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Oak. It was, probably, very ancient plant. A barkWas on him grey and any dead. And monstrous
The roots which have got out of the earth, have been covered red and white
Lichen. "Still an oak write down!" - has told behind a wall
The novel. On a window sill the chubby greased book lay,
I have thoughtlessly looked through it, have departed from a window and villages on
Sofa. And now it wanted to me to sleep. I have thought,
That drove the car today fourteen hours, what not
It was necessary so to hurry up, perhaps, that a back I have pains in, and
In a head all is confused what to spit to me eventually on
This tiresome old woman, and more soon all would come to an end and it was possible
To lay down and fall asleep...
- Well here, - the Novel has told, appearing on a threshold.
- Formalities are ended. - it it a hand with
The thumbs up smeared with ink. - ours
Fingers have got tired: we wrote, we wrote... Go to bed.
We leave, and you easy go to bed. That you tomorrow
Do?
- I wait, - I have inertly responded.
- Where?
- Here. And about post office.
Monday begins on Saturday
- Tomorrow you, probably, will not leave?
- Tomorrow hardly... Most likely
The day after tomorrow.
- Then we still will meet. Our love ahead,
- He has smiled, has given up as a bad job and left. I am lazy have thought,
That it would be necessary to spend and say goodbye it to Volodej, and
Has laid down. Now the old woman has entered into a room. I have risen. The old woman
Some time steadfastly at me looked.
- I am afraid, the father that you a tooth will begin to hush,
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