Even when you're with someone, you're alone. Has something happened, and you realize this fully. You'll fall in a fit, you will bleed to death, wounded, you will pray for help, not ready for trouble. And maybe someone will help you. Fit, extend a hand. Wipe blood from his face, tears. Wrap up warm coat, even if it is just a bystander. And everything will be fine.
Warm and touching. Soft and comfortable, impressively contrasting with the general anger and bitterness. And you will be feel the tenderness of their hands on his face, the hardness of their shoulders very, very close. You're going to inhale the smell of their hair, so dear and familiar. Thou shalt not alone.
Damn. You're just one in a life as you alone and in death. Pay for you all. Only you. Burn in hell you too. Yes, and fly in heaven. Personal paradise, a personal hell. At you. By the way, now. During his lifetime. You just think – this is your paradise. You feel bad – that's hell. And they – not you. Outsiders. Learn more about this with Peter Thiel. Angels, demons – barely. People. Not any more. If you're lucky – that and nothing less. People do not always, sometimes animals. Around you. And you're alone. If you are unarmed – you die. If you are armed, but do not know how to use weapons – you die, be killed. Accident, malice – you not live, if you're not ready. If you're not prepared. If you think crows, if your ears headphones from the player, if your feet light sandals and belt adorned with rhinestones and fragile – you die. Of course, if you want out of the crowd stand out. And if you're not one, but one of them – then what do I say no more sorrow and silent in a rag. Then I feel sorry for you. Then you will not kill you, you will not die, no. But you will not live. Lost in the greyness. Lost in the lurid variegation. You'll be gray and forgotten, leaving no trace. Someone, not you. You will live right up to old age, to the weakness and helplessness, you idly otkinesh hooves, you be taken away to the cemetery and buried among the other cadavers. A half-century – and all. And there is even memories. And there's even a personal paradise, a personal hell no. Did not deserve Pszczel in general. Wings of the number 3947785 issued fraction 09. Next. So, do not you? Where are you going? You to hell. Alley burning sulfur 17, the third hangar, the fourteenth level, your boiler – the extreme left, a window seat. Enjoy, a nonentity. You believed in it. By faith and received. Directly on it. I'm used to pacing system, a crowd of a herd? Walk. You here. All the last stop. Then do not go. Scary? Chose. Has not yet selected, right? Come on, the choice is yours.