Читать книгу Were not were - - Страница 12

When we met, he was in a state of half-life: everything human in him had not yet completely burned out, and the remnants of his personality eked out a completely miserable existence in the company of words and alcohol, otherworldly plots appeared from him like scab gold, denouncing him in a shroud from the memories of his former lives, and he stole plots from all his interlocutors, real or imaginary, and smeared them like butter over a thick layer of loose syntax until he became famous. Now he, bronze, stands on the boulevard and pigeons shit on his head. Such is the price of immortality.