The thinking of an old man drifting off on the waves of dementia is like the thinking of a child. Have you noticed how easily they get along? My step-grandfather (sometimes elderly people come together in the villages to run the household together) in his old age often engaged in historical reconstruction - he took a position behind the woodpile and shot the Germans hiding in the head. By that time, the immersiveness of war games fueled by pure imagination (“bang bang, I hit you - no, I hit!”) faded for me somewhat, but I was amazed at the generality of sensations. Reality still (or already) does not have dense boundaries, elves (and reptilians) whistle the secrets of the universe into their ears. The hungry ego subordinates space to gravity, spinning the world around its own grievances. Every word and action of "adults" attacks with a sense of injustice. “Here I die, then you will cry!” Little Vovochka stomps his feet. “If you die, then you will cry!” - Volodya squeezes his fists older. I am against violence in relation to the dim consciousness, but, frankly, it's fucked up.
Bitch, a shriveled boy with developmental defects rules over an un-fucking array of earth the size of Yegor Prosvirnin's body. But I don’t know who is more infantile - a wretched creature on top, or submissive turtles, on their hump taking out wars of a petty fucker.
photos not taken, not by me in 2014 during the fighting in Slovyansk, Donetsk region, Ukraine. I couldn't not write this.
Alas, resigned.