It was obvious I turned into him.
When I closed my eyes I felt how his insanity lived inside my inner world, catching my each look searching for myself. I tried to perceive at least a piece of any idea born in me I gave birth to. I used to try escaping from his influence meeting other people, looking for new acquaintances. Being alone I was anyway kept in his aura, he ALWAYS was around. Covering me. People like something new but what happens if they face something what is not exactly life at all, what came from some forbidden world never known to humanity? That happened to me. Disorder... Panic. Sometimes it seemed my head was not mine. He just used it living in it as he needed badly a fresh space to accumulate his new concepts having no place for that in his own.
Have you ever heard: I've lost my head! Yeah, I had. I really lost my head but later I plainly identified I found something more. I still have doubts how to call it: "Death" or "Resurrection"?
Once being drunk I got especially excited though I felt no physical desire being near. He touched my shoulders, my face saying the things that could kill any thinking of some sexuality. Then I understood: it was brain love games. He loved my brain committing multiple intercourses...
Periodically he was a definite and the only cure to me I'd been searching for being helpless to find an answer to a great number of misunderstandings I was drowning in in the human world. However sometimes I got shocked realising that it was just illusive help, and on the other side I felt it turned into an essential sickness I fell in being lost in his world.
Это была болезнь, и то, что я воспринимала как лекарство, на самом деле, в большей степени, можно назвать наркотиком. Иногда я сама не понимала, чего я ждала от него, чего от него хотела, но все, что он делал, обескураживало, но освобождало на какое-то время от волнения и гнетущего привкуса непонятости и непригодности, который потом неизменно напоминал о себе, проявлялся в чьих-то взглядах, фразах, проникал на телевизионные каналы, рекламы на улице. А потом царил повсюду и заставлял прятаться от своей ядовитости. А он прятался в своем логове, очередном логове, предназначенном специально для него. Когда я впервые посетила им снимаемую квартиру, я окунулась в нечто, пропитавшееся им и его духом, в набор предметов, потерявших свои предназначения, олицетворявших составляющие ЕГО истории.
