Revenge to Philip K. Dick. A writer who was not present

Отрывок из книги

Evening. The long-awaited coolness. Depression. Milk in a glass on a curb, inaccurately stuffed with cheap, battered books. Milk slowly rises and overflows. It smears the stories at an affordable price for a wide range of readers, crawls on the floor, plunging the bits of asphalt and nature cobbled into milk mucus.

There is a floor lamp with a cord switch above an armchair that hysterically blinks, it works by status. Hardly perceptible shares of time, on which the light is lost – terribly frighten. The cord with a drop of plastic on the end, under a scorching yellow bulb, begins to swing inexorably. The gloomy sky window opens and a monster crawls into it.

.....

“I’m already in you.” You killed me to become stronger and better, to hate people and dig into their minds to manifest true worlds. And maybe I’m God, I do not know…

– This is false! I will never kill!

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