened the eyes, succumbed to the woman, whose chestnut hair frames the empty space, in which you do not dare to place the guise. Vіn naruzhuє vuyavu, vin shukaє tse denunciations of the stubbornness of the coma, you know that vin has taken the necessary image, ale nі, not the same, not the same.

This night I put an armchair in my room in front of the great Venetian mirror, as I already love. I put Jerome up to my knees and began to bite Yogo's back with a shrill, straight between the shoulder blades, there, Kudi Zuzu Yogo, singing, kissing, playing with him. At the gray veins of the mirror, among the frosty greens of the ornament, I dream of Jerome, dancing like a majestic baby, under the blows of my addiction.

Jerome. Ironically. At his "Garden on the Malt", Ironim Bosch depicted two young men, who are getting drunk with tickets. One of them inserted naїvnі daisies at the back passage of his comrade.

This evening, I went to the flower shop for venus laces and adorned my friend Jerome with them, the color of which is already miraculously combined with yellow, green, brown and purple shades of orchids. The stench mayut that very sticky carnal blisk; the stench has reached the triumphant stage of matter at its zenith, that higher self-completion, as if ahead of flirtation. Vityagnuvshis on botsі, Jerome is supposed to be sleeping, his penis lies at the cup filled with the juice of a flower, and the pale patches bloom in a cascade of dark blues, which embellish his dark trojan.

I thought that Jérôme had the eyes of his mother, ale, lifting his povіka, dappling the iris of dark green, with brown color, color: the one that you can bachiti on the viscous swaddling venus cherevichkіv.

Jerome, turning the night, Jerome, turning the abyss, what kind of flow are you, drunken ship?

I will soon fall into death, like Narcissus in his imagination.

I showed lies that the apartment was filled with great blue flies. Did the stench come from? Pokoivka, yak bula here, ran to the pharmacy for a prescription. Zhakh. Tiltsya, to jiggle, put up a kilim, the same chemical smell filling the room and not wanting to see through the windows.

The restless murmured like a wondrous curse, into which I caught a menacing attack: like that.

Known in Tristan Korb'er's miraculous whistle: "Happy as an increase."

Might as many days have passed since I parted from Geneva and that little baby. The yakbees rightly baited me and hung up, they would come for me already. Ale cі the rest of the year were really hard for me.

I pishov for the price of a young woman at the Panthen's Tsvintary - the most joyless place. I didn’t know why she died, which was a great surprise for me, if I showed the new people’s dislike on their hands. I didn’t feel overwhelmed by this family situation.

Genevieve was richly congenial. Literally, she suffered a lot, not only with her own bodily body, but even more spiritually, for in her appearance, she was in the presence of that special confusion, a kind of tamanny tim, who’s going, not bad. The transparency of її shkіri, the glare of її great breasts befitted me. It was impossible to squirm with these state organs, everything was stingy there, so I didn’t want to marvel there. I quietly turned over the body of Genevieve, and, slipping into the darkness of її rosy beds, curled up "like elevations" at the whole labyrinth, far from the inability of the child's people.

I buried the trochs, the pesty child, the little lad, who, vtim, zovsim is not a garni, with wrinkled appearances, pimples, which are swollen, with a great head. Krizhan's lower yogo shkіri, which, in the light of the strong smell of the seamworm, inspired me with more songs. I put the nameless child up to me on the blanket, so that his head leaned on my knees, bending his legs under a straight kut, so that his feet could butt up against my breasts. I see my yogo with quilts, but I don’t understand, but I don’t see the desired contentment. Yogo body was created for me, like milk sour. From bad vpertosti I prodovzhuvav, prikoryuyuchi ruhi, to the end, which already did not instill in me to ecstasy. Who else is foolish for me, having guessed here the name of Gilles de Ré, not stylki through a child, but stilki through a position that we accept a littyu on the life of the one who, vtim, and not be my victim. I don't like Gilles de Ré, a man with flawed sexuality, an eternal lad who without a break repeats his self-destruction in others. Zhіl de Ré meni ogidny. In the world there is one brudna on the right - tse zmushuvati іnshih suffering. I haven’t been from Geneva that її child for a long time, but my history is small, or, accept, could have been their mothers, yakbi furnished less in the distance.

I threw a bear at the water, at some kind of a matir and a child, who were beaten one by one, so that nothing could separate them, the docks of their body, like a flow, do not become light and porous, like a pumice stone, do not grow apart and do not appear, reborn in the living vapne of sea stars. When the water closed over them, the doors groaned in the silence of the night, the wiguks slid through. On the shore at my place, people ran straight ahead. "Hey! E-ge-gay!" - "Sudi! Syudi!" Maybe, the employees of the gas factory commemorated me. The stench drove me like a hare dog, and, dodging like a hare, I ticked in front of them in the night streets of Levallois. Every now and then the cries of unbearably approached, and then with a rapt it was given that the stench had consumed my trace, and then I felt, like the stench was regurgitating, cooking, exchanging joys. Walls with ragged posters, blind facades of wrought-iron hangars, abandoned factories blinked after me in the rhythm of a dream. Not picking up the road, I rushed strimgolov at the labyrinth of fortune-telling streets, most afraid of running into a deaf kut. I raptom - about the unstoppable wonder! - My good old "Chevrolet", my spring crew, decorously parked on the pavement. Gaining speed, I caught sight of a group of people who jumped out from behind the horn like a booth and fiercely waved their hands at the light of a street lighter. Once more saved!

I’ve been in Naples for more than a month now, for the pleasure of them, that I’ve been far away to leave Paris for a day. Having entrusted my store to the manager, I somehow miraculously ran into similar assignments, if I could see Nice. You know, the night chase in Levallois had a strong effect on me. I smelled the sky. Until then, I want to see Naples, the most gloomy city, Naples, the mouth of Aida. There they play with shimmers, like with great lyalki. They embalm, they hove, they dig, they clean, they embellish, they cut their hair, they insert green and red light bulbs at the windows, they put them at the wall niches, they put them vertically at the cursed strings. They are dressed up, they are pulled apart, and there is nothing marvelous for the number of unruly mummies in short shawls, with tufted feathers, with a wax bouquet in their hands. At San Domenico Maggiore - Queens of Aragon, turn brown, rosy at their tunics. The church servant lifts the lid of the tomb with one hand, and prostrates the other for her swag; Mercury is the same Hermes. Ale all these mummies are dried up, so that they should be like that zbudzhuvati a little. We do not see the inner turmoil of growing metamorphoses.

Naples ... More than a hundred years ago, the dead were led here in the streets, like in ancient Rome. Today you can see only the miraculous crews of Death, embellished with majestic fliers and ostrich feasts.

For them, I made everything the way it was done for Suzanne: I took care of the servants, harrowed my turbulences, turned on the scorch, and wielded the stretch. Obviously, I don’t understand my beautiful angels of that lower brotherly feeling, your love, how she tied me to Susanna, but her beauty praises me, and I want to save them more.

I put them in arms one by one, lowerly intertwining their hands, destroying a brother on the lips of a sister, who fell asleep the stalk of one on a modest lily on the other, beating the edges of the crack, such a pale and thin, like a girl-octopus, she vomited black juice. I want the body of a brother and sister, who fought hard one to one for life, they got together at death. For I knew that two kohali one one, like heaven to love the earth. One wants to sanctify another, and that banner of yoga. Having pulled together with love, in strength and algae, in sand and kick, in the sharuvaty sea day, which crumbles with the look of the month, like today. It was not in me that the stench celebrated their temple of fun, but in that unity, if, clinging one by one, the stench at once saw life in a single ecstasy, z'ednani by the water, as if by the mother's waters, by the sea - like by the mother, chimed in. for example, the stink of life stung on the cob. The stench went to their own cosmic truth, alien to the false world of the living. I marveled at them for a long time, and it was for me the mercy sent by the share. I didn’t even think about those who would lie down between them, destroy their joint with an unclean dot of their living flesh.

Mushu zіnatisya, snotlivі namіri to mit deprive me yesterday in the evening. I sat in a good order with them and started to bite the sweater's sweater - why was the girl? - at that place, de vin, the white of the base of the skull begins, the round box of which I saw under my upper lip. My ruins by themselves started tsyu licorice more expensive, descending and climbing the bridle of the ridge, tumbling silently along the intersection of the forest, low ledges that naturally vary in wide Russia and the mountains. So I passed through the dorsal rіvnini into the valley across, along the nerve lower - tse mіsce zavzhd neskіchenno khvilyuє me - persh nizh go down on a small empty plateau in front of the gorge of the malt. My hands followed mine, folding up the full ar'erguard. Under the hour of the day, my penis became more expensive, becoming unruly, the shards for me were no longer about the tender caress. But if my fingers came to the valley, where to lie behind the waist, and my nails bumped into that ridge, which I can keep fortress in the postiynoї vzaєmodії with the belt, the bazhannya suffocated me with such rapt strength, I was afraid of it. Not in myself, I stuck my head under the stegno - a boy or a girl? - and dropping his mouth to an angelic point, de-stikalis їхні stateevі organs - two child mollusks, arc soft, flat and covered with dew, like falling on the shkіrі of the dead, if the body starts to rot. Zbudzhennya zanuli me like a madder, and only a little, but I began to lick the mist of the zustrichi, in which two dead people zadnalo my bazhanya, as it happened to me, I myself die, and I groan myself. Before the speech, it was not possible, even though for many months I did not go into bringing myself to ecstasy.

My angels are transforming into a merry-go-round. Like stinks are beautiful! Your Union - Trionfo della Morte ...

Hour after hour I am changing my camp, to that my beautiful twinkles with bludi nails psuet. The stench blew a sum of dark mouths, they bend like stalks, frosted, their skin is lilac and green, their limbs complain.

I had long ago forgotten the dry smell of the wormworm, now the smell of carrion fell again and again. Puddles of black native, like the octopus girl vomited, poured under the bellies of angels, oozing from mattresses, dripping on the bed - rotten sik, which sips me, like a mandrake sik. This liquor is proper to come out of them, and the old dzherel angrily rustle along the edges of their guts, splash and roar. Their eyes fall in the middle, as if the eyes of licorice grandmother Marie-Jeanne. In my angels, I guess, I know all my dead, although none of them have reached such a stage of development. Navit krihta Henri.

Already the next time I would call fiercely and b'є at my door. Bad sign. The concierge called me: "Don Luciano! Don Luciano!" I can smell the whispering, the chants of the words, the muffled wiguks, the sounds of the rocks.

I don't want to come out. I don’t see anything in a beautiful day, but I don’t have a meaning: I can still have extra whiskey and water from the tap, however, with a terrible amount of chlorine. For an hour I wonder that my angels get up and walk around the apartment, putting on magic, so that I don’t remember anyone.

They pushed under my door, I distinctly felt a rustle. On the threshold of my stone, I divide on a dark kilim in front of a clear flat point, as if threatening me, navlezhachi on the pores, I cut off the arrow, as if it were showing my light to the light of the living.

I come closer to her, I shrug and pull up to myself, spodіvayuchis that she rises into steam, like a ghost. Ni. Sheet. I don’t read yoga at my own room, the Temple of Death, or at the vital. Better in the vulgar world, in the bathroom or the kitchen. In the kitchen, maybe. Vіdkrivayuchi sheet, I already know what's in the new. The order of the day in the Questura - that's how the prosecutor's office is called here - "behind the right, which is worthy of you" ... International jargon, Esperanto bastards ... "Behind the right, which are worthy of you" ...

I put papier on the kitchen table, properly, more appropriately, and, in that place, if the form is yellow, there are smears with seals and fingerprints, the plastic surface hangs, I already know that I really lost only one on the right, as I still feel bad for me.

Me, what do you need to do ...

I marvel at the anniversary. For a sprat of a year, the leaf fall will come.

Leaf fall, which always brought me unstoppable, even though it was long ago, what was being prepared ... forever.

Kіnets

NOTES

Previously published in Mitiny Zhurnal, 2003, number 61.
Narcissus is a beautiful young man in Greek mythology, who died in love before himself, being unable to look at his own imagination.
Gorgons - winged sea monsters with snakes replace hair and look that I turn everything alive on a stone (Greek Mіfol.).
"The Way of All Flesh" is the title of an autobiographical novel by Samuel Butler (1835-1902). Vislav perekuёtsya with the works of the fathers of the church.
It is holy in the Roman Catholic Church (2 leaf fall is celebrated, which means that the whole day does not fall for a week). On this day it is customary to make a flower and decorate the graves of loved ones with candles and flowers.
Goncourt, Edmond (1822-1896) and Jules (1830-1870) - French writers of romance. The name of the Goncourt May is a prestigious French literary prize.
How dare I say that I am a check for the hard and hard bazhann of Morelli's death year? Oh so! (English) Quote from Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) "Morella" ("Morella", 1840).
Bon Marchais is a great department store on the Left Birch, in the area of ​​Sevres Street, one of the symbols of bourgeois Paris for the past decade.
Lily is an erotic symbol, lasting until the Song of Songs (2, 1-2 and others.).
Moroku sea (Lat.). Tsej vislіv zustrichaєtsya in the descriptions of Edgar A. For "Eleanor" ("Eleonore", 1842) and "Mellonta tauta" (1849).
Gentile Bellini (Bl. 1429-1507) - Italian master, son of Jacopo Bellini and older brother of the famous Giovanni Bellini.
Dom'є, Honore (Honoré Daumier, 1808-1879) - French caricaturist, artist and sculptor. Yogo creativity presents a variety of characters of the French people.
Fablio abo fablio ( French fabliau "fable"). In the French folk literature of the middle - a comical short story, in a kind of obscene humor є susides with moral attitudes.
Uglyadnee kokhannya (Lat.). "Amor intellectualis" (1881) - the title of a sonnet by Oscar Wilde (Oscar Wilde, 1854-1900).
Bossuet, Jean-Benigne (Bossuet, Jean-Bénigne, 1627-1704) - French Catholic preacher and church writer, author of the Wislov: "Freedom for those who work what you want, and for those who want what you want." Having become famous, zokrema, with his urochist tombstones at the funeral of princes and queens.
Hermes - the patron of mandrivniki and shakhraiv; vіn to lead the souls of the dead to Hades (Greek Mіfol.).
"The Garden of Malt", or "The Garden of Earthly Delights" (1503) is a symbolic triptych by the Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516).
Cypripedium arietinum- A card of the family of orchids.
"P'yany ship" ("Le Bateau ivre", 1871) - verse by Arthur Rimbaud (Arthur Rimbaud, 1854-1891).
Tristan Corbière (1845-1875) - French poet of the tragic fate. The exact quotation should sound: "The English have fun as they grow up", but in my french dieslovo jouir("have fun, enjoy yourself") may not mean "experience an orgasm".
Roboche transfer to the pivnochi of Paris.
Gilles de Rais (Gilles de Rais, 1404-1440) - Marshal of France, fought on the battleships of Charles VII at once with Joan of Arc. After the war in a luxurious life at his castle near the Vendée, standing up for the mysteries. Engaged in alchemy and black magic. driving in up to a few hundred children, mostly lads.
Titus Petronius Arbiter (Titus Petronius Arbiter, -66 r. e.), "legislator of relish" at the court of Nero, author of the novel "Satyricon".
Hekate - the goddess of darkness, night visions and chaklunstvo (Greek Mіfol.).
Catch fish and octopus nights for the help of lamps (ital.).
Lucius Elius Sejanus (Lucius Aelius Sejanus, 20/16 BC - 31 AD) - leader of Emperor Tiberius, organizer of political repressions; pіznіshe buv zvinucheny zmovі against the emperor and strencii. In the new European literature, the name of Seyan has become synonymous with vileness and recklessness.
The Greeks, representing Hekate as a nocturnal mystic, as if to rush at the escort of the dog's zgra among the graves, shimmering that ghost.
Triumph of Death (ital.). The name of the allegorical sing (1348) by Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374).